| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
|
||
|
xlix |
||
|
|
||
|
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, and 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*
• From Popular Ballads and Songs, by Jamieson, vol. ii. pp. 282-4 n. |
||
|
|
||