BOOK OF CHRISTMAS - online book

The Customs, Ceremonies, Traditions, Superstitions, Fun, Feeling,
And Festivities Of The Christmas Season.

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NEW-YEAR'S EVE.                                         199
If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year—
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,
Then ye may lay me low i' the mould, and think no more o' me
To-night I saw the sun set; he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The may upon the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day : Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; And we danced about the maypole, and in the hazel-copse, Till Charles's wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.
There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane: I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high— I long to see a flower so before the day I die.
The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm tree,
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,                .
And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave,
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.
Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun '11 shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.
When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light, Ye'll never see me more in the long grey fields at night; When from the dry dark world the summer airs blow cool, On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bullrush-in the pool.
Ye'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And ye'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid, I shall not forget ye, mother, I shall hear ye when ye pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.
I have been wild and wayward, but ye'll forgive me now : Ye'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow; Nay,—nay, ye must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, Ye should not fret for me, mother, ye have another child.
If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Tho' ye'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what ye say, And be often—often with ye when ye think I'm far away.
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