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Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer:
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain;
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew.
Then in his low and pine-built hall,
Where shields and axes decked the wall,
They gorged upon the half-dressed steer,
Caroused in seas of sable beer;

While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone;
Or listened all, in grim delight,

While Scalds yelled out the joys of fight.
Then forth in frenzy would they hie,
While wildly loose their red locks fly,
And dancing round the blazing pile,
They make such barbarous mirth the while
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin's Hall.

And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had rolled,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night;

On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas Eve the mass was sung:
That only night in all the year
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry men go
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then opened wide the baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doffed his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of "post and pair.'
All hailed with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

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The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall table's oaken face, Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn By old blue-coated serving-man;

* An old game at cards.

Then the grim boar's head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell
How, when, and where the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassail round, in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry maskers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;

White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But oh, what maskers richly dight
Can boast of bosoms half so light?
England was merry England when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broached 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-fetched claim
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,
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.
Small thought was his in after-time
E'er to be hitched into a rhyme.
The simple sire could only boast
That he was loyal to his cost;
The banished race of kings revered,
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 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.

THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN
FIELD.

AND why stands Scotland idly now,
Dark Flodden, on thy airy brow,
Since England gains the pass the while,
And struggles through the deep defile?
What checks the fiery soul of James?
Why sits that champion of the dames
Inactive on his steed,

And sees, between him and his land, Between him and Tweed's southern strand, His host Lord Surrey lead?

What 'vails the vain knight-errant's brand? -Oh, Douglas, for thy leading wand!

Fierce Randolph, for thy speed!
Oh for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight,
And cry-"Saint Andrew and our right!"
Another sight had seen that morn,

From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn,
And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!-
The precious hour has passed in vain,
And England's host has gained the plain;
Wheeling their march, and circling still
Around the base of Flodden hill.

Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye,
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high,
"Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum!
And see ascending squadrons come

Between Tweed's river and the hill, Foot, horse, and cannon :-hap what hap, My basnet to a prentice cap,

Lord Surrey's o'er the Till.

Yet more! yet more!-how far arrayed
They file from out the hawthorn shade,
And sweep so gallant by;
With all their banners bravely spread,
And all their armour flashing high!
St. George might waken from the dead,
To see fair England's standards fly.'
"Stint in thy prate," quoth Blount,
"thou'dst best,

"

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Himself he swift on horseback threw,
Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu-
Far less would listen to his prayer
To leave behind the helpless Clare.
Down to the Tweed his band he drew,
And muttered, as the flood they view,
"The pheasant in the falcon's claw
He scarce will yield to please a daw:
Lord Angus may the Abbot awe,

So Clare shall bide with me."
Then on that dangerous ford, and deep,
Where to the Tweed Leat's eddies creep,
He ventured desperately;

And not a moment will he bide
Till squire or groom before him ride;
Headmost of all he stems the tide,

And stems it gallantly.

Eustace held Clare upon her horse,
Old Hubert led her rein;

Stoutly they braved the current's course,
And, though far downward driven perforce,
The southern bank they gain;
Behind them, straggling, came to shore,

As best they might, the train:

Each o'er his head his yew bow bore,
A caution not in vain;-

Deep need that day that every string,
By wet unharmed, should sharply ring.
A moment then Lord Marmion stayed,
And breathed his steed, his men arrayed,
Then forward moved his band,
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won,
He halted by a Cross of Stone
That, on a hillock standing lone,

Did all the field command.

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When here we meet again." He waited not for answer there, And would not mark the maid's despair, Nor heed the discontented look From either squire; but spurred amain, And, dashing through the battle plain, His way to Surrey took.

-The good Lord Marmion, by my life! Welcome to danger's hour! Short greeting serves in time of strife! Thus have I ranged my power: Myself will rule this central host,

Stout Stanley fronts their right, My sons command the vaward post, With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight; Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light, Shall be in rearward of the fight, And succour those that need it most.

Now gallant Marmion, well I know, Would gladly to the vanguard go: Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there, With thee their charge will blithely share; There fight thine own retainers too Beneath De Burg, thy steward true." "Thanks, noble Surrey!" Marmion said, Nor further greeting there he paid; But, parting like a thunderbolt, First in the vanguard made a halt,

Where such a shout there rose Of "Marmion! Marmion!" that the cry, Up Flodden mountain shrilling high, Startled the Scottish foes.

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon the hill,
On which (for far the day was spent)
The western sunbeams now were bent.
The cry they heard, its meaning knew,
Could plain their distant comrades view.
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,

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Unworthy office here to stay! No hope of gilded spurs to-day.But see! look up-on Flodden bent The Scottish foe has fired his tent.' And sudden, as he spoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill, All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed and fast, and rolling far, The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, As down the hill they broke; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, Announced their march; their tread alone, At times one warning trumpet blown, At times a stifled hum,

Told England, from his mountain-throne King James did rushing come.

Scarce could they hear or see their foes,

Until at weapon-point they close.They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, With sword-sway and with lance's thrust; And such a yell was there,

Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air.

Oh! life and death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and rout,

And triumph and despair.

Long looked the anxious squires; their eye Could in the darkness nought descry.

At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears;
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,
And plumed crests of cheftains brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave;

But nought distinct they see:
Wide raged the battle on the plain;
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.

Amid the scene of tumult, high
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly;
And stainless Tunstall's banner white,
And Edmund Howard's lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight;~

Although against them come

Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Highlandman,
And many a rugged Border clan,

With Huntly and with Home.
Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;
Though there the western mountaineer
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,
And with both hands the broadsword plied.
'Twas vain :-But Fortune, on the right,
With fickle smile cheered Scotland's fight.
Then fell that spotless banner white,

The Howard's lion fell;

Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew
Around the battle-yell.

The Border slogan rent the sky:
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry:

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As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, It wavered 'mid the foes.

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No longer Blount the view could bear: 'By Heaven and all its saints I swear, I will not see it lost!

Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare
May bid your beads and patter prayer,—
I gallop to the host.'
And to the fray he rode amain,
Followed by all the archer train.
The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made, for a space, an opening large,—
The rescued banner rose,-
But darkly closed the war around,
Like pine-tree rooted from the ground,
It sunk among the foes.

Then Eustace mounted too :-yet stayed
As loth to leave the helpless maid,

When, fast as shaft can fly, Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, The loose rein dangling from his head, Housing and saddle bloody red,

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by;
And Eustace, maddening at the sight,
A look and sign to Clara cast
To mark he would return in haste,
Then plunged into the fight.

DEATH OF MARMION.

Ask me not what the maiden feels,
Left in that dreadful hour alone:
Perchance her reason stoops or reels;
Perchance a courage, not her own,
Braces her mind to desperate tone.-
The scattered van of England wheels:-
She only said, as loud in air

The tumult roared, "Is Wilton there?" They fly, or, maddened by despair, Fight but to die,-"Is Wilton there?" With that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drenched with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore.
His hand still strained the broken brand;
His arms were smeared with blood and
sand.

Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone,-
Can that be haughty Marmion?
Young Blount his armour did unlace,
And, gazing on his ghastly face,

Said, "By Saint George he's gone! That spear-wound has our master sped,

"

And see the deep cut on his head.
Good night to Marmion!"
"Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease:
He opes his eyes," said Eustace; "peace!'

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare :
"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace
where?

Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare?
Redeem my pennon,-charge again!
Cry, Marmion to the rescue!'-Vain:
Last of my race, on battle plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again.
Yet my last thought is England's; fly-
To Dacre bear my signet-ring:

Tell him his squadrons up to bring.-
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie;
Tunstall lies dead upon the field,
His life-blood stains the spotless shield;
Edmund is down-my life is reft;
The Admiral alone is left.

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,-
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England's lost.-
Must I bid twice?-hence, varlets! fly!
Leave Marmion here alone-to die.
They parted, and alone he lay.

Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured, "Is there none,
Of all my halls have nurst,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring

To slake my dying thirst?"

O Woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made,
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!-

Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran.
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,

Sees but the dying man.

She stooped her by the runnel's side,

But in abhorrence backward drew, For, oozing from the mountain's side, Where raged the war, a dark-red tide

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn?-behold her mark A little fountain cell,

Where water, clear as diamond spark,
In a stone basin fell.

Above, some half-worn letters say,
Drink. weary. pilgrim. drink, and . pray
For the. kind. soul. of. Sibyl. Grey.

Who. built. this. cross. and. well.
She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied

A monk supporting Marmion's head: A pious man, whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought,

To shrive the dying, bless the dead.

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave"Is it the hand of Clare?" he said, "Or injured Constance, bathes my head?" Then, as remembrance rose,— "Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes.

Short space, few words, are mine to spare;
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare."

Alas!" she said, "the while!
Oh, think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal ;
She- -died at Holy Isle.'

Lord Marmion started from the ground,
As light as if he felt no wound,
Though in the action burst the tide
In torrents from his wounded side.

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Then it was truth," he said; "I knew
That the dark presage must be true.—
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar-stone,
Might bribe him for delay.

It may not be !-this dizzy trance-
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling monk.

With fruitless labour, Clara bound
And strove to staunch the gushing wound:
The monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,

And that the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung,

་་

In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans So the notes rung;- [of the dying!" "Avoid thee, Fiend !-with cruel hand Shake not the dying sinner's sand ;Oh, look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer's grace divine;

Oh, think on faith and bliss.
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,

But never aught like this."
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And-STANLEY! was the cry.

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye;
With dying hand, above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "Victory!—

Charge, Chester, charge! on, Stanley, on !'
Were the last words of Marmion.

CLOSE OF THE BATTLE.

By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell,
For still the Scots, around their King,
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.
Where's now their victor vaward wing,

Where Huntly, and where Home?
Oh for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,

That to King Charles did come, When Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer,

On Roncesvallès died!

Such blast might warn them, not in vain,
To quit the plunder of the slain,
And turn the doubtful day again,

While yet on Flodden side,
Afar, the Royal Standard flies,
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies,
Our Caledonian pride!

In vain the wish-for far away,
While spoil and havock mark their way,
Near Sibyl's Cross the plunderers stray.-
"O lady," cried the monk, "away!"
And placed her on her steed,
And led her to the chapel fair

Of Tillmouth upon Tweed.

There all the night they spent in prayer,
And at the dawn of morning, there
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.

But as they left the dark'ning heath,
More desperate grew the strife of death.
The English shafts in volleys hailed,
In headlong charge their horse assailed;
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep
To break the Scottish circle deep,

That fought around their King.
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow,
Though charging knights like whirlwinds
go,

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