A New-year's Gift Sent to Sir Simon Steward

No news of navies burnt at seas;No noise of late-spawn'd tittyries;No closet plot, or open vent,That frights men with a parliament;No new device or late-found trickTo read by the stars the kingdom's sick;No gin to catch the state, or wringThe freeborn nostril of the king,We send to you; but here a jollyVerse, crown'd with ivy and with holly,That tells of winter's tales and mirth,That milkmaids make about the hearth,Of Christmas sports, the wassail-bowl,That['s] tost up, after fox-i'-th'-hole;Of blind-man-buff, and of the careThat young men have to shoe the mare;Of Twelfth-tide cakes, of peas and beans,Wherewith you make those merry scenes,

Whenas ye choose your king and queen,And cry out: Hey, for our town green;Of ash-heaps, in the which ye useHusbands and wives by streaks to choose;Of crackling laurel, which fore-soundsA plenteous harvest to your grounds:Of these and such-like things for shift,We send instead of New-Year's gift.Read then, and when your faces shineWith buxom meat and cap'ring wine,Remember us in cups full crown'd,And let our city-health go round,Quite through the young maids and the men,To the ninth number, if not ten;Until the fired chesnuts leapFor joy to see the fruits ye reapFrom the plump chalice and the cup,That tempts till it be tossed up;Then as ye sit about your embers,Call not to mind those fled Decembers,But think on these that are t' appearAs daughters to the instant year:Sit crown'd with rosebuds, and carouseTill Liber Pater twirls the houseAbout your ears; and lay uponThe year your cares that's fled and gone.And let the russet swains the ploughAnd harrow hang up, resting now;

And to the bagpipe all address,Till sleep takes place of weariness.And thus, throughout, with Christmas playsFrolic the full twelve holidays.