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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!

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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Added by Poetry Lover
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