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 I curs'd the master, and I damn'd the souce, And swore I'd got the ague of the house. Well, when to eat thou dost me next desire, I'll bring a fever, since thou keep'st no fire.

Come, bring with a noise, My merry, merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing; While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free, And drink to your hearts' desiring. With the last year's brand Light the new block, and For good success in his spending On your psaltries play, That sweet luck may Come while the log is a-teending. Drink now the strong beer, Cut the white loaf here; The while the meat is a-shredding For the rare mince-pie, And the plums stand by To fill the paste that's a-kneading.

Psaltries, a kind of guitar. Teending, kindling.