Volume Iv Part 16 (1/2)

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 hooped: 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 Cobler it is, I'm a father of his, And he dwells in a lane called 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, tane out of Distaff-lane, But an active man, and a porter.

Now Post and Pair, old Christmas's heir, Doth make and a gingling 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 s.h.i.+ft, To tell you what his name is: With orange on head, and his ginger-bread, Clem Waspe of Honey-lane 'tis.

This, I tell you, is our jolly Wa.s.sel, 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 prayed 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 he was too heavy to dance it.

Now, Cupid, come you on.

_Cup._ _You worthy wights, king, lords, and knights,_ _Or queen and ladies bright:_ _Cupid invites you to the sights_ _He shall present to-night._

_Ven._ 'Tis a good child, speak out; hold up your head, Love.

_Cup._ _And which Cupid--and which Cupid--_

_Ven._ Do not shake so, Robin; if thou be'st a-cold, I have some warm waters for thee here.

_Chris._ Come, you put Robin Cupid out with your water's and your fisling; will you be gone?

_Ven._ Ay, forsooth, he's a child, you must conceive, and must be used tenderly; he was never in such an a.s.sembly before, forsooth, but once at the Warmoll Quest, forsooth, where he said grace as prettily as any of the sheriff's hinch-boys, forsooth.