ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL

THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times,

Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas times;

They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true,

Who dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar,— so runs the ancient tale;

‘ T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;

And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail,

He wiped his brow and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.

‘ T was purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame,

Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same;

And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found,

‘ T was filled with candle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine,

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine,

But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps,

He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnapps.

And then, of course, you know what's next: it left the Dutchman's shore

With those that in the Mayflower came,— a hundred souls and more,—

Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,—

To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.

‘ T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing, dim,

When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim;

The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword,

And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.

He poured the fiery Hollands in,— the man that never feared,—

He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;

And one by one the musketeers — the men that fought and prayed —

All drank as‘ t were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew,

He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo;

And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin,

Run from the white man when you find he smells of “Hollands gin!”

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,

A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose,

When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy,—

‘ T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

Drink, John, she said,‘ t will do you good,— poor child, you'll never bear

This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air;

And if — God bless me!— you were hurt,‘ t would keep away the chill.

So John did drink,— and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;

I tell you,‘ t was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here.

‘ T is but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul?

Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!

I love the memory of the past,— its pressed yet fragrant flowers,—

The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers;

Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,— my eyes grow moist and dim,

To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me;

The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be;

And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin

That dooms one to those dreadful words,— “My dear, where HAVE you been?”