Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON LENDING A PUNCH BOWL, by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES



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ON LENDING A PUNCH BOWL, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times
Last Line: "have you been?"
Subject(s): Alcoholism & Alcoholics; Drunkards; Alcohol Abuse


THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times,
Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes;
They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true,
Who dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar, -- so runs the ancient tale;
'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;
And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength
should fail,
He wiped his brow and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.

'T was purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame,
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same;
And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found,
'T was filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine,
Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine,
But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps,
He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnapps.

And then, of course, you know what's next: it left the
Dutchman's shore
With those that in the Mayflower came, -- a hundred souls and more, --
Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes, --
To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.

'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim,
When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim;
The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword,
And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.

He poured the fiery Hollands in, -- the man that never feared, --
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;
And one by one the musketeers--the men that fought and prayed --
All drank as 't were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew,
He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo;
And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin:
"Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin!"

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,
A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose,
When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, --
'T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

"Drink, John," she said, "'t will do you good, -- poor
child, you'll never bear
This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air;
And if -- God bless me! -- you were hurt, 't would keep
away the chill."
So John did drink, -- and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;
I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here:
'T is but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul?
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!

I love the memory of the past, -- its pressed yet fragrant flowers, --
The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers;
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed, -- my eyes grow moist and dim,
To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me;
The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be;
And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin
That dooms one to those dreadful words, -- "My dear, where
have you been?"





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