At early day the youthful voice,

Heard singing on from door to door,
Makes the responding heart rejoice,

To know the children of the poor
For once are happy all day long;
We smile and listen to the song,

The burthen still remote or near,

"Old Christmas comes but once a year."

Upon a gayer, happier scene

Never did holly-berries peer,

Or ivy throw its trailing green

On brighter forms than there are here;

Nor Christmas in his old arm-chair

Smile upon lips and brows more fair :

Then let us sing amid our cheer,

"Old Christmas still comes once a year." Miller.

CHRISTMAS IN THE OLDEN TIME.

HEAP on more wood!-the wind is chill;

But let it whistle as it will,

We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deem'd the new-born year

The fittest time for festal cheer;

And well our Christian sires of old

Loved when the year its course had roll'd,

And brought blithe Christmas back again,

With all his hospitable train.

Domestic and religious rite

Gave honour to the holy night:

The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dress'd with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry men go,
To gather in the mistletoe;
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 choose.
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-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,
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.