Life is but shortWhen we are gone, Let them sing on. Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,

Pleasant to see.

Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be!
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals;
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!

Drain we the cup.-~-
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.

Mantle it up;
Empty it yet;
Let us forget,
Round the old tree!

Sorrows begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite;
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree!

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

CHRISTMAS.

So now is come our joyful'st feast;
Let every man be jolly;

Each room with ivy leaves is drest,

And every post with holly. Though some churls at our mirth repine, Round your foreheads garlands twine,

Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry.

Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with baked meat choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie;
And if for cold it hap to die,
We'll bury 't in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.

Now every lad is wond'rous trim,
And no man minds his labor;
Our lasses have provided them

A bagpipe and a tabor;

Young men and maids, and girls and boys,
Give life to one another's joys;
And you anon shall by their noise
Perceive that they are merry.

195

Rank misers now do sparing shun-
Their hall of music soundeth;
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things there aboundeth.
The country folks themselves advance,
With crowdy-muttons out of France;
And Jack shall pipe, and Gill shall dance,
And all the town be merry.

Ned Squash has fetched his bands from pawn And all his best apparel;

Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn

With dropping of the barrel.
And those that hardly all the year
Had bread to eat, or rags to wear,
Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
And all the day be merry.

Now poor men to the justices

With capons make their errants; And if they hap to fail of these,

They plague them with their warrants: But now they feed them with good cheer, And what they want they take in beer; For Christmas comes but once a year, And then they shall be merry.

Good farmers in the country nurse

The poor, that else were undone;

Some landlords spend their money worse, On lust and pride at London.