WW4BB Presents: TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE YULETIDE

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE YULETIDE

I read this to my kids every solstice and they love it! it is a beautiful poem of the yule time season which we celebrate on the 21st of Dec. we also have the fight between the oak kind and the holly king which we do every year.

In many Celtic-based traditions there is the enduring legend of the battle between the Oak King and the Holly King. These two mighty rulers fight for supremacy as the Wheel of the Year turns each season. At the Winter Solstice, or Yule, the Oak King kills the Holly King, and then reigns until Midsummer, or Litha. Once the Summer Solstice arrives, the Holly King returns to do battle with the old king, and defeats him. The Holly King them rules until Yule.

In some Wiccan traditions, the Oak King and the Holly King are seen as dual aspects of the Horned God. Each of these twin aspects rules for half the year, battles for the favor of the Goddess, and then retires to nurse his wounds for the next six months, until it is time for him to reign once more.

Often, these two entities are portrayed in familiar ways - the Holly King frequently appears as a woodsy version of Santa Claus. He dresses in red, wears a sprig of holly in his tangled hair, and is sometimes depicted driving a team of eight stags. The Oak King is portrayed as a fertility god, and occasionally appears as the Green Man or other lord of the forest.

Ultimately, while these two beings do battle all year long, they are two essential parts of a whole. Despite being enemies, without one, the other would no longer exist.

Twas the night before Yuletide and all through the glen
Not a creature was stirring, not a fox, not a hen.
A mantle of snow shone brightly that night
As it lay on the ground, reflecting moonlight.

The faeries were nestled all snug in their trees,

Unmindful of flurries and a chilly north breeze.

The elves and the gnomes were down in their burrows,

Sleeping like babes in their soft earthen furrows.

When low! the earth moved with a thunderous quake,

Causing chairs to fall over and dishes to break.

The Little Folk scrambled to get on their feet

Then raced to the river where they usually meet.

“What happened?” they wondered, they questioned, they probed,

As they shivered in night clothes, some bare-armed, some robed.

“What caused the earth's shudder? What caused her to shiver?”

They all spoke at once as they stood by the river.

Then what to their wondering eyes should appear

But a shining gold light in the shape of a sphere.

It blinked and it twinkled, it winked like an eye,

Then it flew straight up and was lost in the sky.

Before they could murmur, before they could bustle,

There emerged from the crowd, with a swish and a rustle,

A stately old crone with her hand on a cane,

Resplendent in green with a flowing white mane.

As she passed by them the old crone's perfume,

Smelling of meadows and flowers abloom,

Made each of the fey folk think of the spring

When the earth wakes from slumber and the birds start to sing.

“My name is Gaia,” the old crone proclaimed

in a voice that at once was both wild and tamed,

“I've come to remind you, for you seem to forget,

that Yule is the time of re-birth, and yet…”

“I see no hearth fires, hear no music, no bells,

The air isn't filled with fragrant smells

Of baking and roasting, and simmering stews,

Of cider that's mulled or other hot brews.”

“There aren't any children at play in the snow,

Or houses lit up by candles’ glow.

Have you forgotten, my children, the fun

Of celebrating the rebirth of the sun?”

She looked at the fey folk, her eyes going round,

As they shuffled their feet and stared at the ground.

Then she smiled the smile that brings light to the day,

“Come, my children,” she said, “Let's play.”

They gathered the mistletoe, gathered the holly,

Threw off the drab and drew on the jolly.

They lit a big bonfire, and they danced and they sang.

They brought out the bells and clapped when they rang.

They strung lights on the trees, and bows, oh so merry,

In colors of cranberry, bayberry, cherry.

They built giant snowmen and adorned them with hats,

Then surrounded them with snow birds, and snow cats and bats.

Then just before dawn, at the end of their fest,

Before they went homeward to seek out their rest,

The fey folk they gathered ‘round their favorite oak tree

And welcomed the sun ‘neath the tree's finery.

They were just reaching home when suddenly it came,

The gold light returned like an arrow-shot flame.

It lit on the tree top where they could see from afar

The golden-like sphere turned into a star.

The old crone just smiled at the beautiful sight,

"Happy Yuletide, my children," she whispered. "Good night."