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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.]