Here’s to our cow, and to her long tail, God send our measter us never may fail Of a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near, And our jolly wassail it’s then you shall hear. Be here any maids? I suppose here be some; Sure they will not let young men stand on the cold stone! Sing hey O, maids! come trole back the pin, And the fairest maid in the house let us all in. Come, butler, come, bring us a bowl of the best; I hope your soul in heaven will rest; But if you do bring us a bowl of the small, Then down fall butler, and bowl and all. THE MUMMERS’ SONG; OR, THE POOR OLD HORSE. As sung by the Mummers in the Neighbourhood of Richmond, Yorkshire, at the merrie time of Christmas. [THE rustic actor who sings the following song is dressed as an old horse, and at the end of every verse the jaws are snapped in chorus. It is a very old composition, and is now printed for the first time. The ‘old horse’ is, probably, of Scandinavian origin,—a reminiscence of Odin’s Sleipnor.] YOU gentlemen and sportsmen, And men of courage bold, All you that’s got a good horse, Take care of him when he is old; Then put him in your stable, And keep him there so warm; Give him good corn and hay, Pray let him take no harm. Poor old horse! poor old horse! Once I had my clothing Of linsey-woolsey fine, My tail and mane of length, And my body it did shine; But now I’m growing old, And my nature does decay, My master frowns upon me, These words I heard him say,— Poor old horse! poor old horse! These pretty little shoulders, That once were plump and round, They are decayed and rotten,— I’m afraid they are not sound. Likewise these little nimble legs, That have run many miles, Over hedges, over ditches, Over valleys, gates, and stiles. Poor old horse! poor old horse! I used to be kept On the best corn and hay That in fields could be grown, Or in any meadows gay; But now, alas! it’s not so,— There’s no such food at all! I’m forced to nip the short grass That grows beneath your wall. Poor old horse! poor old horse! I used to be kept up All in a stable warm, To keep my tender body From any cold or harm; But now I’m turned out In the open fields to go, To face all kinds of weather, The wind, cold, frost, and snow. Poor old horse! poor old horse! My hide unto the huntsman So freely I would give, My body to the hounds, For I’d rather die than live: So shoot him, whip him, strip him, To the huntsman let him go; For he’s neither fit to ride upon, Nor in any team to draw. Poor old horse! you must die! FRAGMENT OF THE HAGMENA SONG.