Farm Festivals.

Otago Witness, Issue 1581, 4 March 1882, Page 26

Farm Festivals.

THE FESTIVAL OF GOOD OHEBR;

08, CHRISTMAS MONOLOGUES.

[FARMER.] ' Blow— blow— bushels o'snow— , • As if you had lost your senses ! Kako with your might long winrowfl white. Along o' my walls an' fences ! * , , ! Hover and crowd, ye black-faced cloud I v Your looks with comfort mingled ; ' > The more o' ye falls on these strong walls, ' The better my house is shingled. ? Swarm, swarm, pale bees o' the storm t] : i You bid the world look whiter ; j Your very ire but pokes my fire, And makes the blaze burn brighter I ■' I ha' worked away more 'none hot day, ' With the harvest-forge a-glowing, To kindle the cheer of Summer here, When cold winds should be blowing. ' I ha' braced my form 'gainst many a storm, i When the gale blew helter-skelter— .' b'er side-hilla steep, through snow-drifts deep, ! I ha' climbed, to make this shelter. My debts are raised, The Lord be praised ! They left my old heart lighter ; That mortgage I fed to the fire-mouths red— And it made the flame burn brighter 1 , There's a smile that speaks, in the plump red cheeks Of the apples in these dishes ; . They go down square, with a business air • Of conaultin' mv stomach's wishes. ' lam feelin* the charms of comfort'B arms, Which never opened wider, With the sober frown of my doutchnuts brown, And tho laugh of my sweet-kept cider. (Of course I know that this all must go, In a whirl of death or sorrow ; But there's nothing lost in the work it cost, If I knew I should die to-morrow !) My mind will play, this Christmas day, Bound the Bad-faced little stranger That smiled on them at Bethlehem ; And I wish it had been my manger ! I'd ha' told 'em square to get out o' there, For I hadn't o'er much o' shed-room, 'Twaa a story too true, and stranger, too, Than fairy tale or fable ; An awkward thing for that preacher king To be tossed about in a stable ! ■ 'Twould ha' beeu a joy to ha' given that boy A quiet heart ovation, Before He was known as heir to a throno, Or had struck His reputation. But I think I've read some words Ho said, In one of His printed sermons, • Of the least of these,' in which one sees The poor, the weak, tho infirm 'uns; So I b'lieve I know ten turkeys or soEach one a fat old sinner— Who'll wend their wav to the poor-houso t day, And probably stay to dinner. Growl— growl— ye storm-dogs, howl As if ye was tryin' to tree me ! For all o' your tricks, nay grown-up chicks Are comin' to-day to see me 1 My best I've done for every one— My heart gets their caressing ; It seoins to me like a Christmas treo, Hung round with every blessing. (Of courao I know that thiß all mußt go ; But grief wasn't made to borrow, And I'd get my pay for the fact to-day, If I knew I Bhould die to-morrow !) [FARMER'S WIFE.] Let's see— there'll be ten— eleven— twelve— ou this side, The old table's growing too small : Our larder, as well as our hearts must provide, And our hearts will make room for them all. Thero'll bo Jim with his jokes (and I hope they'll be new, Not those he has told twice before) ; There'll be Sam with his stories, more startling than true, Which always remind him of more ; There'll be Kate, with her fat little pig of a lad, Whoso stomach unceasingly begs ; And her other ono, who, though not cut out for bad, Is a hurricane mounted on legs ; There'll be John, with his tiny brown tribe Of brunettes, And Lue, with her one little blonde ; And Tom, with two aruitul's of wife and their pets, A trifle too atarfclingly fond ! * ' Farm 'Festivals,' by Will Cirletou, author of 'Farm Ballads,' 'Farm Legends,' &c. Ballsntyne Hwiaon, and Co., Edinburgh iiud London.

For 'tis dangerous business— this loving too wellIt somehow brings Heaven over-near ; When our hearts their sweet stories too noisily tell, The angels arc certain to hear; Tho angel's arc certain to hear what we say, In search for the brightest and best ; And they're likely to carry our prizes away, To mako Heaven moro happy and blest. Though our table bo short, yet our hearts extend wide— This food's with no stinginess chilled ; Let's see : there'll be ten— eleven— twelve— on this side — And-the chair that will never be Oiled. Oh my poor darling boy, lying silent to-day, With tho storm Bpading snow on your breast ! The angels, thoy found you, and made you their prey, In their search for the brightest and best ! My boy-iove ! I did not believe you would go ! How I begged and implored you to wake, As you lay here so white, on that dark day of woe, That they brought you home, drowned, from the lake! And whoever may come, .and whatever betide, You still have your room and your chair ; Is it true that I feel you sometimes at my side, And your lips on my forehead and hair ? The house will bo running clear over with glee, We all shall be merry to-day ; But Christmas is never quito Christmas to me, With one of my loved ones away.