Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
The Crown of the Year
When, some dark December night, the Mother Berhta Guerilla Wassailers' Guild comes to your doorstep, we like—after some carols and, hopefully, a little proffered liquid refreshment—to sing a blessing on the house before we leave. In many ways, that's the point of the whole exercise.
Often we end with the traditional quête song The King. (You can hear Loreena McKennit's elegantly understated version here.)
As we sing it, the final verse changes depending on just when in Wassailing Season we are.
Before Yule:
Bold Yuletide comes fast:
Thirteenth Night is the last.
So we bid you adieux:
great joy to the new.
During the Yuledays:
Bold Yuletide is here,
the Crown of the Year....
On Thirteenth Night:
Bold Yuletide is past:
Thirteenth Night is the last....
“Bold Yuletide”: I've always liked that. There's something brazen, even disruptive, about Yule, by design: a celebration of life and light in this darkest and deadest of seasons.
It's nearly upon us now, the Crown of the Year. Hope yours is a shining one.
Great joy to the New.
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