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Another verse from a good old song specially celebrates our theme—
Come, help us to raise Loud songs to the praise Of good old England pleasures: To the Christmas cheer, And the foaming Beer. And the buttery’s solid treasures.
Many pages might be compiled of these old English carols, all in praise of the same theme, the roast beef and good ale of Old England; but one more quotation must suffice. It is from Poor Robin’s Almanack (1695):—
Now, thrice welscome, Christmas! Which brings us good cheer; Mince pies and plum-pudding— Strong Ale and strong Beer; But as for curmudgeons Who will not be free, I wish they may die On a two-legged tree.
And so the cycle of the waning year is nearly completed. Midst sounds of revelry and mirth the old year is dying, and dying hard, and New Year’s Eve comes round again. The principal customs of New Year’s Eve have been already described, being inextricably blended with those appropriate to New Year’s Day.
One scene more; a custom of very ancient origin and still observed. An ivy-mantled tower, from which to-night, at all events, the moping owl has been driven, for within are lights and the sounds of busy preparation. Those who are about to perform the last offices for the dying year are here assembled, and a great brown bowl of foaming ale passes from hand to hand. The old church clock, not bating one jot of his accustomed space from stroke to stroke, for all the impatience of listeners in many a house and cottage near, but deliberately, and with a solemnity befitting the occasion, tolls out the hour of midnight. A moment’s pause; but ere the last echo of its brazen tongue has died upon the ear, a merry peal of clashing music bursts from the ancient pile, carrying over hill and dale, over flood and field, on the rapid wings of {265} sound, the tidings that the old year is dead and the new year reigns in his place.
As we gaze back on these old scenes of fun and frolic, their rougher outlines perchance softened by distance, their true-heartiness and geniality shining through the golden mist of time, which of us will be found to deny that in some respects the old was better?
Happy the age and harmless were the days, For then true love and amity were found, When every village did a May-pole raise, And Whitsun ales and May-games did abound.
