Wassail Chorus

Lyrics

Christmas knows a merry, merry place Where he goes with fondest face Brightest eye, brightest hair: Tell the Mermaid where is that one place Where? 'Tis by Devon's glorious halls Whence, dear Ben, I come again: Bright of golden roofs and walls— El Dorado's rare domain— Seem those halls when sunlight launches Shafts of gold thro' leafless branches Where the winter's feathery mantlе blanches Field and farm and lane Christmas knows a mеrry, merry place Where he goes with fondest face Brightest eye, brightest hair: Tell the Mermaid where is that one place Where? 'Tis where Avon's wood-sprites weave Through the boughs a lace of rime While the bells of Christmas Eve Fling for Will the Stratford-chime O'er the river-flags emboss'd Rich with flowery runes of frost— O'er the meads where snowy tufts are toss'd— Strains of olden time Christmas knows a merry, merry place Where he goes with fondest face Brightest eye, brightest hair: Tell the Mermaid where is that one place Where? 'Tis, methinks, on any ground Where our Shakespeare's feet are set There smiles Christmas, holly-crown'd With his blithest coronet: Friendship's face he loveth well: 'Tis a countenance whose spell Sheds a balm o'er every mead and dell Where we used to fret Christmas knows a merry, merry place Where he goes with fondest face Brightest eye, brightest hair: Tell the Mermaid where is that one place Where? More than all the pictures, Ben Winter weaves by wood or stream Christmas loves our London, when Rise thy clouds of wassail-steam— Clouds like these, that, curling, take Forms of faces gone, and wake Many a lay from lips we loved, and make London like a dream Christmas knows a merry, merry place Where he goes with fondest face Brightest eye, brightest hair: Tell the Mermaid where is that one place Where? Love's old songs shall never die Yet the new shall suffer proof: Love's old drink of Yule brew I Wassail for new love's behoof Drink the drink I brew, and sing Till the berried branches swing Till our song make all the Mermaid ring— Yea, from rush to roof Christmas loves this merry, merry place; Christmas saith with fondest face Brightest eye, brightest hair: 'Ben, the drink tastes rare of sack and mace: Rare!'