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 Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie: Nor fail’d old Scotland to produce, At such high tide, her savoury goose. Then came the merry maskers 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 maskers, 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 valleys 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; 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.
