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Pig, capon, turkey, goose, and coney,
Whatever may be had for money;
Plum-pudding, cheese, and furmity,
With pasty, tarts, and Christmas pie,
Good nappy ale, or humming beer,
Suits very well to such good cheer.
Such plenteous living's their enjoyment,
Who truly follow their employment,
While slothful lurking idle drones
Do scarce deserve to pick the bones.


(From “ Poor Robin's Almanack," 1728.)

The short cold days, and long cold nights,
The people to the fire invites.
Now happy they who furnished are,
And did, in summer-time prepare
For victuals, drink, and good hot fires,
All which this season now requires.
If geese and sheep with care were bred,
And, in their season, duly fed-
If, at the proper time of year,
You from the sheep the wool did shear---
And, if you afterwards begun,
To have it carded, have it spun,
And wove, and put upon your back,
You 'll be warm dressed when others lack.
If you October beer did brew,
You have the credit of it now,
And pleasure of the drinking too.

Provide good cheer, yourselves enjoy,
And all your needless cares destroy
With harmless mirth, and best of cheer,
Good wine, or ale, or humming beer,
And merry Christmas crown the year.


(From “ Poor Robin's Almanack," 17:39.)

Now Christmas comes with frost and snow,
When men do feast, or should do so;
When lusty diet, and the bowl
Should round about the table troll,
And cooks prepare their poignant meat,
To teach the palate how to eat,
And every dish invite the sight
To a new hungry appetite;
The while musicians sing and play,
With mirth to pass the time away.
For mirth, being mixed with our meat,
Gives better appetite to eat.

But now the times are altered so,
When Christmas is, we scarce can know.
But, for these two things put together,
Men's hearts are hard, so is the weather.
But which are hardest of the two?
Men's hearts are, without more ado.
0, may those who have richest store,
And do refuse to feast the poor,

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Here 's to Dobbin, and to his right ear, God send our master a happy New Year; A happy New Year as e’er he did seeWith my Wassailing Bowl I drink to thee.

Here's to Smiler, and to his right eye,
God send our mistress a good Christmas pie;
As good Christmas pie as e'er I did see-
With my Wassailing Bowl I drink to thee.

Here's to Fillpail, and to her long tail,
God send our master us never may

Of a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near,
And our jolly Wassail it 's then you shall hear.

Be here

any maids? I suppose there be some--
Sure they 'll not let young men stand on the cold stone;
Sing hey () maids, come trole back the pin,
And the fairest maid in the house let us in.

Come, butler, come bring us a bowl of the best :
And I'll hope your soul in heaven will rest :
But if

you do bring us a bowl of the small,
Then down may fall butler, and bowl, and all.

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