 | Uncollected Poems of James Russell Lowell |  |
HOB GOBBLING'S SONG
Not from Titania's Court do I
Hither upon a night-moth fly;
I am not of those Fairies seen
Tripping by moonlight on the green,
Whose dewdrop bumpers, nightly poured,
Befleck the mushroom's virgin board,
And whose faint symbols tinkling clear
Sometimes on frosty nights you hear.
Hither upon a night-moth fly;
I am not of those Fairies seen
Tripping by moonlight on the green,
Whose dewdrop bumpers, nightly poured,
Befleck the mushroom's virgin board,
And whose faint symbols tinkling clear
Sometimes on frosty nights you hear.
No, I was born of lustier stock,
And all their puling night-sports mock:
My father was the Good Old Time,
Famous in many a noble rhyme,
Who reigned with such a royal cheer
He made one Christmas of the year,
And but a single edict passed,
Dooming it instant death to fast.
And all their puling night-sports mock:
My father was the Good Old Time,
Famous in many a noble rhyme,
Who reigned with such a royal cheer
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And but a single edict passed,
Dooming it instant death to fast.
I am that earthlier, fatter elf
That haunts the wood of pantry shelf,
When minced-pies, ranged from end to end,
Up to the gladdened roof ascend;
On a fat goose I hither rode,
Using a skewer for a goad,
From the rich region of Cockayne,
And must ere morn be back again.
That haunts the wood of pantry shelf,
When minced-pies, ranged from end to end,
Up to the gladdened roof ascend;
On a fat goose I hither rode,
Using a skewer for a goad,
From the rich region of Cockayne,
And must ere morn be back again.
I am the plump sprite that presides
O'er Thanksgiving and Christmas tides;
I jig it not in woods profound;
The barn-yard is my dancing-ground,
Making me music as I can
By drumming on a pattypan;
Or if with songs your sleep I mar,
A gridiron serves me for guitar.
O'er Thanksgiving and Christmas tides;
I jig it not in woods profound;
The barn-yard is my dancing-ground,
Making me music as I can
By drumming on a pattypan;
Or if with songs your sleep I mar,
A gridiron serves me for guitar.
When without touch the glasses clink,
And dishes on the dresser wink
Back at the fire, whose jovial glance
Sets the grave pot-lids all adance;
When tails of little pigs hang straight,
Unnerved by dreams of coming fate;
When from the poultry-house you hear
Midnight alarums,—I am near.
And dishes on the dresser wink
Back at the fire, whose jovial glance
Sets the grave pot-lids all adance;
When tails of little pigs hang straight,
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When from the poultry-house you hear
Midnight alarums,—I am near.
While the pleased housewife shuts her eyes,
I lift the crust of temperance pies,
And slip in slyly two or three
Spoonfuls of saving eau de vie;
And, while the cookmaid rests her thumbs,
I stone a score of choicer plums,
And hide them in the pudding's corner,
In memory of the brave Jack Horner.
I lift the crust of temperance pies,
And slip in slyly two or three
Spoonfuls of saving eau de vie;
And, while the cookmaid rests her thumbs,
I stone a score of choicer plums,
And hide them in the pudding's corner,
In memory of the brave Jack Horner.
I put the currants in the buns,
A task the frugal baker shuns;
I for the youthful miner make
Nuggets of citron in the cake;
'T is I that down the chimney whip,
And presents in the stockings slip,
Which Superstition's mumbling jaws
Ascribe to loutish Santa Claus.
A task the frugal baker shuns;
I for the youthful miner make
Nuggets of citron in the cake;
'T is I that down the chimney whip,
And presents in the stockings slip,
Which Superstition's mumbling jaws
Ascribe to loutish Santa Claus.
'T is I that hang, as you may see,
With presents gay the Christmas-tree;
But, if some foolish girl or boy
Should chance to mar the common joy
With any sulky look or word,
By them my anger is incurred,
And to all such I give fair warning
Of nightmares ere to-morrow morning.
With presents gay the Christmas-tree;
But, if some foolish girl or boy
Should chance to mar the common joy
With any sulky look or word,
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And to all such I give fair warning
Of nightmares ere to-morrow morning.
| Uncollected Poems of James Russell Lowell | |