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hall

       To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;

       Power laid his rod of rule aside,

       And Ceremony doffed his pride.

       The heir, with roses in his shoes,

       That night might village partner choose;

       The lord, underogating, share

       The vulgar game of “post and pair.”

       All hailed, with uncontrolled 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,

       Scrubbed 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 servingman;

       Then the grim boar’s head frowned on high,

       Crested with bays and rosemary.

       Well can the green-garbed 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,

       Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.

       There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by

       Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;

       Nor failed old Scotland to produce,

       At such high tide, her savoury goose.

       Then came the merry maskers in,

       And carols roared 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 oh! what maskers richly dight

       Can boast of bosoms half so light!

       England was merry England, when

       Old Christmas brought his sports again.

       ‘Twas Christmas broached 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 valleys here,

       We hold the kindred title dear,

       Even when, perchance, its far-fetched 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

       Where my great grandsire came of old,

       With amber beard, and flaxen hair,

       And reverend apostolic air -

       The feast and holytide to share,

       And mix sobriety with wine,

       And honest mirth with thoughts divine:

       Small thought was his in after time

       E’er to be hitched into a rhyme.

       The simple sire could only boast,

       That he was loyal to his cost;

       The banished race of kings revered,

       And lost his land—but kept his beard.

       In these dear halls, where welcome kind

       Is with fair liberty combined;

       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!

       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;”

       But time and tide o’er all prevail -

       On Christmas eve a Christmas tale,

       Of wonder and of war—”Profane!

       What! leave the loftier Latian strain,

       Her stately prose, her verse’s charms,

       To hear the clash of rusty arms:

       In Fairy Land or Limbo lost,

       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;

       AEneas, upon Thracia’s shore,

       The ghost of murdered Polydore;

       For omens, we in Livy cross,

       At every turn, locutus Bos.

       As grave and duly speaks that ox,

       As if he told the price of stocks

       Or held in Rome republican,

       The place of common-councilman.

       All nations have their omens drear,

       Their legends wild of woe and fear.

       To Cambria look—the peasant see

       Bethink him of Glendowerdy,

       And shun “the spirit’s blasted tree.”

       The Highlander, whose red claymore

       The battle turned on Maida’s shore,

       Will, on a Friday morn, look pale,

       If asked to tell a fairy tale:

       He fears the vengeful elfin king,

      

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