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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 seen 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.

* Until.

PASTIME, with good company,
I love; and shall unto* I die,
Grudge so will, but none deny;
So God be pleased, so live will I.
For my pastance ‡

Hunt, sing, and dance,

My heart is set;

All godly sport,

Το

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.

+ Whoso.

Pastime.

Hinder.

EVANS.

For idleness

Is chief mistress

Of vices all:

Then who can say,

But, pass the day,
Is best of all!

Company with honesty,

Is virtue and vice to flee;
Company is good or ill;

But every man hath his free will.
The best t'ensue, *

The worst t'eschew,
My mind shall be.
Virtue to use,
Vice to refuse,

I shall use me.

Seek after lay hold of.

A SONG TO THE LUTE IN

MUSIC.

Composed by Richard Edwards, who was gentleman of the chapel, and master of the choir, to Queen Elizabeth: the song is, however, said to have been written in the time of Henry VIII. The first four lines are quoted by Shakspeare, in "Romeo and Juliet," act 4, sc. 5.

WHEN griping griefs the heart would wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress,

There Music, with her silver sound,

With speed is wont to send redress:
Of troubled minds, in every sore,
Sweet Music hath a salve in store.

In joy, it makes our mirth abound;

In woe, it cheers our heavy sprights;
Be-straughted heads relief hath found,

By Music's pleasant, sweet delights:
Our senses all, what shall I say more?
Are subject unto Music's lore.

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