Classic Poem

Now God preserve, as you well do deserve,
Your majesties all two there;
Your highness small, with my good lords all,
And ladies, how do you do there?

Give me leave to ask, for I bring you a masque
From little, little, little London;
Which say the king likes, I have passed the pikes,
If not, old Christmas is undone.

Our dance's freight is a matter of eight,
And two, the which are wenches:
In all they be ten, four cocks to a hen,
And will swim to the tune like tenches.

Each hath his knight for to carry his light,
Which some would say are torches;
To bring them here, and to lead them there,
And home again to their own porches.

Now their intent, is above to present,
With all the appurtenances,
A right Christmas, as of old it was,
To be gathered out of the dances.

Which they do bring, and afore the king,
The queen, and prince, as it were now
Drawn here by love; who over and above,
Doth draw himself in the gear too.

Hum drum, sauce for a coney;
No more of your martial music;
Even for the sake o' the next new stake,
For there I do mean to use it.

And now to ye, who in place are to see,
With roll and farthingale hoopéd:
I pray you know, though he want his bow,
By the wings, that this is Cupid.

He might go back for to cry, What you lack?
But that were not so witty:
His cap and coat are enough to note,
That he is the Love o' the city.

And he leads on, though he now be gone,
For that was only his-rule:
But now comes in, Tom of Bosoms-inn,
And he presenteth Mis-rule.

Which you may know, by the very show,
Albeit you never ask it:
For there you may see, what his ensigns be,
The rope, the cheese, and the basket.

This Carol plays, and has been in his days
A chirping boy, and a kill-pot:
Kit cobbler it is, I'm a father of his,
And he dwells in the lane call'd Fill-pot.

But who is this? O, my daughter Cis,
Minced-pie; with her do not dally
On pain o' your life: she's an honest cook's wife,
And comes out of Scalding Alley.

Next in the trace, comes Gambol in place:
And, to make my tale the shorter,
My son Hercules, ta'en out of Distaff Lane,
But an active man, and a porter.

Now Post and Pair, old Christmas's heir,
Doth make and a jingling sally;
And wot you who, 'tis one of my two
Sons, card-makers in Pur Alley.

Next in a trice, with his box and his dice,
Mac'-pipin my son, but younger,
Brings Mumming in; and the knave will win,
For he is a costermonger.

But New Year's Gift, of himself makes shift,
To tell you what his name is:
With orange on head, and his ginger-bread,
Clem Wasp of Honey Lane 'tis.

This, I you tell, is our jolly Wassel,
And for Twelfth-night more meet too:
She works by the ell, and her name is Nell,
And she dwells in Threadneedle Street too.

Then Offering, he, with his dish and his tree,
That in every great house keepeth,
Is by my son, young Little-worth, done,
And in Penny-rich Street he sleepeth.

Last, Baby-cake, that an end doth make
Of Christmas' merry, merry vein-a,
Is child Rowlan, and a straight young man,
Though he come out of Crooked Lane-a.

There should have been, and a dozen I ween,
But I could find but one more
Child of Christmas, and a Log it was,
When I them all had gone o'er.

I prayéd him, in a time so trim,
That he would make one to prance it:
And I myself would have been the twelfth,
O but Log was too heavy to dance it.