Although at Yule it bloweth cool

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Although at Yule it bloweth cool

Although at Yule it bloweth cool,
And frost doth grip the fingers,
And nip the nose, and numb the toes,
Of out-door Carol-singers,

Through snow or sleet we pace the street,
Fair firs, with right good reason,
To with you all, both great and small,
The blessings of the season.

We think to spell ‘Good news, Nowell,
And eke a wonder story:
The Virgin mild hath borne the Child:
E’en God, the King of Glory.’

We come to tell how once, o’er dell
And down, in winter-weather,
Led with a star, from lands afar
There rid kings together.

By thoroughfare, through hum or square,
Our Quire the praise rehearses
(As on we pals) of ‘Wenceslas’
That ‘Good king’, and his mercies.

Then we can sing, a pretty thing,
‘The Holly and Ivy berry;’
But best we ken ‘Good gentle men,
God rest you, rest you merry.’

‘This hind’rest night I law a fight:’
‘A Virgin all unspotted,’
Ne’er be these lays of olden days
Out of remembrance blotted.

So ‘Blessed be that Maid Marie,’
o spurn it ‘twere a pity;
Nor let men scorn ‘A Babe is born
In Bethlehem,’ David city.

No itching palms have we for alms,
Content if Christ, the burden
Of these our lays, bellow his praise,
And one day be our guerdon.

That hallow’d dome, Saint Dunstan’s Home,
Doth harbour many blind folk,
To whom we pay the coin that may
Be handed us by kind folk.

The strain, y-clept ‘While shepherds kept,’
This also might be sung ye;
But here an end. Us Christ defend,
And always be among ye!

Although at Yule it bloweth cool
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