December

Last, for December, houses on the plain,

Ground floors to live in, logs heap'd mountain high,

And carpets stretched and newest games to try,

And torches lit, and gifts from man to man,

(Your host, a drunkard and a Catalan;)

And whole dead pigs, and cunning cooks to ply

Each throat with tit-bits that shall satisfy;

And wine-butts of St. Galganu's brave span.

And be your coats well-lined and tightly bound,

And wrap yourselves in cloaks of strength and weight,

With gallant hoods to put your faces through.

And make your game of abject vagabond,

Abandoned miserable reprobate

Misers; don't let them have a chance with you.