hall, when beards wag all."-Even the smallest farmers and husbandmen vied with each other, in making the season spin round plentifully and merrily. All the rustic games that could be played in winter time, were in requisition; and Dr. Drake thus sums up, from Tasser's Poem on Husbandry, the country bill of fare, general and particular;-"Good drinke, a blazing fire in the hall, brawne, pudding and souse, and mustard with all, beef, mutton, and pork, shred or minced pies of the best, pig, veal, goose, capon, and turkey, cheese, apples, and nuts, with jolie carols." If some of all this plenty appears a little alarming to the weaker digestions of our times, it is to be recollected that the eaters of it were great exercisers; and that the leaping and vaulting, and other sports of the country people, and hawking and hunting of the gentry, and the perpetual danc ings of the ladies, to say nothing of the archeries and the wayings, &c. &c. completely kept off the night-mares of our sickly, in doors, and counting house times. It was then la nation bouquetiere, not boutiquiere :-the bloom-keeping, not shop-keeping, nation.

Of the customs most peculiar to Christmas, and now obsolete, may be specified the adorning the inside and outside the houses with evergreens, and bringing in and burning the first great log of wood, with vocal and instrumental music, the carols, and telling stories round the fire side before going to bed, the wasselbowl, and the new year's gifts among or to patrons.

Puns.

A LOIN of mutton was on table, and the Gentleman opposite took the carver in hand. "Shall I cut it suddlewise?" "You had better cut it quoth he. bridlewise," said his friend," for then we shall atand a better chance of getting a bit in our mouths!"

A GENTLEMAN of the name of Drawer, one evening in company, made a witty remark which occasioned a laugh, a person not hearing it, asked what they were laughing at, a wag replied, it was only a Chest (jest) of Drawer's.

ON THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. O Mourn not for Anacreon fled, O weep not for Anacreon dead, The lyre still breathes that liv'd before, For we have one Anacreon Moore!

Song.

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MARY'S DREAM.

[The well-known song of "Mary's Dream," was written by John Lowe, of Kenmore, on occasion of the death of one Miller, a surgeon, at sea, who was betrothed to Mary, one of the daughters of Mac Ghie, of Airds. We have obtained from a Correspondent, the fol lowing copy of the song, as originally written.]

The lovely moon had climb'd the hill
Where eagles big aboont the dee,
And, like the looks of a lovely dame,
Brought joy to every body's ee,
A' but sweet Mary, deep in sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea;
A voice drapt saftly in her ear,
"Sweet Mary-weep nae mair for me.''

She lifted up her wakening ce,
To see from where the voice might be;
And there she saw her Sandy stand,
Pale,-bent on her his hollow ee.
"O, Mary, dear, lament nae mair;
"I'm in death's thraws, below the sea;
"Thy weeping makes me sad in bliss,
"Sae, Mary, weep nae mair for me.

"The wind slept when we left the bay,
"But soon it wak'd and rais'd the main,
"And God he bore us down the deep;
"We strave with Him, but strave in vain.
"He stretch'd his arm, and took me up,
"Tho' laith I was to gang but thee;
"I look frae heav'n aboon the storm,
"Say, Mary, weep nae mair for me.

"Tak' aff thae bride sheets frae thy bed, "Which thou hast faulded down for me;

* Build. Above. Loth. § Without,

On the first night, the husband lay

Calm as a clock, nor once wink'd over,
Calm as a clock, too, let me say
Joan never squinted on her lover.

Two, three, four nights, the sulky pair,
Like two still mice devoid of care,

In philosophic silence sought repose;
On the fifth morn, it chanc'd to please
John's nose to sneeze-

"God bless you, dear!" quoth Joan at John's loud nose,

At this John gave a sudden start,

And peeping o'er the ledge, his head, "Joan, did you say it from your heart?"

"Yes, John, I did, indeed, indeed!" "You did?" "yes, John, upon my word," "Zounds, Joan, then take away the board!"

THE CASE Altered.

Hodge held a farm, and smil'd content, While one year paid another's rent:

But if he ran the least behind,

Vexation stung his anxious mind :

For not an hour would landlord stay,
But seize the very quarter day:
How cheap so e'er, or scant the grain,
Tho' urg'd with truth, was urg'd in vain ; -
The same to him, if false, or true;
For rent must come when rent was due.
Yet that same landlord's cows and steeds
Broke Hodge's fence, and cropt his meads.
In hunting, that same landlord's hounds,
See, how they spread his new sown grounds!
Dog, horse, and man, alike o'erjoyed,
While half the rising crops destroy'd:
Yet tamely was the loss sustain'd,
'Tis said the sufferer once complain'd;
The Squire laughed loudly while he spoke,
And paid the bumpkin with a joke.
But luckless still, poor Hodge's fate!
His Worship's oull has forc'd a gate,
And gor'd his cow, the last and best;
By sickness he had lost the rest.

Hodge felt at heart resentment strong;
The heart will feel that suffers long.
A thought that instant took his head,
And thus within himself, he said.
"If Hodge for once don't fling the squire,
May people post him for a liar!
He said, across his shoulder throws
His fork, and to his landlord gocs.
I come, an' please ye, to unfold
What soon, or late, you must be told.
My bull, (a creature tame till now)
My bull has gor'd your worship's cow.
'Tis known what shifts I make to live.
Perhaps your honour may forgive.
"Forgive!" the 'Squire replied, and swore,
"Pray cant to me, forgive no more.
The law my damage shall decide,
And know that I'll be satisfy'd.”
“Think, Sir, I'm poor, poor, as a rat,"
"Think I'm a Justice, think of that!"
Hodge bow'd again, and scratched his head,
And recollecting, archly said,

"Sir, I'm so struck, when here before ye, I fear, I've blundered in the story: 'Fore George! but I'll not blunder now; Yours was the bull, Sir! mine the cow!" His worship found his rage subside, And with calm accent thus replied: "I'll think upon your case to night, But, I perceive, 'tis alter'd quite!" Hodge shrugg'd, and made another bow, "An please ye! who's the Justice now?"

our island, took an affectionate leave of his worthy guardian and his amiable daughter, and departed from the parsonage on his long projected route.

In his first day's journey, our pedestrian passed the borders of Northumberland; and ere the sun took his leave of the western horizon, he reached the small village of Ponteland, when, weary and fatigued, the sign of the jolly sailors, a neat little public house, that serves as well for the resort of the trave! ler, as for the rustic meetings of the neighbouring villagers, attracted his eye, and seemed, from its external appearance, to offer a comfortable abode for the night. Pleased with the idea, he entered it, and soon found himself seated in a snug little parlour, and ac. commodated with the most obliging assiduity.

Here he slept for the night, and arose in the morning, and hastened on his way, determining to cross the ancient forest of Rothbury, by the unfrequented western road.

He travelled many miles without any thing presenting itself, except the sheep pasturing round. Not a human creature appeared. At length, after climbing a steep and fatiguing hill, the sight of a straggling village cheered his spirits, and gave him hopes of refreshment and repose; for the keen air of the mountains had given him an appetite, while their rugged declivities and asscents had wearied and exhausted him.

Having arrived at the village, the first object that presented itself was the whimsical sign of the elephant and taylors, waving with every breeze on its lofty post, placed by the road side, as an index to a beath-thatched cottage, that, on this lonely road,

"Invites to short refreshment, and to taste

What grateful beverage the house may yield,

After fatigue or dusty heat."

He availed himself of the invitation, and found himself welcomed by the wor thy host, with a smile of civility and be nevolence that equally pleased and sur. prised him; for he did not expect to be so greeted in this solitary road; and he immediately determined, though the shades of evening had scarcely given notice of the setting sun, that he would pass the night under his roof, and enjoy

the innocent jokes of the rustics, that forgetting all their cares and their wants, had assembled with his family round a brisk fire in his well-sanded kitchen.

With this view, after dinner, he quit ted the parlour, and joined the village circle; and entered, with pleasure, into their conversation, and amusements.

Though poor, they were respectable; for vice, which alone degrades, or ought to degrade man, in the sight of his fel low man, never once shewed itself in the sallies of mirth and festivity that chased the passing hours until they retired, and Sir Frederic betook himself to repose.

He arose in the morning, gratified with the picture of rural simplicity, which the past night had exhibited, and descending to the parlour, rung for his host to prepare breakfast. The landlord quickly appeared, and furnished him with his morning repast; which having finished, after bidding adieu to his kind host, he arose to take his departure, and prosecute his route through the wide extended moor, that once more opened to his view on crossing the threshold of the cottage.

Before his departure, however, Sir Frederic perceiving his landlord a man of intelligence, and being accompanied by him to the door, thought he would make a few enquiries of him respecting the road he intended to take; and he seated himself on a seat erected near the door, for the accommodation of the passing stranger, while his good host gave him an account of the lonely road he intended travelling, and the dangers that await. ed him, should he be overtaken by night or foul weather; and recounted the disasterous situation in which many had found themselves in this heathy and almost trackless forest. Among the rest, he gave an account of an accident which had recently happened.

A peasant of the country, said he, in pursuing some sheep which had wandered from their accustomed pasturage, lately discovered, in the midst of the rugged heathy solitudes of the forest, the body of a sailor, much emaciated, and in such a state, as gave reason to think he had lain there for some weeks. His countenance, however, added the host, was se. rene, and his posture composed; a small bundle of linen supported his head, and the remains of a faithful dog lay at his feet.

And what became of him! exclaimed Sir Frederick, aroused by the sad tale.

Nobody could be found to tell who he was, or from whence he came; neither friend nor kinsman conld be found to do the last office to his remains; the neighbouring shepherds, therefore, at the call of pity assembled, and removed the body to Rothbury, and gave it an bumble grave in the church-yard there.

The courage of speculation, and that necessary for actual exertion, are very different in their kins. Sir Frederic soon found that a man may easily be an hero in design; but to become one in reality is not an operation of such faci lity. Though, before hearing this sad tale, he had determined to cross the forest, his courage gave way, and this anecdote not only produced the immediate resolution of changing his route, but awakened every tender feeling of his heart, and he took his departure in a more eastern course, determining rather to pursue a circuitous route to the place of his destination, than subject himself to the perils that might await him in crossing this untravelled wild.

As he pursued his devious journey through this thinly peopled country. he brooded over the sorrowful tale which he had heard; and his fancy readily filled up the outlines which his host had drawn.

He pictured the unfortunate tar re turning from a long and perilous voyage, big with the hope of once more embra. cing those connections, whose beloved idea had lain in absence, like a cordial at his bosom, and cheered his spirit amid the pain of toil, and in thehour of danger.

Then pourtrayed him in the jovial circle of his shipmates taking leave of the companions of his hardships, and anticipating the transports of disinterested affection, when he should reach the place of his nativity, and behold the raptures of his fond parents, feel the proud exalted emotions of a duteous son; then, in a moment, he called down the pitiless storm upon his head-awakened the terrors of thunder-threw the lightnings over the waste-and painted him wandering amongst the rugged crags and gloomy hollows, benighted and alone. He now presented him wan with toil and hunger, exhausted by fatigue, and hopelces with disappointment; sinking under.