Prologue

Go on—prepare my bounty for my friends, And see that mirth with all her crew attends:

Behold a personage well known to fame; Once lov'd and honour'd—Christmas is my name! My officers of state my taste display; Cooks, scullions, pastry-cooks, prepare my way! Holly, and ivy, round me honours spread, And my retinue shew, I'm not ill-fed: Minc'd pies by way of belt, my breast divide, And a large carving knife, adorns my side; 'Tis no Fop's weapon, 'twill be often drawn; This turban for my head is collar'd brawn! Tho' old, and white my locks, my cheeks are cherry, Warm'd by good fires, good cheer, I'm always merry: With carrol, fiddle, dance, and pleasant tale, Jest, gihe, prank, gambol, mummery and ale, I, English hearts rejoic'd in days of yore; For new strange modes, imported by the score, You will not sure turn Christmas out of door! Suppose yourselves, well seated by a fire, (Stuck close, you seem more warm than you desire) Old father Christmas now in all his glory, Begs with kind hearts, you'll listen to his Story: Clear well your minds from politicks and spleen, Hear my Tale out—see all that's to be seen! Take care, my children, that you well behave, You, Sir, in blue, red cape—not quite so grave: That critick there in black—so stern and thin, Before you frown, pray let the tale begin— You in the crimson capuchin, I fear you, Why, Madam, at this time so cross appear you? Excuse me pray—I did not see your husband near you. Don't think, fair Ladies, I expect that you, Should hear my tale—you've something else to do: Nor will our beaux, old English fare encourage; No foreign taste, could e'er digest plumb-porridge. I have no sauce to quicken lifeless sinners, My food is meant for honest hearty grinners! For you—you spirits with good stomachs bring; O make the neighb'ring roof with rapture ring; Open your mouths, pray swallow every thing! Criticks beware, how you our pranks despise; Hear well my tale, or you shan't touch my pies; The proverb change—be merry, but not wise.