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A CHRISTMAS SONG.*

BY J. WITHERS.

[About 1630.]

So, now is come our joyfullest feast,
Let every man be jolly—

Each room with ivy leaves is dressed,
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!

Now, all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas-blocks are burning—
Their ovens they with bak'd meats choak,
And all their spits are turning:

* This song has been inserted, as containing a curious and faithful description of the Christmas manners of our ancestors: in some points, doubtless, degenerating sadly into evil and intemperance, and therefore open to animadversion; but in others, exhibiting a benevolence and simplicity of character which, it is much to be lamented, in our more advanced days is becoming obsolete and neglected, and in danger of complete extinction.

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!

Now every lad is wond'rous trim,
And no man minds his labour-

Our lasses have provided them
A bagpipe and a tabour!

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.

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 croudy muttons out of France;

And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,

And all the town be merry!

Ned Squash hath fetched his bands from pawn,

And all his best apparel;

Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn,

With droppings 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!

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!

Good farmers in the country nurse
The poor, that else was undone ;
Some landlords spend their money worse,
On lust and pride in London.
There the roysters they do play-
Drab and dice their lands away,
Which may be our's another day,
And therefore let 's 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!

Hark! how the wags abroad do call
Each other forth to rambling-
Anon you'll see them in the hall,]

For nuts and apples scrambling.
Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound,
Anon they'll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar's depth have found,
And there they will be merry!

The wenches with their wassel bowls,
About the streets are singing-
The boys are come to catch the owls,
The wild mare in it bringing.

Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box;
And to the dealing of the Ox,

Our honest neighbours come by flocks,

And here they will be merry!

Now kings and queens poor sheep-cotes have,
And mate with every body;

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 games boys mo',
Because they will be merry!

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, whilst we thus inspired do sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring-
Woods and hills, and every thing,
Bear witness we are merry!

JAMIESON.

"This was the festival of Christmas in its original institution. Then were the house, the board, the arms, and the heart, open to the stranger, the friendless, the fatherless, and the widow; and the poor tenant was welcomed and levelled with his lord. Alas! these happy times are now vanished: the great era of the Christian redemption is now remembered in nothing but the name. That spirit of irreligion which is gone out into the world, together with its vile and genuine offspring-the sordid, selfish, insatiable spirit of avarice and private luxury,-have either devoured or driven away the generous and the God-like spirit of public hospitality, attended with innocent and social mirth. Or, if there be yet any remains of the ancient and hospitable festivity, they are, for the most part, such only as are seeu in revels and riots, bringing reproach and infamy upon this sacred and solemn Festival."-From Dr. Delaney's Works. 1754. It is perhaps needless to add, that this extract has no connexion with the preceding.

THE KINGES BALADE.

A SONG of the time of Henry VIII.; said to have been, at some period of his reign, a great favourite with that monarch. It has even been deemed his own composition; but this Mr. Evans thinks unfounded.

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Hunt, sing, and dance,

My heart is set;

All godly sport,

To my comfort,

Who shall me let. §

Youth will have needs dalliance,
Of good or ill some pastance;
Company me thinketh them best,
All thoughts and fantasies to digest.

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