Classic Poem

EPISTLE FIRST .

I KNOW not how this custom came
Which all my clansmen love to name.
They've told me by the embers seated,
Our parish church was then completed;
And since that time, when comes the day,
A feast awaits both old and gay.
This vague tradition may be true:
I've seen no record, — pray, have you? —
To explain the mystery of the matter:
All hail, once more, the smoking platter,
The sirloin rich, and sweet fowl-pie,
Cook'd in the chimney wide and high!
For weeks before the welcome morn,
The rosy youth and age forlorn,
And she who sang in woe or weal,
Whilst turning round her spinning-wheel,
'Mid shining cans and bucket handles,
And tin-case where she kept her candles, —
These chattering ones, for weeks, at least,
Have preach'd long sermons on the feast.
And mother, too, kind-hearted dame,
Full fourteen days before it came,
Invited us to come and take
A rich repast amid the brake.
On Friday eve they kill'd the lamb,
Which in the summer miss'd its dam.
And Jem's grey duck, too, lost its head;
It hung up in the pantry dead;
A well-fed drake which, by and bye,
Would make a sweet, delicious pie.

The lagging morning came, and we
Met round the old hearth, red with glee,
To chat, and read, and sing, and rhyme,
Till came the long'd-for dinner-time;
And then, at mother's welcome call,
We sat within our ancient hall;
And, in the not unpleasant clatter,
Two legs were served upon a platter.
When father took his usual place,
Though ill, he rose, repeated grace;
And, 'mid melodious murmurs rife,
I used the keen-edged carving knife.
O what a feast was ours! A sight
To fill Sam Martin with delight.
Like kings and princes did we dine,
And water was our strongest wine.
But mother in the kitchen sat,
With little birdie and the cat,
Exactly as she used to be,
With thought of those across the sea.