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 shift, 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.

_Chris._ Will you peace, forsooth?

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

_Ven._ Ay, that's a good boy, speak plain, Robin; how does his majesty like him, I pray? will he give eight-pence a day, think you? Speak out, Robin.

_Chris._ Nay, he is out enough. You may take him away, and begin your dance; this it is to have speeches.

_Ven._ You wrong the child, you do wrong the infant; I 'peal to his majesty.

_Here they dance._

_Chris._ Well done, boys, my fine boys, my bully boys!

THE EPILOGUE.

_Sings._ Nor do you think that their legs is all The commendation of my sons, For at the Artillery garden they shall As well forsooth use their guns,

And march as fine as the Muses nine, Along the streets of London; And in their brave tires, to give their false fires, Especially Tom my son.

Now if the lanes and the allies afford Such an ac-ativity as this; At Christmas next, if they keep their word, Can the children of Cheapside miss?

Though, put the case, when they come in place, They should not dance, but hop: Their very gold lace, with their silk, would 'em grace, Having so many knights o' the shop.

But were I so wise, I might seem to advise So great a potentate as yourself; They should, sir, I tell ye, spare't out of their belly, And this way spend some of their pelf.

Ay, and come to the court, for to make you some sport, At the least once every year, As Christmas hath done, with his seventh or eighth son, And his couple of daughters dear.

_And thus it ended._

_Ben Jonson._

_Santa Claus._

"His back, or rather burden showed As if it stooped with its own load.

To poise this, equally he bore A paunch of the same bulk before, Which still he had a special care To keep well crammed with thrifty fare."

_Butler._

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.