On Christmas Eve the bells are rung
On Christmas Eve the mass is sung
The damsel dons her kirtle sheen;
The hall is dress’d with holly green;
Forth to the wood the merry-men go,
All to gather the mistletoe.

Then opens wide the Baron’s hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power lays his rod aside,
And Ceremony doffs his pride.
And to the cottage, as the crown,
Comes good news of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Goes roaring up the chimney wide:
The wassail round, in good brown bowls,
Bedecked with ribbons, blithely trowls.
So mix sobriety with wine,
And good cheer with thoughts divine.

Then come the merry maskers in,
And carols roar with blithesome din;
If unmelodious the song,
It is a hearty note, and strong.
Listen, and in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery.

And so to merry England then
Old Christmas brings his sport again.
At Christmas broach the mightiest ale;
At Christmas tell the merriest tale;
Let chill winds whistle as they will,
We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.