Let us drink to those eyes we most dearly prize,
We can show how we love them after;
The fire blaze cleaves to the bright holly leaves,
And the mistletoe hangs from the rafter;
We care not for fruit, whilst we here can see
Their scarlet and pearly berries;

For the girls' soft cheeks shall our peaches be,
And their pouting lips our cherries.
Wassail! wassail! &c.

OLD CHRISTMAS.

(J. BRIDGEMAN.)

ONCE more the rapid, fleeting year

Has brought old Christmas to the door;

Come, let us treat him with such cheer
As folks were wont in days of yore,

When burgher grave, and belted knight,
And cottage maid, and lady fair,

Obeyed the old, familiar sprite,

And, at his bidding, banished Care

That sullen, surly, melancholy wight.

Let's hang from beams, all black with time,
The mistletoe's insidious bough,

'Neath which, as little birds with lime,

Young girls are snared, "they know not how

The horrid thing-they never thought

It half so near-for if they had,

'Tis certain they had not been caught—

OLD CHRISTMAS.

On that rely--it was too bad,
And not at all behaving as one ought."

Upon the hearth pile up the fire,

And, that it may burn clear and bright,

Cast in it every base desire,

All envy, hatred, vengeance, spite :

Believe me, the event will show

By acting in this way you'll gain

For you will feel a genial glow

Dance through each gladly-swelling vein,

And onwards to your very heart's core go.

Bring, too, the sparkling wassail bowl,

That jolly Christmas holds so dear,

And if 'd have it warm your you

soul

The mind as well as body cheer

Amid the wine and spirit pour

The blessings from some humble roof;

A little charity is sure

To call them forth in sober truth,

They'll give the draught one matchless flavour more.

And

you, fair Sovereign of this isle,

Who love to deck the Christmas tree,

So that the massy, regal pile

Resound with mirth and jollity,

Remember that the stem with new

Strength thrives, if pruned with careful hand;

Then trim your Christmas sapling, too,

And to the poor throughout the land

Send of the shoots thus lopped away a few.

A WRINKLED, crabbed man they picture thee,
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey

As the long moss upon the apple tree;

Blue lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose;

Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way, Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth, Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth, Or circled by them, as thy lips declare Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire,

Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire, Or taste the old October brown and bright.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

DEAR boy, throw that icicle down,

And sweep this deep snow from the door;

Old Winter comes on with a frown

A terrible frown for the poor.

In a season so rude and forlorn,

How can age, how can infancy, bear

The silent neglect and the scorn

Of those who have plenty to spare?

WINTER.

Fresh broached is my cask of old ale,

Well timed now the frost is set in ; Here's Job come to tell us a tale,

We'll make him at home to a pin. While my wife and I bask o'er the fire, The roll of the seasons will prove, That time may diminish desire,

But cannot extinguish true love.

O the pleasures of neighbourly chat,
If you can but keep scandal away!
To learn what the world has been at,
And what the great orators say;
Though the wind through the crevices sing,
And hail down the chimney rebound;
I'm happier than many a king,

While the bellows blow bass to the sound.

Abundance was never my lot:

But out of the trifle that 's giv'n, That no curse may alight on my cot,

I'll distribute the bounty of Heav'n.
The fool and the slave gather wealth;

But if I add nought to my store,
Yet, while I keep conscience in health,
I've a mine that will never grow poor.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

THERE's not a flower upon the hill,

There's not a leaf upon the tree; The summer bird hath left its bough, Bright child of sunshine, singing now In spicy lands beyond the sea.

There's silence in the harvest field;

And blackness in the mountain glen,
And cloud that will not pass away
From the hill tops for many a day;

And stillness round the homes of men.

The old tree hath an older look;

The lonesome place is yet more dreary;
They go not now, the young and old,
Slow wandering on by wood and wold;
The air is damp, the winds are cold,

And summer paths are wet and weary.

The drooping year is in the wane,

No longer floats the thistle down;

The crimson heath is wan and sere;
The sedge hangs withering by the mere,

And the broad fern is rent and brown.

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