“what maskers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light! England was merry England, when 80 Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year.
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;”