By George Wither
Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast!
Let every man be jolly,
Each room with ivy leaves is dressed,
And every post with holly.
Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with baked meats choke
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie,
And if, for cold, it hap to die,
We'll bury it in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.