Tonight is Wassail Night, the 17th January (as against the 'new' date of the 6th), which is the date prior to 1752 when the calendar was changed and days 'lost'. It is the night when all over England people go into their apple orchards and sing songs to the apple trees, drink hot spiced cider, and spear a piece of toasted bread to a branch. The dregs of the cider is poured on to the toasted bread, and it is considered lucky if a robin is observed pecking at this piece of toast later on.
There are fewer and fewer orchards, but in my opinion any apple tree deserves a small wassail, so I observe the ceremony every year. Sometimes I organise a little party, because any occasion is a good excuse for some innocent merriment, and we recite poetry in addition to singing songs by the light of an old oil lamp bequeathed to me by my old buddy Marty. Afterwards there are baked apples and roasted chestnuts in front of the fire, in addition to the hot spiced cider.
Tonight there was no party, but I went out nevertheless with my mug of hot cider and recited the annual Apple Wassail Ballad, which I composed myself and am immensely proud of.
Ballad to an Apple Tree
Cold now lay the fallow lands
Frost-bedecked the orchard stands.
Leaf-less now your slender limbs
Shudder as the dusk-light dims.
While your roots, in earth so cold
Fear the threat of worms and mould.
Squire Frost rides out again
Over mountain, dale, and glen.
Fiercely mounted, grim of face
Ironclad and fist on mace.
Holds the world in death-like freeze
While the Mother sleeps at ease.
But remember, tree my friend
Cold and darkness, they will end.
Listen not to Winter’s claim
That the Summer has been slain.
Summer, Spring, and sister Fall
Each await their wake-up call.
Winter spelled the Mother deep
Now she sleeps and gives no heed.
But as days grow ever longer
And the Sun grows ever stronger
She’ll awake and Squire Frost
Just like Winter, pays the cost.
Then fair Spring will rule again
Over mountain, dale, and glen.
Bees will swarm and flowers bloom
Warm the Sun will shine at noon.
And like maiden’s cheeks so pink
Blossom-laden you will prink.
Newly wakened, roots will grow
Leaves shall cover branch and bow.
And when Summer comes at last
Squire Frost will be outcast.
Where his liege lord Winter hides
High up North, ‘till next Yule-tides.
So despair not, Apple Tree
Frost and ice and cold will flee.
Fruits will ripen green and red
Long before the year is dead.
As they always did before
As they will forever more.
Thus I raise my glass to thee
Thrice be praised, fair Apple Tree!
May you prosper without end
May your life be never spend!
May your fruits be crisp and sweet
Red and golden and replete!
Cheers!
