Our American Holidays - Christmas/Wassailer's Song

by Robert Southwell

WASSAILER'S SONG

ROBERT SOUTHWELL

Wassail! wassail! all over the town,
Our toast it is white, and our ale it is brown;
Our bowl is made of a maplin tree;
We be good fellows all;—I drink to thee.

Here's to our horse, and to his right ear,
God send master a happy new year;
A happy new year as e'er he did see,—
With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.

Here's to our mare, and to her right eye,
God send our mistress a good Christmas pie;
A good Christmas pie as e'er I did see,—
With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.

Here's to our cow, and to her long tail,
God send our measter us never may fail
Of a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near,
And our jolly wassail it's then you shall hear.

Be here any maids? I suppose here be some;
Sure they will not let young men stand on the cold stone!

Sing hey O, maids! come trole back the pin,
And the fairest maid in the house let us all in.

Come, butler, come, bring us a bowl of the best;
I hope your soul in heaven will rest;
But if you do bring us a bowl of the small,
Then down fall butler, and bowl and all.

And here's a Christmas carol meant for children, and most excellent, and though the monk that wrote it was hung, yet still his verses may be sung.

A CAROL

As I in a hoarie, winter's night
    Stood shivering in the snow,
Surpriz'd I was with sudden heat,
    Which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearefull eye
    To view what fire was neere,
A prettie babe, all burning bright,
    Did in the aire appeare ;
Who, scorchèd with excessive heat,
    Such flouds of teares did shed,
As though his flouds should quench his flames,
    Which with his teares were bred:

Alas! (quoth he) but newly borne.
    In fierie heats I frie,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts,
    Or feele my fire, but I;

My faultless brest the furnace is,
    The fuell, wounding thornes:
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke,
    The ashes, shames and scornes;
The fuell justice layeth on,
    And mercy blows the coales,
The metalls in this furnace wrought,
    Are Men's defiled soules:
For which, as now on fire I am,
    To work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath,
    To wash them in my blood.
With this he vanisht out of sight,
    And swiftly shrunke away,
And straight I called unto minde
    That it was Christmasse Day.