Then presently after, the shepherds did spy A number of Angels appear in the sky, Who joyfully talked, and sweetly did sing, "To God be all Glory, our Heavenly King." Rejoice, etc.
Three certain Wise Princes they thought it most meet To lay their rich offerings at our Saviour's feet; So then they consented, and to Bethlehem did go, And when they came thither they found it was so. Rejoice, etc.
But all Christmas carols were not religious--many of them were of the most festive description; but here is one, temp. Henry VIII., which is a mixture of both:--
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel, Who is there, that singeth so, Noel, Noel, Noel?
I am here, Sir Christhismass, Welcome, my lord Christhismass, Welcome to all, both more and less. Come near, Noel.
_Dieu vous garde, beau Sire_, tidings I you bring, A maid hath born a Child full young, The which causeth for to sing, Noel.
Christ is now born of a pure maid, In an ox stall He is laid, Wherefore sing we all at a braid,[80] Noel.
_Buvez bien par toute la compagnie_, Make good cheer, and be right merry, And sing with us, now, joyfully, Noel.
Of the purely festive carols here is an example of the fifteenth century, from Mr. Wright's MS.:--
At the begynnyng of the mete Of a borejs hed 3e schal hete; And in the mustard 3e xal wete; And 3e xal syngyn, or 3e gon.
Wolcom be 3e that ben here, And 3e xal have ryth gud chere, And also a ryth gud face; And 3e xal syngyn, or 3e gon.
Welcum be 3e everychon, For 3e xal syngyn ryth anon; Hey 3ow fast that 3e had don, And 3e xal syngyn, or 3e gon.
The last I give is of the sixteenth century, and is in the British Museum (MS. Cott. Vesp. A. xxv.):--
A bonne, God wote! Stickes in my throate, Without I have a draught, Of cornie aile, Nappy and staile, My lyffe lyes in great wanste. Some ayle or beare, Gentell butlere, Some lycoure thou hus showe, Such as you mashe, Our throtes to washe The best were that you brew.
Saint, master and knight, That Saint Mault hight, Were prest between two stones; That swet humour Of his lycoure Would make us sing at once.
Mr. Wortley, I dar well say, I tell you as I thinke, Would not, I say, Byd hus this day, But that we shuld have drink.
His men so tall Walkes up his hall, With many a comly dishe; Of his good meat I cannot eate, Without a drink i-wysse. Now gyve hus drink, And let cat wynke, I tell you all at once, Yt stickes so sore, I may sing no more, Tyll I have dronken once.