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Christmas is my name, Far have I gone,
Have I gone, (have I gone,)
Have I gone without regard.
Whereas great men, By flocks there be flown,
There be flown, (there be flown,)
There be flown to London-ward.
There they in pomp and in pleasure do waste
That which Old Christmas was wont for to feast,
Welladay, Welladay,
Welladay, where should I stay?
Houses where music was wont for to ring,
Nothing but bats and owlets do sing,
Welladay, Welladay,
Welladay, where should I stay?
Christmas dinner is turned into stones,
Into stones and silken rags.
And Lady Money sleeps and makes moans,
And makes moans in miser's bags.
Houses where pleasures once did abound
Nought but a dog and a shepherd is found.
Places that Christmas revels did keep
Now have become habitations for sheep.
Pan, the shepherd's god doth deface,
Doth deface Mother Nature's crown.
And the tillage doth go to decay,
To decay in every town.
Landlords their rents so highly enhance,
Ploughman and family barefoot may dance.
Farmers that Christmas would still entertain
Scarce have enough themselves to maintain.
Briefly, for to end, Here I do find,
I do find so great disdain.
Christmas feasting and dancing must wait
For their season to come again.
Yet winter the holly and doth give,
Carols and wassails in memory do live,
Welladay, Welladay,
Welladay, so here I'll stay.
Thus, where the Boar's Head and Yule Log have been,
Christmas again will surely be seen,
Welladay, Welladay,
Welladay, so here I'll stay.
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