A NEW-YEARES GIFT SENT TO SIR SIMEON STEWART by ROBERT HERRICK

No newes of Navies burnt at Seas;
No noise of late spawn'd Tittyries:
No closset plot, or open vent,
That frights men with a Parliament:
No new devise, or late found trick,
To read by th' Starres, the Kingdoms sick:
No ginne to catch the State, or wring
The free-born Nosthrills of the King,
We send to you; but here a jolly
Verse crown'd with Yvie, and with Holly:
That tels of Winters Tales and Mirth,
That Milk-maids make about the hearth,
Of Christmas sports, the Wassell-boule,
That tost up, after Fox-i'th'hole:
Of Blind-man-buffe, and of the care
That young men have to shooe the Mare:
Of Twelf-tide Cakes, of Pease, and Beanes
Wherewith ye make those merry Sceanes,
When as ye chuse your King and Queen,
And cry out, Hey, for our town green.
Of Ash-heapes, in the which ye use
Husbands and Wives by streakes to chuse:
Of crackling Laurell, which fore-sounds,
A Plentious harvest to your grounds:
Of these, and such like things, for shift,
We send in stead of New-yeares gift.
Read then, and when your faces shine
With bucksome meat and capring Wine:
Remember us in Cups full crown'd,
And let our Citie-health go round,
Quite through the young maids and the men,
To the ninth number, if not tenne;
Untill the fired Chesnuts leape
For joy, to see the fruits ye reape,
From the plumpe Challice, 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'appeare,
As Daughters to the instant yeare:
Sit crown'd with Rose-buds, and carouse,
Till Liber Pater twirles the house
About your eares; and lay upon
The yeare (your cares) that's fled and gon.
And let the russet Swaines the Plough
And Harrow hang up resting now;
And to the Bag-pipe all addresse;
Till sleep takes place of wearinesse.
And thus, throughout, with Christmas playes
Frolick the full twelve Holy-dayes.

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