This Ancient Silver Bowl Of Mine, It Tells Of Good Old Times, Of Joyous Days And Jolly Nights, And Merry Christmas Times; 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 Candle 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?"