A Poor Poet’s Christmas (with apologies to Clare and Bloomfield)
We sit around the fireside and call out merry oaths
Until there come the players in, plucking music from their throats.
With fiddles, horns and pipes they join in olden song
Of maids and lords and stable-lads, of all their rights and wrongs
Which to this day warn youth and child that behind each golden door
May lie a heart as black or red as beats inside the poor’.
The sack and beer are passed around and tatties and pudding too
Until our voices burst the door and raucous is the night.
‘Til cows and chucks bemoan the light that brakes their stalls
And e’en the moon forestalls the dawn to keep the sight
Of merry players and happy fools
Take rest from blistering tools
On this our Christmas night.
also tagged as seasons