On Lending a Punch
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,'€”Âso 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,'€”Âa hundred souls and more,'€”Â
Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,'€”Â
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,'€”Âthe man that never feared,'€”Â
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;
And one by one the musketeers’€”Âthe men that fought and prayed’€”Â
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 '€œHollands 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, ='€”Â
'€™T was mingled by a mother’€™s hand to cheer her parting boy.
Drink, John, she said, ‘t will do you good,’€”Âpoor child, you’€™ll never bear
This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air; And if -'€”Â
God bless me! -'€” you were hurt, ‘t would keep away the chill.
So John did drink,’€”Âand 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,'€”Âits pressed yet fragrant flowers,'€”Â
The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers;
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,'€”Âmy 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,'€”Â'€œMy dear, where have you been?'€
