Christmas hath made an end, welladay, welladay! which was my dearest friend; more is the pity. For, with a heavy heart must I from thee depart to follow plough and cart all the year after. Lent is fast coming on welladay, welladay! that loves not anyone, more is the pity. For I doubt both my cheeks will look thin eating leaks; wise then, is he that seeks for a friend in a corner. All our good cheer is gone, welladay, welladay! and turned to a stone, more is the pity. In my good master's house I shall eat no more souse; then give me one carouse, gentle, kind butler. It grieves me to the heart welladay, welladay! from my friend to depart; more is the pity. Christmas, I mean, 'tis thee that thus forsaketh me; yet till one hour I see will I be merry.
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