That only night, in all the year,

Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dress'd with holy green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the misletoe.

Then open'd wide the Baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,

And Ceremony doff'd his pride.

The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner chuse ;
The lord, underogating, share

The vulgar game of " post and pair."
All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight,

And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;

The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board

No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving-man;

Then the grim boar's head frown'd on high,

Crested with bays and rosemary.

Well can the green-garb'd ranger tell,

How, when, and where, the monster fell;

What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.

The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by
Plumb-porridge stood, and Christmas pye;
Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce,

At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry masquers in,

And carols roar'd with blithesome din;

If unmelodious was the song,

It was a hearty note, and strong.

Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;

White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But, O! what masquers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when

Old Christmas brought his sports again.

'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale ; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer

The poor man's heart through half the year.

Still linger, in our northern clime,

Some remnants of the good old time ;
And still, within our vallies here,

We hold the kindred title dear,

Even when, perchance, its far-fetch'd claim

To Southron ear sounds empty name;

For course of blood, our proverbs deem,
Is warmer than the mountain-stream.*

And thus, my Christmas still I hold
Where my great-grandsire came of old,
With amber beard, and flaxen hair,
And reverend apostolic air,

The feast and holy-tide to share,

And mix sobriety with wine,

And honest mirth with thoughts divine:

Small thought was his, in after time,

E'er to be hitch'd into a rhyme.

The simple sire could only boast,

That he was loyal to his cost;

The banish'd race of kings revered,

And lost his land, but kept his beard.

In these dear halls, where welcome kind Is with fair liberty combined;

"Blood is warmer than water,"

dicate our family predilections.

-a proverb meant to vin

Where cordial friendship gives the hand,
And flies constraint the magic wand

Of the fair dame that rules the land,
Little we heed the tempest drear,
While music, mirth, and social cheer,
Speed on their wings the passing year.
And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en now,
When not a leaf is on the bough.

Tweed loves them well, and turns again,
As loth to leave the sweet domain,

And holds his mirror to her face,

And clips her with a close embrace :—
Gladly as he, we seek the dome,

And as reluctant turn us home,

How just, that, at this time of glee, My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee! For many a merry hour we've known, And heard the chimes of midnight's tone. Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease, And leave these classic tomes in peace!