Upon New Tear's Eve

Now winds of winter glue
Their tears upon the thorn,
And earth has voices few,
And those forlorn.

And 'tis our solemn night
When maidens sand the porch
And play at Jack 's Alight
With burning torch,

Or cards, or Kiss i' the Ring —
While ashen faggots blaze,
And late wassailers sing
In miry ways.

Then, dear my wife, be blithe
To bid the New Year hail
And welcome — plough, drill, scythe,
And jolly flail.

For though the snows he'll shake
Of winter from his head,
To settle, flake by flake,
On ours instead;

Yet we be wreathed green
Beyond his blight or chill,
Who kiss'd at seventeen,
And worship still.

We know not what he'll bring;
But this we know to-night —
He doth prepare the Spring
For our delight.

With birds he'll comfort us,
With blossoms, balms, and bees,
With brooks, and odorous
Wild breath o' the breeze.

Come then, O festal prime!
With sweets thy bosom fill
And dance it, dripping thyme,
On Lantick hill.

West wind awake! and comb
Our garden blade from blade —
We, in our little home,
Sit unafraid.