The Wassail
Give way, give way, ye gates, and win
An easy blessing to your bin
And basket, by our entering in.
May both with manchet stand replete;
Your larders too so hung with meat,
That though a thousand, thousand eat,
Yet, ere twelve moons shall whirl about
Their silv’ry spheres, there’s none may doubt
But more’s sent in than was serv’d out.
Next may your dairies prosper so
As that your pans no ebb may know;
But if they do, the more to flow;
Like to a solemn sober stream
Bank’d all with lilies, and the cream
Of sweetest cowslips filling them.
Then, may your plants be prest with fruit,
Nor bee or hive you have be mute;
But sweetly sounding like a lute.
Next may your duck and teeming hen
Both to the cock’s tread say Amen;
And for their two eggs render ten.
Last may your harrows, shears, and ploughs,
Your stacks, your stocks, your sweetest mows,
All prosper by your virgin vows.