Ce Dieu rendu passible Exoramus eum, Qu'à la fin de la vie XLII. [From "The Christmas Prince," London, 1607.] Carol, on bringing the Boar's Head, used before the Christmas THE Boare is dead, Loe, heare is his head: What man could have done more Then his head of to strike, Meleager like, And bringe it as I doe before? He livinge spoyled Where good men toyled, Which made kinde Ceres sorrye; But now, dead and drawne, Is very good brawne, And wee have brought it for ye. Then sett downe the swineyard, Lett Bacchus crowne his fall; XLIII. [A Christmas Carol, by George Wither. So, now is come our joyfulst feast; Each room with ivy leaves is drest, And every post with holly. From his "Juven Though some churls at our mirth repine, Round your foreheads garlands twine; And let us all be merry. Now, all our neighbours' chimnies smoke, Their ovens they with bak'd meats choke, And ever more be merry. Now every lad is wondrous trim, And no man minds his labour; Our lasses have provided them Young men and maids, and girls and boys, And you anon shall by their noise Rank misers now do sparing shun; And dogs thence with whole shoulders run, The country folks themselves advance And Jacke shall pipe, and Jyll shall dance, And all the town be merry. Ned Squash hath fetcht his bands from pawn, And all his best apparel; Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn With dropping 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, 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, Good farmers in the country nurse The client now his suit forbears, Hark! how the wags abroad do call 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. F The wenches with their wassel bowls Our honest neighbours come by flocks, And here they will be merry. Now kyngs and queens poor sheep cotes have, And mate with every body; The honest now may play the knave, And wise men play the noddy. Because they will be merry. Then wherefore in these merry daies Should we, I pray be duller? No, let us sing some roundelayes, To make our mirth the fuller. And, whilst thus inspir'd we sing, Let all the streets with echoes ring, Woods and hills, and every thing, Bear witness we are merry. |