In days of old when life was slow

And Christmas was more hallowed,

We cut our tree’s from forests free

Pulled home by horse with saddle.

Extra boughs we tied in lengths

And draped as incensed garland,

Framing windows, doors and mantle piece

So our cottages looked darling.

Then Mistletoe was hung about

For the young men’s privilege,

Picking a berry for each girls kiss

Till berries and privilege ended.

We popped our corn and strung on string

An hung our cookies made with ginger,

And clipped candle holders to each limb

To illuminate our conifer.

Then Christmas Eve we’d bring in wood

Well seasoned from last spring,

And stoke the hearth to ready for

This evenings celebrating.

 With formality, the Yule Clog arrives

This grand root or log of wood,

An placed atop the brand of last years clog

Would burn till daybreaks likelihood.

But if per chance it failed to last

And it went out before dawn,

This was an omen of ill luck

For all those hereupon.

So in earnest we’d all celebrate

Before this Yule Clog’s blaze,

With Wassail, Singing, and great tales

To all our wondermaze.

When morning came were gifts exchanged

And the Yule Clog’s brand removed,

And carefully cooled and put away

For lighting next yr’s Christmas fire approved.

This is the history of the Yule Clog

Now lost with modern housing,

For hearths these days, if at all

Are no longer huge or rousing.