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now is come our joyful 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 blocks 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 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 bagpipe and a tabour.

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-folk themselves advance,

For Crowdy-Mutton's come out of France;

And Jack shall pipe and Jill shall dance,

And all the town be merry.