Wassail Chorus At The Mermaid Tavern

by Theodore Watts-Dunton

Christmas knows a merry, merry place,
  Where he goes with fondest face,
  Brightest eye, brightest hair:
Tell the Mermaid where is that one place,
          Where?

Raleigh.  'Tis by Devon's glorious halls,
  Whence, dear Ben, I come again:
Bright of golden roofs and walls--
  El Dorado's rare domain--

  Seem those halls when sunlight launches
  Shafts of gold thro' leafless branches,
Where the winter's feathery mantle blanches
       Field and farm and lane.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Drayton.    'Tis where Avon's wood-sprites weave
    Through the boughs a lace of rime,
  While the bells of Christmas Eve
    Fling for Will the Stratford-chime
  O'er the river-flags emboss'd
  Rich with flowery runes of frost--
O'er the meads where snowy tufts are toss'd--
        Strains of olden time.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Shakespeare's Friend.   'Tis, methinks, on any ground
    Where our Shakespeare's feet are set.
  There smiles Christmas, holly-crown'd
    With his blithest coronet:
  Friendship's face he loveth well:
  'Tis a countenance whose spell
Sheds a balm o'er every mead and dell
      Where we used to fret.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Heywood.  More than all the pictures, Ben,
  Winter weaves by wood or stream,
Christmas loves our London, when
  Rise thy clouds of wassail-steam--
  Clouds like these, that, curling, take
  Forms of faces gone, and wake
Many a lay from lips we loved, and make
      London like a dream.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Ben Jonson.   Love's old songs shall never die,
    Yet the new shall suffer proof:
  Love's old drink of Yule brew I
    Wassail for new love's behoof.
  Drink the drink I brew, and sing
  Till the berried branches swing,
Till our song make all the Mermaid ring--
        Yea, from rush to roof.

FINALE.   Christmas loves this merry, merry place;
    Christmas saith with fondest face,
      Brightest eye, brightest hair:
'Ben, the drink tastes rare of sack and mace:
            Rare!'