A’Wassailing We Come!
The Drunken Festivities that Preluded Carol Singing
Before middle class carol singers in neat scarves and woolly hats gathered to spread festive cheer, Christmas in England was noisier, messier—and far more drunken. Long before anyone had thought of Silent Night and O Come All Ye Faithful, there was wassailing: a boisterous, door-to-door ritual fuelled by ale, cider, and song!
What Was Wassailing?
The word wassail comes from the Old English wes hál, meaning be in good health. The reply—drinc hál (drink and be healthy)—made the expectation clear. Wassailing was as much about drinking as it was about blessing.
By the medieval period, wassailing had become a seasonal custom practised chiefly during the Twelve Days of Christmas, from Christmas Eve to Twelfth Night. Groups of villagers—often young men, labourers, or servants—would roam from house to house, singing loudly and demanding hospitality in return for their good wishes.
They carried with them a wassail bowl, filled with warm ale or cider, often spiced with apples, honey, cloves, and nutmeg. Each household was expected to contribute drink, food, or coins. Refusal was… unwise.
Lads will be Lads - but everyone joined in
Though framed as good wishes, wassailing had an unmistakable edge. The songs often followed a clear formula:
We wish you health and prosperity
We sing to bless your house or orchard
Now give us drink, food, or money!
Some wassail songs contained thinly veiled threats. A miserly householder might be mocked in verse, cursed with bad harvests—or pelted with apples. In rural communities, where reputation mattered and neighbours relied on one another to survive, refusing wassailers could have real social consequences.
Leofric, Nicola's under chef in Lady of Lincoln, later to become her master chef, has a recipe for wassail here.
And below is a brief snip from a draft scene from Lady of England, the third novel in the series, referring to wassailing:
Later that afternoon, a voice drifted up from the stairwell—two female servants talking in low tones.
“Her ladyship’s refused to allow a hunt,” one said. “They’ll be no boar.”
“No wassail either,” the other replied. “At Christmas! It’s a sin, that is.”
Iddy’s chest tightened.
Wassailing.
She remembered the year before when they’d had Christmas at Lincoln. She’d slipped out with Turstin and Colette through a postern gate, her breath puffing white in the cold as they’d gone through the town, door to door. She and Colette had sung until their throats ached and their fingers were numb. Turstin gave them each a cup, and each time they were empty, someone or other had refilled them from a bowl. All the young men had sighed over Colette, swearing their love, and Iddy had drunk and laughed so much her sides had hurt.