Formed by His power, the children of His love,
Man's happiness delights the Sire above;
While the light mirth which from his spirit springs
Ascends like incense to the King of kings."

Christmas, yawning and stretching himself, then roars out in a merry,
lusty voice:

"My spirit rejoices to hear merry voices,
With a prospect of breaking my fast,
For with such a lean platter, these days they call latter[34]
Were very near being my last.

"In that cursed conventicle, as chill as an icicle,
I caught a bad cold in my head,
And some impudent vassal stole all of my wassail,
And left me small beer in its stead.

"Of all that is royal and all that is loyal
They made a nice mess of mince-meat.
With their guns and gunpowder, and their prayers that are louder,
But the de'il a mince-pie did I eat.

"No fat sirloin carving, I scarce kept from starving,
And my bones have become almost bare,
As if I were the season of the gunpowder treason,
To be hallowed with fasting and prayer.

"If they fancy pulse diet, like the Jews they may try it,
Though I think it is fit but to die on.
But may the Emanuel long keep this new Daniel
From the den of the brave British Lion.

"In the juice of the barley I'll drink to King Charley,
The bright star of royalty risen,
While merry maids laughing and honest men quaffing
Shall welcome old Christmas from prison."

As he thunders out the last stave of his song, the Queen of May steps
forward, and sings the following welcome to Spring:

"Come with blooming cheek, Aurora,
Leading on the merry morn;
Come with rosy chaplets, Flora,
See, the baby Spring is born.

"Smile and sing each living creature,
Britons, join me in the strain;
Lo! the Spring is come to Nature,
Come to Albion's land again.

"Winter's chains of icy iron
Melt before the smile of Spring;
Cares that Albion's land environ
Fade before our rising king.

"Crown his brow with freshest flowers,
Weave the chaplet fair as May,
While the sands with golden hours
Speed his happy life away.

"Crown his brow with leaves of laurel,
Twined with myrtle's branch of peace--
A hero in fair Britain's quarrel,
A lover when her sorrows cease.

"Blessings on our royal master,
Till in death he lays