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CHRISTMAS

We twa hae paidi't i' the burn

Frae mornin' sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roared

Sin auld lang syne.

Rank misers now do sparing shun

Their hall of music soundeth; And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,

So all things there aboundeth. The country folks themselves advance, With crowdy-muttons out of France ; And Jack shall pipe, and Gill shall dance,

And all the town be merry.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught

For auld lang syne !

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

And surely I'll be mine;
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne !

ROBERT BURNS.

Ned Squash has fetched his bands from pawn,

And all his best apparel :
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn

With dropping of the barrel.
And those that hardly all the year
Had bread to eat, or rags to wear,
Will have both clothes and dainty fare,

And all the day be merry.

Christmas.

Now poor men to the justices

With capons make their errants; And if they hap to fail of these,

They plague them with their warrants : But now they feed them with good cheer, And what they want they take in beer; For Christmas comes but once a year,

And then they shall be merry.

So now is come our joyful'st feast ;

Let every man be jolly;
Each room with ivy-leaves is drest,

And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine,
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,

And let us all be merry.

Good farmers in the country nurse

The poor, that else were undone ; Some landlords spend their money worse,

On lust and pride at London. There the roysters they do play, Drab and dice their lands away, Which may be ours another day,

And therefore let's be merry.

Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke,

And Christmas blocks are burning; Their ovens they with baked meat choke,

And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lie; And if for cold it hap to die, We'll bury't in a Christmas pie,

And evermore be merry.

The client now his suit forbears;

The prisoner's heart is eased; The debtor drinks away his cares,

And for the time is pleased. Though others' purses be more fat, Why should we pine or grieve at that! Hang sorrow! Care will kill a cat,

And therefore let's be merry.

Now every lad is wond'rous trim,

And no man minds his labor; Our lasses have provided them

A bagpipe and a tabor; Young men and maids, and girls and boys, Give life to one another's joys; And you anon shall by their noise

Perceive that they are merry.

Hark! now the wags abroad do call

Each other forth to rambling; Anon you'll see them in the hall,

For nuts and apples scrambling.

The honest now may play the knave,

And wise men play the noddy. Some youths will now a mumming go,

Some others play at Rowland-bo,
And twenty other game boys mo,

Because they will be merry.

Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound !
Anon they'll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar's depths have found,

And there they will be merry.
The wenches with their wassail bowls

About the streets are singing;
The boys are come to catch the owls

The wild mare in is bringing,
Our kitchen boy hath broke his box;
And to the dealing of the ox
Our honest neighbors come by flocks,

And here they will be merry.
Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have,

And mate with everybody;

Then wherefore, in these merry days,

Should we, I pray, be duller ? No, let us sing some roundelays,

To make our mirth the fuller; And, while we thus inspired sing, Let all the streets with echoes ring; Woods and hills and every thing, Bear witness we are merry !

GEORGE WITHER.

PART IV.

POEMS OF LOVE.

Love! I will tell thee what it is to love!

It is to build with human thoughts a shrine, Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove;

Where Time seems young, and Life a thing divine.

All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.

Above, the stars in cloudless beauty shine ;
Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss ;
And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this.

Yes, this is Love, the steadfast and the true,

The immortal glory which hath never set ;
The best, the brightest boon the heart c'er knew :

Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet !

0! who but can recall the eve they met, To breathe, in some green walk, their first young vow ?

While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet, And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow, And all was rapture then which is but memory now!

CHARLES SWAIN.

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