English Master Class

 

Grove held a Primary English Master Class in January and during the morning primary school children attended from Norton-in Hales, Moreton Say, Stoke on Tern, Hinstock & Market Drayton Junior School.

 

Primary school visitors with their Grove College helpers

 

The focus was around the poem, The ‘Mistletoe Bough’ by Thomas Haynes Bayley (1884). Children were involved in group discussions, performing poetry and could choose a written piece that included a diary entry or a letter.

Six Grove College students helped students during the class. They also discussed Grove House and its history, and were able to show them some old photographs from the turn of the century.

 

One of the performances!

 

 

 

The Mistletoe Bough
Thomas Haynes Bayley (1884)

 

The mistletoe hung in the castle hall
The holly branch shone on the old oak wall
The Barons’ retainers were blithe and gay,
Keeping the Christmas holiday.

The Baron beheld with a fathers’ pride
His beautiful child, Lord Lovell’s bride.
And she, with her bright eyes seemed to be
The star of that goodly company.
Oh, the mistletoe bough.
Oh, the mistletoe bough.

“I’m weary of dancing, now” she cried;
“Here, tarry a moment, I’ll hide, I’ll hide,
And, Lovell, be sure you’re the first to trace
The clue to my secret hiding place.”

Away she ran, and her friends began
Each tower to search and each nook to scan.
And young Lovell cried, “Oh, where do you hide?
I’m lonesome without you, my own fair bride.”
Oh, the mistletoe bough.
Oh, the mistletoe bough.

They sought her that night, they sought her next day,
The sought her in vain when a week passed away.
In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought wildly, but found her not.

The years passed by and their brief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past.
When Lovell appeared, all the children cried,
“See the old man weeps for his fairy bride.”
Oh, the mistletoe bough.
Oh, the mistletoe bough.

At length, an old chest that had long laid hid
Was found in the castle; they raised the lid.
A skeleton lay mouldering there
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair.

How sad the day when in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest,
It closed with a spring and a dreadful doom,
And the bride lay clasped in a living tomb.
Oh, the mistletoe bough.
Oh, the mistletoe bough.