Gloucestershire Wassailers’ Song
[IT is still customary in many parts of England to hand round the wassail, or health-bowl, on New-Year’s Eve. The custom is supposed to be of Saxon origin, and to be derived from one of the observances of the Feast of Yule. The tune of this song is given in Popular Music. It is a universal favourite in Gloucestershire, particularly in the neighbourhood of
‘Stair on the wold,Where the winds blow cold,’
as the old rhyme says.]
WASSAIL! wassail! all over the town,Our toast it is white, and our ale it is brown;Our bowl is made of a maplin tree;We be good fellows all;—I drink to thee.
Here’s to our horse, 183 and to his right ear,God send our measter a happy new year:A happy new year as e’er he did see,—With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.
Here’s to our mare, and to her right eye,God send our mistress a good Christmas pie;A good Christmas pie as e’er I did see,—With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.
Here’s to our cow, and to her long tail,God send our measter us never may failOf a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near,And our jolly wassail it’s then you shall hear.
Be here any maids? I suppose here be some;Sure they will not let young men stand on the cold stone!Sing hey O, maids! come trole back the pin,And the fairest maid in the house let us all in.
Come, butler, come, bring us a bowl of the best;I hope your soul in heaven will rest;But if you do bring us a bowl of the small,Then down fall butler, and bowl and all.
The Mummers’ Song;
OR, THE POOR OLD HORSE.
As sung by the Mummers in the Neighbourhood of Richmond, Yorkshire, atthe merrie time of Christmas.
[THE rustic actor who sings the following song is dressed as an old horse, and at the end of every verse the jaws are snapped in chorus. It is a very old composition, and is now printed for the first time. The ‘old horse’ is, probably, of Scandinavian origin,—a reminiscence of Odin’s Sleipnor.]
YOU gentlemen and sportsmen,And men of courage bold,All you that’s got a good horse,Take care of him when he is old;Then put him in your stable,And keep him there so warm;Give him good corn and hay,Pray let him take no harm.Poor old horse! poor old horse!
Once I had my clothingOf linsey-woolsey fine,My tail and mane of length,And my body it did shine;But now I’m growing old,And my nature does decay,My master frowns upon me,These words I heard him say,—Poor old horse! poor old horse!
These pretty little shoulders,That once were plump and round,They are decayed and rotten,—I’m afraid they are not sound.Likewise these little nimble legs,That have run many miles,Over hedges, over ditches,Over valleys, gates, and stiles.Poor old horse! poor old horse!
I used to be keptOn the best corn and hayThat in fields could be grown,Or in any meadows gay;But now, alas! it’s not so,—There’s no such food at all!I’m forced to nip the short grassThat grows beneath your wall.Poor old horse! poor old horse!
I used to be kept upAll in a stable warm,To keep my tender bodyFrom any cold or harm;But now I’m turned outIn the open fields to go,To face all kinds of weather,The wind, cold, frost, and snow.Poor old horse! poor old horse!
My hide unto the huntsmanSo freely I would give,My body to the hounds,For I’d rather die than live:So shoot him, whip him, strip him,To the huntsman let him go;For he’s neither fit to ride upon,Nor in any team to draw.Poor old horse! you must die!