The York Waits
A Christmas Poem by Author UnknownIn a Winter's morning,
Long before the dawning,
'Ere the cock did crow,
Or stars their light withdraw,
Wak'd by a hornpipe pretty,
Play'd along York City,
By th' help of o'er night's bottle
Damon made this ditty....
In a winter's night,
By moon or lanthorn light,
Through hail, rain, frost, or snow
Their rounds the music go;
Clad each in frieze or blanket
(For either, heav'n be thanked),
Lin'd with wine a quart,
Or ale a double tankard.
Burglars send away,
And, bar guests dare not stay;
Of claret, snoring sots
Dream o'er their pipes and pots,
* * * * *
Candles, four in the pound,
Lead up the jolly Round,
While Cornet shrill i' th' middle
Marches, and merry fiddle,
Curtal with deep hum, hum,
Cries we come, come,
And theorbo loudly answers,
Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum.
But, their fingers frost-nipt,
So many notes are o'erslipt,
That you'd take sometimes
The Waits for the Minster chimes:
Then, Sirs, to hear their musick
Would make both me and you sick,
And much more to hear a roopy fiddler call
(With voice, as Moll would cry,
"Come, shrimps, or cockles buy").
"Past three, fair frosty morn,
Good morrow, my masters all." The York Waits
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