At the time of Henry VIII
As sun goeth down, on feast of Saint John,
Over proud street doors, oak branches appear.
Merry stout benches, are carried to street,
From branch decked doors, come gallons of beer.
Giggling young girls, with flowery garlands,
Frolicking men with, their large leafy crown.
Exuberant groups, of jovial folk,
In summery best, parade round the town.
As deep darkness falls, long touches are lit,
Rowdy crowds carry, fierce fiery staves high.
Flaming fagots start, to flicker in street,
The boisterous antics, amid the loud cry.
Dashing and dancing, to beat of tabor,
Bon fires spark and blaze, their flickering light.
Round pretty foreheads, of maids garlands twine,
As heavenly stars, begin to shine bright.
People crowd benches, and bowers in street,
Lucky flowers strewn, on twilight bench.
Green apple peals thrown, on the ground to read,
Some future husband's, letter to sense.
Let's all make merry, wassail this short night,
We raise and clash tankards, with cheerful high head.
Till dawn and sleep rob us, of festivity,
Creeping to oak branch, decked Mid-Summer bed.
Copyright Andrew Rea Winterfelleth 2022
