Final Victorian Christmas Poem: 'The Mistletoe Kiss'

One last attempt to immerse everyone in the spirit of Christmas with my final Victorian Christmas poem, taken once again from London Society Christmas edition 1868.

With each of these poems, as I’ve been reading them, the sound of traditional Christmas Carol singing has felt greatly appropriate, but has sadly been lacking, so this time I have included this link to some music to enjoy as you read.

Today’s poem is entitled ‘The Mistletoe Kiss’

The Mistletoe Kiss

A Winter Song by Clement W. Scott

Winter is weary! And winter’s drear!

Cousin Annette, do you think it’s true?

There isn’t a month in the long, long year

But sings when I’m summoned away to you!

Though yellowing leaves in the path are sad,

And mournfully echo our travelling feet;

Still something says to my heart, be glad!

For love is an evergreen-plant, my sweet!

Dull December’s a mournful theme!

Cousin Annette, do you think it so?

There’s nothing so dear as the dreary scheme

Of winter’s sorrow and winter’s snow.

Let fanciful poets indulge in grief,

And every woe in the world repeat;

But love has been at his tricks, the thief!

And stolen a heart, and regret, my sweet!

Berries on holly proclaim ‘tis cold!

Cousin Annette, I am warmer thus;

A hand and a waist if my arms enfold,

The hand and waist will be cozy, puss!

For here we can sit and defy the wind,

Though panes are rattled with blinding sleet,

And happily one of us thus may find

That winter is best for us both, my sweet!

Mistletoe grows on the oak they say!

Cousin Annette! – she is fast asleep,

But this is a dangerous game to play,

For wandering rogues may on tiptoe creep.

The mistletoe’s beckoning over her head,

My fluttering heart, you must cease to beat;

Sleep soft! While over the floor I tread –

And wake at the touch of my lips, my sweet!

Winter is bringing the travellers home!

Cousin Annette, have I cause to fear

Lest one loved better than I may come

To claim the hand that is resting here?

The falsest women are fair as you,

And lips as pretty have sworn deceit;

But on my honour I’d swear you true –

As true as the rose at your breast, my sweet!

Winter is long! Ay, winter’s long!

Cousin Annette, is it time to go?

Perchance the lover and love-sick song

May melt for ever with winter’s snow?

The dearest thoughts in the heart lie deep

Through snows of winter and rose-time heat,

But if your memory tries to sleep,

Remember the mistletoe kiss, my sweet!

Hopefully these few little poems have brought some innocent and charming Christmas feeling. I’ve enjoyed reading them (some more than others) 

The London Society Christmas Number for 1868.

As promised, a bit more Victorian Christmas cheer from London Society, but I’d like to précis that with a little bit of information about the periodical, just in case anyone is interested.

London Society was an illustrated monthly magazine circulating from 1862 to 1898, which advertised itself as "An Illustrated Magazine of Light and Amusing Literature for the Hours of Relaxation". It was published independently and contained the usual mix of miscellaneous articles, short fiction - much of it anonymous - and serialised novels. Mrs J. H. (Charlotte) Riddell contributed at least two novels to it, Above Suspicion in 1874 and The Senior Partner in 1881-2. Some of the other authors featured were Arthur Conan Doyle (pre-Sherlock Holmes), Alan Muir, Eleanor Catharine Price, W. W. Fenn and Florence Marryat who contributed her novel, Open Sesame and also edited the periodical for a time.


Some of the illustrators featured were M. E. Edwards who was a common illustrator also in the Argosy, R Caldecott, Harry Furniss (later known for his work on Punch and as a pioneer of British cinematography), F. A. Fraser and George Cruikshank, Jr.


The magazine issued lavish Christmas numbers with stories by such luminaries as J. Sheridan Le Fanu, Shirley Brooks, George A. Sala and Edmund Yates.


If you’re into thumbing through that kind of thing it’s a decent read. Perhaps not as interesting as other periodicals such as Leisure Hour, Punch or All the Year Round, although it has its charm, as I’m hopefully about to demonstrate with the following piece of poetry by the editor of London Society with his 1868 Christmas greeting, promoting the widespread readership of the magazine;

OW, when the ash-clusters blacken as they hang,

And brightly red the holly berries grow,

Christmas returns! His heralds are the winds,

And earth for him is tapestried with snow.

What though the silent woods are bare of leaf,

And not a blossom in the garden burns?

Christmas revives the year in joyous hearts,

And to delight the barren winter turns.

All give him warmest greeting; none so high,

So great, but welcome Christmas to their door;

And those whom genial word and kindly thought

Warm not at such a time, indeed are poor.

Season of generous acts and gracious words!

It well befits that now, as each extends

The hand to each, we should send forth once more

A cordial greeting to our myriad friends.

A merry Christmas to them one and all!

Warm from our hearts the words spontaneous flow –

A merry Christmas and a bright New Year

Wherever these, our pictured pages go.

Wide is the wish, for there is that far shore

To which these Christmas leaves will not be blown?

Winds waft them where ‘Society’ is not,

And even ‘London’ is a name unknown.

Beside the white Nyanza, English eyes

Will gaze on them, and brighten as they gaze;

And in the Arctic glooms will shipmates crowd,

To snatch a joy amid the darkening haze.

Deep in the virgin forests of the West

The lonely settler’s heart they will delight;

And his who sees the islands of the South

Eve after eve fade in the purple light.

Gladly the stranger of the under world

Will thus beguile his summer-Christmas hours.

While with strange viands they set forth the feast.

Garnished and garlanded with unknown flowers!

In desert ranges and on nameless seas,

The wanderer at our presence will rejoice,

And in the greeting of a stranger hear

The melody of a remembered voice.

And well we know, in many an English home,

At many a fireside of the dear old land,

Our greeting will awaken a response

Warm as the living touch of hand to hand.

And kindly hearts will join with us in thanks

To those whose genius aids us on our way,

The authors and the artists of the year,

Who in these pages of their best display.

Once more then, in the old familiar words,

(‘Age cannot wither’ them, ‘nor custom stale,’)

To each a merry Christmas, and may all

An opening year of happy omen hail!

And as we seek the individual good,

May we help on the era, long divined,

Of glory to the highest, peace on earth,

And good-will reuniting all mankind!

Not my cup of tea but as I said, it has its charm! Nontheless, a Christmassy Victorian piece of poetry to get you in a seasonal mood, and if anyone is still left saying 'Humbug', I have one last piece of Victorian Christmas poetry left which I am saving for a few days before Christmas!

Victorian Poetry for Christmas Part Two: A Christmas Carol (Not that one)

For anyone not feeling the joyous mood of the season yet, here is another poem to spread some more Victorian wintry warmth from the London Society Christmas issue of 1868.

Pull the armchair up to the open fire, pour a little glass of something strong, glance at the cold weather out the window and enjoy today’s Christmassy offering, this time a piece of poetry entitled – somewhat bravely – A Christmas Carol.

A Christmas Carol

By Astley H. Baldwin

They are ringing, they are ringing,

Our merry Christmas bells,

In the village, in the city,

In the dale-church, o’er the fells.

Be our ways of life so varied,

Be our fortunes poor or bright,

Hand in hand with all our brothers,

We are one at least tonight.

Nor the noble in his mansion,

Nor the sovereign on her throne,

Nor the beggar in his hovel,

Will enjoy themselves alone.

We all seek the kindly greeting

Of some dear, familiar face;

We all know that hermit feeling

For to-night is out of place.

But one night! Why not for ever

Should we bind the golden chain

That shows man his poorest fellow

Was not sent to earth in vain?

That each sorrow hath a purpose,

That each gift hath an alloy,

That ever finely balanced

Are the scales of grief and joy.

Spare a little, then, ye rich ones,

From your laden coffers now;

Bring to poverty a sun-ray,

Bring a smile to sorrow’s brow.

Take it gratefully, ye toilers,

Toilers up earth’s weary hill;

‘Tis a green spot in your desert,

‘Tis a good sprung from your ill.

Yes! Be rich and poor united,

‘Tis most grand in Heaven’s sight,

And a blessing, not earth’s blessing,

Is on all the world to-night!

For anyone still not tickled by the Christmas spirit, one more poem to come

Victorian Poetry for Christmas: Suspiria De Profundis by Robert Buchanan.

A thumb through the London Society yearbook of 1868 (a wonderful leather-bound tome with marble boards) threw up a few wintry Victorian pieces that I may share here over Christmas, along with this touching and tragic poem by Robert Buchanan, the Scottish poet. Not particularly Christmassy other than the presence of snow, but it conjures a wonderful image of two poor women out walking the streets in winter. I like it quite a lot:

SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS

By Robert Buchanan

FIRST VOICE.

To-Night there is no moon –

How dark and still the sky looks overhead!

I think that we shall have a snow-fall soon,

Walk quicker? Nelly Blair’s your name, you said?

Have you been long in London?

SECOND VOICE.

Thirteen days.

I hate it! hate the town, and all its ways!

FIRST VOICE.

And I! An ugly place! All bad, all bad!

Hardhearted as a flint, and dull and dark!

Drink is the only comfort to be had;

But drink gets me in trouble always. Hark!

That’s twelve o’clock. Let’s stop a minute, do!

Here, down this quiet street – there’s no one nigh –

Sit on my shawl – I live in Lambeth too,-

We can go home together by-and-by.

How bad your cough is! It will kill you quite

This being out at night.

SECOND VOICE.

Kill me? It’s Death who doesn’t hear me call –

‘Tis killing my ownself I fear to do!

If I’d the heart I’d leap off Waterloo

This night, and end it all.

FIRST VOICE.

Ah, how you cough! You’d best go home to bed!

Are you in pain? Rise up, and let us go!

SECOND VOICE.

O Lord! O Lord! I wish that I was dead!

Look how the air is whitening. It’s the Snow.

How white it looks, how still!

FIRST VOICE.

Lean on my arm a little. You are ill!

SECOND VOICE.

Come on, come on. How white the streets are growing!

I used to like the fields when it was snowing.

This minds me of old days, and all the fun –

That’s over now, and done –

I’ve seen my brightest days, and now I’m old –

Hark! There’s Saint Clement’s striking ‘one’ –

It’s cold! It’s cold!

Victorian poetry is not something I’ve ever delved into, other than that of Edgar Allen Poe when I was a bit younger, but I find the above piece rather touching.

As I said, more Victorian Christmas to follow closer to the season…