  L LORDINGS, from a distant home, To seek old Christmas we are come, Who loves our minstrelsy: And here, unless report mis-say, The grey-beard dwells, and on this day, Keeps yearly wassel, ever gay, With festive mirth and glee. To all who honour Christmas, and commend our lays, Love will his blessings send, and crown with joy their days. Lordings list, for we tell you true, Christmas loves the jolly crew That cloudy care defy: His liberal board is deftly spread With manchet loaves and wastel-bread; His guests with fish and flesh are fed, Nor lack the stately pye. Lordings, you know that far and near, The saying is, “Who gives good cheer, And freely spends his treasure; On him will bounteous Heaven bestow Twice treble blessings here below; His happy hours shall sweetly flow, In never-ceasing pleasure.” Lordings, believe us, knaves abound, In every place are flatterers found, But chiefly from these scenes of joy, Chase sordid souls that mirth annoy, And all who with their base alloy, Turn pleasure into pain. Christmas quaffs our English wines, Nor Gascoigne juice, nor French declines, Nor liquor of Anjou: He puts th’ insidious goblet round, Till all the guests in sleep are drown’d Then wakes ’em with the tabor’s sound, And plays the prank anew. Lordings, it is our host’s command, And Christmas joins him hand in hand, To drain the brimming bowl: And I’ll be foremost to obey: Then pledge me, sirs, and drink away, For Christmas revels here to day, And sways without controul. Now wassel to you all, and merry may ye be! But foul that wight befall, who drinks not health to me! |
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