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Speaker 1: Christmas Time by John Clare. Glad Christmas comes, and every

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hearth makes room to give him welcome. Now e' want

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will dry its tears in mirth and crown him with

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a holly bough. Though tramping neath a winter sky o'er

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snowy paths and rimy stiles. The housewife sets her spinning

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by to bid him welcome with her smiles. Each house

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is swept the day before, and windows stuck with evergreens.

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The snow is beastomed from the door, and comfort crowns

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the cottage. Scenes gilt holly with its thorny pricks and

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eyew and box with berries. Small These deck the unused

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candlesticks and pictures hanging by the wall. Neighbors resume their

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annual cheer, wishing with smiles and spirits high glad Christmas

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and a happy Year to every morning passer by. Milk

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Maids their Christmas journeys go, accompanied by a favored swain,

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and children past the crumpling snow to taste their granny's

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cake again. The shepherd, now no more afraid, since custom

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doth the chance bestow, starts up to kiss the giggling

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maid beneath the branch of mistletoe that neath each cottage

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beam is seen with pearl like berries shining gay. The

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shadow still of what hath been, which fashion yearly fades away.

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The singing waits a merry throng at early morn with

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simple skill, yet imitate the angel's song and chaunt their

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Christmas ditty still and mid. The storm that dies and

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swells by fits in hummings softly steals the music of

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the village, bells ringing around their merry be When this

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is past, a merry crew bedecked in masks and ribbons gay.

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The Morris dance their sports renew and act their winter

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evening play. The clown turned king for penny praise storms

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with the actor's strut and swell and harlequinn a laugh

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to raise, wears his hunchback and tinkling bell and oft

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for pence and spicy ale with winter nosegays pinned before

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the wassaile singer tells her tale and draws her Christmas

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carols o'er, while prentice boy, with ruddy face and rhyme

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bepowdered dancing locks from door to door with happy face,

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runs round to claim his Christmas box. The block upon

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the fire is put to sanction customs, old desires, and

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many a faggot's bands are cut for the old farmer's

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Christmas fires, where a loud tongue gladness joins the throng,

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and winter meets the warmth of May, till feeling soon

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the heat too strong, he rubs his shins and draws away,

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while snows the window panes be dim the fire curls

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up a sunny charm, where creaming o'er the pitcher's rim.

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The flowering ale is set to warm mirth full of joy,

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as summer bees sits there its pleasures to impart, and

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children tween their parents knees, sing scraps of carols off

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by heart, and some to view the winter weathers climb

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up the window seat with glee, likening the snow to

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falling feathers in fancy's infant ecstasy, laughing with superstitious love,

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or visions wild that youth supplies of people pulling geethe

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above and keeping Christmas in the skies, as though the

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homestead trees were dressed in liew of snow with dancing leaves,

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as though the sun dried Martin's nest instead of icicles

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hung the eaves. The children hail the happy day as

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if the snow were April's grass, and pleased as neath

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the warmth of may sport. O'er the water froze to glass,

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Thou day of happy sound and mirth, that long with

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childish memory, stays how blest around the cottage hearth. I

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met thee in my younger days, harping with raptures, dreaming

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joys on presents which thy coming found. The welcome sight

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of little toys, the Christmas gift of cousins. Round about

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the glowing hearth. At night, the harmless laugh and winter

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tail go round, while parting friends delight to toast each

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other o'er their ale. The cotter oft with quiet zeal,

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will musing o'er his bible leant, while in the dark

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the lovers steal to kiss and toy behind the screen

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old customs. Oh, I love the sound, however simple they

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may be. Whate'er with time hath sanctioned found is welcome

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and is dear to me. Pride grows above simplicity and

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spurns them from her haughty mind, And soon the poet's

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song will be the only refuge they can find. End

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of Christmas Time by John Clare