She shrinks away, and blushing, calls it rude; Yet turns to smile, and hopes to be pursued; While one, to whom the hint may be applied, Follows to gain it, and is not denied. The rest the loud laugh raise, to make it known,-- She blushes silent, and will not disown! Thus ale, and song, and healths, and merry ways, Keep up a shadow still of former days; But the old beechen bowl, that once supplied The feast of furmety, is thrown aside; And the old freedom that was living then, When masters made them merry with their men; When all their coats alike were russet brown, And his rude speech was vulgar as their own-- All this is past, and soon will pass away The time-torn remnant of the holiday. DECEMBER Glad Christmas comes, and every hearth Makes room to give him welcome now, E’en want will dry its tears in mirth, And crown him with a holly bough; Though tramping ’neath a winter sky, O’er snowy paths and rimy stiles, The housewife sets her spinning by To bid him welcome with her smiles. Each house is swept the day before, And windows stuck with evergreens, The snow is besom’d from the door, And comfort crowns the cottage scenes. Gilt holly, with its thorny pricks, And yew and box, with berries small, These deck the unused candlesticks, And pictures hanging by the wall. Neighbours resume their annual cheer, Wishing, with smiles and spirits high, Glad Christmas and a happy year, To every morning passer-by; Milkmaids their Christmas journeys go, Accompanied with favour’d swain; And children pace the crumping snow To taste their granny’s cake again. The shepherd, now no more afraid, Since custom doth the chance bestow, Starts up to kiss the giggling maid Beneath the branch of mistletoe That ’neath each cottage beam is seen, With pearl-like berries shining gay; The shadow still of what hath been, Which fashion yearly fades away. The singing wates, a merry throng, At early morn, with simple skill, Yet imitate the angel’s song, And chant their Christmas ditty still; And ’mid the storm that dies and swells By fits--in hummings softly steals The music of the village bells, Ringing round their merry peals. When this is past, a merry crew, Bedeck’d in masks and ribbons gay, The “Morris-dance,” their sports renew, And act their winter evening play. The clown turn’d king, for penny-praise, Storms with the actor’s strut and swell; And Harlequin, a laugh to raise, Wears his hunch-back and tinkling bell.