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 90
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, 95
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:  100
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, 105
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 110
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, 115
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:—­ 120
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, 125
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. 130
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! 135
What! leave the lofty Latian strain,
Her stately prose, her verse’s charms,
To hear the clash of rusty arms: 
In Fairy Land or Limbo lost,
To jostle conjurer and ghost, 140
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 145
Ulysses meets Alcides’ wraith;
Aeneas, upon Thracia’s shore,
The ghost of murder’d Polydore;
For omens, we in Livy cross,
At every turn, locutus Bos. 150
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.