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Christmas On Big Rattle
THEODORE GOODRIDGE ROBERTS ARCHER sat by the rude ...

Christmas Carol
PHILLIPS BROOKS The earth has grown old with...

The Goblins Christmas
The
Masters In This Hall
ANONYMOUS To Bethlem did they go, the shephe...

The Fir Tree
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN Out in the forest stood a pr...

When The Stars Of Morning Sang
ANNE P.L. FIELD When the stars of morning sa...

Daily Bread
I. A QUESTION OF NOURISHMENT. "And how is he?" ...





So Now Is Come Our Joyfulst Feast






GEORGE WITHER

So, now is come our joyfulst feast,
Let every man be jolly;
Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
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' chimnies smoke,
And Christmas logs 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
For crowdy-mutton's[A] come out of France;
And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry.

[Footnote A: Fiddlers.]





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