Classic Poem

[A Christmas Carroll to the Earle of WestmoreLand

Now Christmas comes
But for the plumbs
T'enrich the pie
No one have I
Wher's now the tree
Of Rosemarie
To grace the Brawn
(As cleare as Lawn)
Whose proper wine
Is Muscadine
Or capring sacke
All which I Lacke
Wher's now the Beefe
Of Viands cheife
The Porke the veale
That glutts the meale
The Goose the Grice
The birds of Price
Nor thes nor those
My table know's

But you have Sir the Pheasant
The Riffe the Raile
The cock the Quaile!
And other fowles as Pleasant.

And to this store
You may have more
To glad your geniall Table
Which I poore I
Can never buie
Because I am not able.

Poor Larr as yett
Do's starving sitt
(Much like a here)
Expecting still
To have his fill
Of boild or else of Rost-here.

Then doe noe worse
But ope your purse
And bounteous Lord remember
To give us that
Will make us fatt
And frolike this December!

His answere to the Caroll

Robin — Like Copper guilded ore
The sheafe of plenty at the dore
Whenas within
A meger Larr and thin
Leaves thee no more t'in-heritt
'Save a quicke ayry fancy spiritt
I shall conclud it is not meate alone
Or drinke yelds contentation
But wheire the Muses doe bestow
Their doles, thence true contentments flow.

Cherish — and entertaine this good time then
With wine from Hippocrene
And let that Twinny Hill
Thy Pies in stead of Plumms with Disticks fill
Till they create
A well dish't feast to satiate
Those pallates that have not their relish lost
But can taste dainties where there is noe Rost
Nor at Pie corner meete
To rifle newgate market, Gratias streete.

Thes — the Gods knew not: why should wee
Deale in this sorded Higlery
Skim Cheape side Kettles to become
More perfect sonnes of Christenome
A Caroll sung
In the wide Hall with Holly and Ivy hung
Flagons of Beere
Now wine is deere
That had not kist the brew fatt since last yeare
With bacon I confesse shall not want here.

For — whilst the Gracchi and the fulvii strive
At once t'put down and strech prerogative
I will not Judg't a misse
To kisse my Tub like to Diogines
Keepe closse at home
For he lives well that doth soe as say some
Yet to the end
My Robin not despaire of one poor freind
He Pumps his Magazin and checker tries
To adde unto his Lyrickes some plumbe Pies.