Thus shall our healths do others good,
Whilst we ourselves do all we would;
For freed from envy and from care,
What would we be but what we are?
'Tis the plump grape's immortal juice
That does this happiness produce,
And will preserve us free together,
Maugre mischance, or wind and weather.
Then let old Winter take his course,
And roar abroad till he be hoarse,
And his lungs crack with ruthless ire,
It shall but serve to blow our fire.
Let him our little castle ply
With all his loud artillery,
Whilst sack and claret man the fort,
His fury shall become our sport.
Or, let him Scotland take, and there
Confine the plotting Presbyter ;
His zeal may freeze, whilst we, kept warm
With love and wine, can know no harm.
At the Sign of the Jolly Jack
OU merry folk, be of good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year.
From open door you'll take no harm
By winter if your hearts are warm ;
So ope the door, and hear us carol
The burthen of our Christmas moral-
Be ye merry and make good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year:
Scrape the fiddle and beat the drum,
And bury the night ere morning come.
There was an inn beside a track,
As it might be, the Jolly Jack;
Upon a night, whate'er its name,
There kept they Christmas all the same.
They sit in jovial round at table,
While Christ was lying in the stable.
They make merry and have good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year;
They scrape the fiddle and beat the drum,
And they'll bury the night ere morning come.
The jolly landlord stands him up,
And welcomes all to bite and sup;
He has a hearty face and red,
He knows not Who lies in his shed.
What harm, if he be honest and true,
That he may be Christ's landlord too?
So he makes merry and has good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year;
He scrapes his fiddle and beats his drum,
And he'll bury the night ere morning come.
The landlord's son sits in his place,
He bows his head and says his grace;
He leads his partner to the dance,
And the light of love is in his glance.
If his thoughts are handsome as his face,
What matter if Christ be in the place?
So he makes merry and has good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year;
He scrapes his fiddle and beats his drum,
And he'll bury the night ere morning come.
Of all the folk that night, I ween,
Some were honest and some were mean;
If all were honest, 'twas well for all,
For Christ was sleeping in the stall.
But never may Englishmen so fare
That they at Christmas should forbear-
To make them merry and have good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year;
To scrape the fiddle and beat the drum,
And bury the night ere morning come.
To his Saviour, a Child; A Present, by a Child
Go, prettie child, and beare this Flower
Unto thy little Saviour;
And tell Him, by that Bud now blown,
He is the Rose of Sharon known :
When thou hast said so, stick it there
Upon His Bibb, or Stomacher :
And tell Him (for good handsell too)
That thou hast bought a Whistle new,
Made of a clean straight oaten reed,
To charme His cries (at time of need) :
Tell Him, for Corall, thou hast none;
But if thou hadst, He sho'd have one;
But poore thou art, and known to be
Even as monilesse as He.
Lastly, if thou canst win a kisse
From those mellifluous lips of His ;
Then never take a second on,
To spoile the first impression.
O now is come our joyful'st feast;
Let every man be jolly.
Each room with ivy-leaves is dress'd,
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 baked meats choke,
And all their spits are turning.
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 wondrous trim,
And no man minds his labour;
Our lasses have provided them
A bag-pipe and a tabor.
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 crowdy-muttons come out of France; And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance, And all the town be merry.
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