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Come guard this night the Christmas-pie, That the thief, though ne'er so sly, With his flesh-hooks, don't come nigh To catch it From him, who all alone sits there, Having his eyes still in his ear, And a deal of nightly fear, To watch it.

Wash your hands, or else the fire Will not teend to your desire; Unwash'd hands, ye maidens, know, Dead the fire, though ye blow. Teend, kindle.
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Wassail the trees, that they may bear You many a plum and many a pear: For more or less fruits they will bring, As you do give them wassailing.


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'Tis never, or but seldom known, Power and peace to keep one throne.