"With amber beard, and flaxen hair,
And reverend apostolic air,
Free of anxiety and care,

Come hither, Christmas-day, and dine;
We'll mix sobriety with wine,

And easy mirth with thoughts divine.
We Christians think it holiday,

On it no sin to feast or play;
Others, in spite, may fast and pray.
No superstition in the use

Our ancestors made of a goose;
Why may not we, as well as they,
Be innocently blithe that day,
On goose or pye, on wine or ale,
And scorn enthusiastic zeal?-

Pray come, and welcome, or plague rott

Your friend and landlord, Walter Scott."

Mr. Walter Scott, Lessudden.

The venerable old gentleman, to whom the lines are addressed, was the younger brother of William Scott of Reaburn. Being the cadet of a cadet of the Harden family, he had very little to lose; yet he contrived to lose the small property he had, by engaging in the civil wars and intrigues of the house of Stuart. His veneration for the exiled family was so great, that he swore he would not shave his beard till they were restored : a mark of attachment, which, I suppose, had been common during Cromwell's usurpation; for, in Cowley's "Cutter of Coleman Street," one drunken cavalier upbraids another, that, when he was not able to afford to pay a barber, he affected to "wear a beard for the king." I sincerely hope this was not

absolutely the original reason of my ancestor's beard; which, as appears from a portrait in the possession of Sir Henry Hay Macdougal, Bart., and another painted for the famous Dr. Pitcairn,' was a beard of a most dignified and venerable appear

ance.

Note V.

The spirit's Blasted Tree.-P. 307.

I am permitted to illustrate this passage, by inserting “Ceubren yr Ellyll, or the Spirit's Blasted Tree,” a legendary tale, by the Reverend George Warrington:

"The event, on which this tale is founded, is preserved by tradition in the family of the Vaughans of Hengwyrt; nor is it entirely lost, even among the common people, who still point out this oak to the passenger. The enmity between the two Welch chieftains, Howel Sele, and Owen Glendwr, was extreme, and marked by vile treachery in the one, and ferocious cruelty in the other. The story is somewhat changed and softened, as more favourable to the characters of the two chiefs, and as better answering the purpose of poetry, by admitting the passion of pity, and a greater degree of sentiment in the de

'The old gentleman was an intimate of this celebrated genius. By the favour of the late Earl of Kelly, descended on the maternal side from Dr. Pitcairn, my father became possessed of the portrait in question.

2 The history of their feud may be found in Pennant's Tour in Wales.

scription. Some trace of Howel Sele's mansion was to be seen a few years ago, and may perhaps be still visible, in the park of Nannau, now belonging to Sir Robert Vaughan, Baronet, in the wild and romantic tracts of Merionethshire. The abbey mentioned passes under two names, Vener and Cymmer. The former is retained, as more generally used.

THE SPIRIT'S BLASTED TREE.
Ceubren yr Ellyll.

Through Nannau's Chace as Howel passed,
A chief esteemed both brave and kind,
Far distant borne, the stag-hound's cry
Came murmuring on the hollow wind.

Starting, he bent an eager ear,

How should the sounds return again?
His hounds lay wearied from the chace,
And all at home his hunter train.

Then sudden anger flashed his eye,
And deep revenge he vowed to take,
On that bold man who dared to force
His red deer from the forest brake.

Unhappy chief! would nought avail,
No signs impress thy heart with fear,
Thy lady's dark mysterious dream,
Thy warning from the hoary seer?

Three ravens gave the note of death,

As through mid air they winged their way;
Then o'er his head, in rapid flight,

They croak,-they scent their destined prey.

Ill omened bird! as legends say,

Who hast the wonderous power to know, While health fills high the throbbing veins, The fated hour when blood must flow.

Blinded by rage, alone he passed,
Nor sought his ready vassals' aid;
But what his fate lay long unknown,
For many an anxious year delayed.

A peasant marked his angry eye,

He saw him reach the lake's dark bourne,

He saw him near a Blasted Oak,

But never from that hour return.

Three days passed o'er, no tidings came;— Where should the chief his steps delay? With wild alarm the servants ran,

Yet knew not where to point their way.

His vassals ranged the mountain's height, The covert close, and wide-spread plain;

But all in vain their eager search,

They ne'er must see their lord again.

Yet Fancy, in a thousand shapes,

Bore to his home the Chief once more:

Some saw him on high Moel's top,

Some saw him on the winding shore.

With wonder fraught the tale went round, Amazement chained the hearer's tongue;

Each peasant felt his own sad loss,

Yet fondly o'er the story hung.

Oft by the moon's pale shadowy light,

His aged nurse, and steward grey, Would lean to catch the storied sounds, Or mark the flitting spirit stray.

Pale lights on Cader's rocks were seen,
And midnight voices heard to moan;
"Twas even said the Blasted Oak,
Convulsive, heaved a hollow groan:

And, to this day, the peasant still,
With cautious fear, avoids the ground;

In each wild branch a spectre sees,
And trembles at each rising sound,

Ten annual suns had held their course,
In summer's smile, or winter's storm;

The lady shed the widowed tear,

As oft she traced his manly form.

Yet still to hope her heart would cling,
As o'er the mind illusions play,-

Of travel fond, perhaps her lord

To distant lands had steered his way.

'Twas now November's cheerless hour, Which drenching rains and clouds deface;

Dreary bleak Robell's tract appeared,
And dull and dank each valley's space.

Loud o'er the wier the hoarse flood fell,
And dashed the foamy spray on high;
The west wind bent the forest tops,

And angry frowned the evening sky.