"One ye day called Christmas-day, ye Gov'r caled them out to worke (as was used), but ye most of this new company excused themselves, and said it went against their consciences to worke on ye day. So ye Gov'r tould them that if they made it a mater of conscience, he would spare them till they were better informed. So he led away y^{e} rest, and left them: but when they came home at noone from their worke, he found them in ye streete at play, openly; some pitching ye barr, and some at stoole ball, and such like sports. So he went to them and tooke away their implements, and told them it was against his conscience that they should play, and others worke. If they made ye keeping of it matter of devotion, let them kepe their houses, but there should be no gameing or revelling in ye streets. Since which time nothing hath been attempted that way, at least, openly." But we shall hear more of the Puritans and Christ-tide, only my scheme is to treat the season chronologically, and, consequently, there must be a slight digression; and the following ballad, which must have been published in the time of James I., because of the allusion to yellow starch (Mrs. Turner having been executed for the poisoning of Sir Thomas Overbury in 1615), gives us CHRISTMAS'S LAMENTATION Christmas is my name, far have I gone, Without regard; without regard. Whereas great men by flocks there be flown, To London-ward--to London Ward. There they in pomp and pleasure do waste That which Old Christmas was wonted to feast, Well a day! Houses where music was wont for to ring, Nothing but bats and owlets do sing. Well a day, Well a day. Well a day, where should I stay? Christmas beef and bread is turn'd into stones, Into stones and silken rags; And Lady Money sleeps and makes moans, And makes moans in misers' bags; Houses where pleasures once did abound, Nought but a dog and a shepherd is found, Well a day! Places where Christmas revels did keep, Now are become habitations for sheep. Well a day, Well a day, Well a day, where should I stay? Pan, the shepherds' god, doth deface, Doth deface Lady Ceres' crown, And the tillage doth go to decay, To decay in every town; Landlords their rents so highly enhance, That Pierce, the ploughman, barefoot may dance; Well a day! Farmers that Christmas would still entertain, Scarce have wherewith themselves to maintain, Well a day, etc.