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If she be dead, then take my horse,

My saddle and bridle also;
For I will unto some far country,

Where no man shall me know.

O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth,

She standeth by thy side;
She is here alive, she is not dead,

And ready to be thy bride.

O farewell grief, and welcome joy,

Ten thousand times therefore; For now I have found mine own true love, Whom I thought I should never see more.



Why, why repine, my pensive friend,

At pleasures slipp'd away?
Some the stern Fates will never lend,

And all refuse to stay.

I see the rainbow in the sky,
The dew upon


grass; I see them, and I ask not why

They glimmer or they pass.

With folded arms I linger not

To call them back; 't were vain:
In this, or in some other spot,
I know they'll shine again.



So now is come our joyful'st feast;

Let every man be jolly.
Each room with ivy-leaves is dress'd,

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' chimneys smoke,

And Christmas-blocks are burning; Their ovens they with baked meat choke,

And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lie; And, if for cold it hap to die, We'll bury it 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
With crowdy-muttons out of France;
And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,

And all the town be merry!

Ned Swash hath fetch'd his bands from pawn,

And all his best apparel;
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn

With droppings 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,

And all the day be merry.

Now poor men to the justices

With capons make their arrants, And if they hap to fail of these

They plague them with their warrants. 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

poor that else were 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 ours 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! now 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 laughters 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 wassail-bowls

About the streets are singing,
The boys are come to catch the owls,

The wild mare in is 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 sheepcotes have,

And mate with everybody;

The honest now may play the knave,

And wise men play at noddy.
Some youths will now a-mumming go,
Some others play at rowland-hoe,
And twenty other game boys moe,

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 thus inspir'd we sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring;
Woods, and hills, and everything,
Bear witness we are merry!



Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King,

Whose word no man relies on,
Who never said a foolish thing,
Nor ever did a wise one.



SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd:

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