Madam, forsooth, in her coach shee must wheell,
Although she weare her hose out at the heele;
Welladay!
And on her back weare that for a weed,
Which me and all my fellowes would feed, &c.
It begins thus
Christmas is my name; farre have I gone,
Have I gone, have I gone, have I gone,
Without regard;
Whereas great men by flocks there be flowne,
There be flowne, there be flowne, there be flowne,
To London ward;
Where they in pomp and pleasure doe waste
That which Christmas was wonted to feast,
Welladay!
Houses where musicke was wont for to ring,
Nothing but bats and howlets doe sing,
Welladay, welladay, welladay!
Where should I stay
Christmas beefe and bread is turned to stones, &c.
And silken rags;
And ladie Money sleeps, arid makes moanes, &c.
In misers bags.
Houses where pleasure once did abound,
Nought but a dogge and a shepheard is found,
Welladay
Places where Christmas revels did keep,
Is now become habitations for sheepe,
Welladay! &c.
Pan, shepheards’ god, doth deface, &c.
Lady Ceres’ crowne,
And tillage that doth goe to decay, &c.
In every towne.
Landlords their rents so highly enhance,
That Pierce the plowman barefoot may dance;
Welladay!
And farmers, that Christmas would entertain,
Have scarce wherewith themselves to maintain, &c,[1]
- ↑ From Popular Ballads and Songs, by Jamieson, vol. ii. pp. 282—4 n.
