The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace, No marks 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 wassail round, in good brown bowls, There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by At such high tide, her savoury goose. 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 White shirts supplied the masquerade, England was merry England, when 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 2 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 valleys here, We hold the kindred title dear, Even when, perchance, its far-fetch'd claim To southern ear sounds empty name; For course of blood, our proverbs deem, Is warmer than the mountain stream. And thus, my Christmas still I hold 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," "-a proverb meant to vindicate our family predilections. Where cordial friendship gives the hand, Of the fair dame that rules the land, 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 :- 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! Of Roman and of Grecian lore, Sure mortal brain can hold no more. These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, Were "pretty fellows in their day;" To jostle conjuror and ghost, Goblin and witch !"-Nay, Heber dear, Before you touch my charter, hear; Though Leyden aids, alas! no more, My cause with many-languaged lore, This may I say:-in realms of death Ulysses meets Alcides' wraith; *"Hannibal was a pretty fellow, sir-a very pretty fellow in his day."-Old Bachelor. TUT |