Wednesday 15 October 2008

A Christmas Carol

William Topaz McGonagall

WELCOME, sweet Christmas, blest be the morn
That Christ our Saviour was born!
Earth's Redeemer, to save us from all danger,
And, as the Holy Record tells, born in a manger.

Chorus --
Then ring, ring, Christmas bells,
Till your sweet music o'er the kingdom swells,
To warn the people to respect the morn
That Christ their Saviour was born.

The snow was on the ground when Christ was born,
And the Virgin Mary His mother felt very forlorn
As she lay in a horse's stall at a roadside inn,
Till Christ our Saviour was born to free us from sin.

Oh! think of the Virgin Mary as she lay
In a lowly stable on a bed of hay,
And angels watching O'er her till Christ was born,
Therefore all the people should respect Christmas morn.

The way to respect Christmas time
Is not by drinking whisky or wine,
But to sing praises to God on Christmas morn,
The time that Jesus Christ His Son was born;

Whom He sent into the world to save sinners from hell
And by believing in Him in heaven we'll dwell;
Then blest be the morn that Christ was born,
Who can save us from hell, death, and scorn.

Then he warned, and respect the Saviour dear,
And treat with less respect the New Year,
And respect always the blessed morn
That Christ our Saviour was born.

For each new morn to the Christian is dear,
As well as the morn of the New Year,
And he thanks God for the light of each new morn.
Especially the morn that Christ was born.

Therefore, good people, be warned in time,
And on Christmas morn don't get drunk with wine
But praise God above on Christmas morn,
Who sent His Son to save us from hell and scorn.

There the heavenly babe He lay
In a stall among a lot of hay,
While the Angel Host by Bethlehem
Sang a beautiful and heavenly anthem.

Christmas time ought to be held most dear,
Much more so than the New Year,
Because that's the time that Christ was born,
Therefore respect Christmas morn.

And let the rich be kind to the poor,
And think of the hardships they do endure,
Who are neither clothed nor fed,
And Many without a blanket to their bed.

Nature's Cook

Margaret Cavendish 1653

DEATH is the Cook of Nature; and we find
Meat drest severall waies to please her Mind.
Some Meates shee rosts with Feavers, burning hot,
And some shee boiles with Dropsies in a Pot.
Some for Gelly consuming by degrees,
And some with Ulcers, Gravie out to squeese.
Some Flesh as Sage she stuffs with Gouts, and Paines,
Others for tender Meat hangs up in Chaines.
Some in the Sea she pickles up to keep,
Others, as Brawne is sous'd, those in Wine steep.
Some with the Pox, chops Flesh, and Bones so small,
Of which She makes a French Fricasse withall.
Some on Gridirons of Calenture* is broyl'd,
And some is trodden on, and so quite spoyl'd.
But those are bak'd, when smother'd they do dye,
By Hectick Feavers some Meat She doth fry.
In Sweat sometimes she stues with savoury smell,
A Hodge-Podge of Diseases tasteth well.
Braines drest with Apoplexy to Natures wish,
Or swimmes with Sauce of Megrimes in a Dish.
And Tongues she dries with Smoak from Stomack's ill,
Which as the second Course she sends up still.
Then Death cuts Throats, for Blood-puddings to make,
And puts them in the Guts, which Collicks rack.
Some hunted are by Death, for Deere that's red.
Or Stal-fed Oxen, knocked on the Head.
Some for Bacon by Death are Sing'd, or scal'd,
Then powdered up with Flegme, and Rhume that's salt.