University of Virginia Library

Scene.—A Drawing Room, richly furnished; at back, an arch closed with curtains.
Enter the Genius, in full evening dress.
Gen.
The friend of gaiety, the foe of gloom,
I come, the Genius of the Drawing-room!
'Tis mine, with mirth and music, light and flowers,
To wing the flight of mortals' leisure hours.
The minister immersed in State affairs;
The speculator deep in shady shares;
The merchant brooding over doubtful bills;
The author sick of driving barren quills;
The banker, anxious for a foreign loan!
In brief all who have troubles of their own,
Have in my radiant regions gladly sought
A truce to turmoil, a reprieve from thought.
But more than ever at this joyous tide,
When e'en the gravest cast their cares aside,
And turning from the future's prospect drear,
Cry, “Hang it! Christmas comes but once a-year!”
I'm an old-fashioned genius, I confess,—
Although folks mightn't think so by my dress;—
And like the genial, generous, hearty way,
England kept Christmas in the olden day.
When the boar's head was brought with garland crown'd,
And the rich wassail bowl went gaily round.
The bowl's bowl'd out—the fine old spirit fled,
And left us but the bore without the head.
Still, there are spirits whom I might invoke;
Choice spirits, too—not too refined to joke;
And it is just the witching time of night,
When, at my bidding, many a tricksy sprite
A Christmas gambol would rejoice to play,
And make with merry mortals holiday.
I know they'll turn the house all topsy-turvy;
But as I'm in the mood their pranks to survey,
To turn it out of windows they've my leave,
So they keep gaily in it Christmas Eve.

Enter Good Humour, Good Cheer, and Good Fun—they are in evening dress.
Good H.
We take you at your word.

Gen.
Ah! so I see.
If I may be so bold, pray who are “We?”

Good H.
Three spirits, who, I may say with good reason,
Are most in Fashion at this “Festive Season.”

Gen.
Your names?

Good H.
Good Humour.

Good C.
Good Cheer!

Good F.
And Good Fun.

Gen.
Jolly companions, truly!

All Three.
Every one!
(they sing)

Gen.
Mercy upon us! Well, you are the boys,
I am bound to say, at any rate, for noise.
But I am glad to see you, I protest,
Good Humour's everywhere a welcome guest;
So is Good Cheer at all times, there's no question,
If but accompanied by good digestion.
As for Good Fun, on such a night as this
His presence I should much regret to miss.
But sure, for spirits, this is strange attire;
I thought, whether of earth, air, flood, or fire,
You all wore spangled tunics, with gauze wings,
And long tight silk—you know the sort of things.

Good F.
Oh, that's the way they dress us on the stage;
But even there so great is now the rage
For having everything severely real,
There'll soon be left no glimpse of the ideal.

Good H.
Here by the Genius of the Drawing-room
Inspired, we come in suitable costume,
And evening dress considered indispensable.

Gen.
Sir, of the compliment believe me sensible.
The choicest spirits make a blunder, when
The habits they forego of gentlemen.
And such society I've never courted:
You're spirits neat as ever were imported.

Good C.
But not above proof that we hither came
With you to gambol!

Gen.
“Messieurs, make your game!”

Good H.
The game is made.

Good F.
Is it not Christmas Eve?

Gen.
Admitted—but I really don't perceive—

Good C.
We must all stir the pudding for good luck!

Gen.
The thought I vow my brain had never struck.
That is an institution old and great;
But you will have an hour or so to wait.
For though you say your game is made, I fear
The pudding's not made yet—

Good F.
We'll make it!—Here

Gen.
No pray not here—into the kitchen go.

Good F.
Air—“Si vuol ballare il Signor Contino”—“Nozze de Figaro.”

(suiting the action to the words, he takes a vase from the mantel-piece, and places it on a small table in the centre of the apartment—collecting the various small ornaments, books, flowers, and trinkets about the room to be put into the vase)
Gen.
Nay, then of Hecate I will play the part,
And help to shew the wonders of our art!
So now about the cauldron sing,
Like elves and fairies in a ring,
Enchanting all that in you fling.

(The three Spirits and Genius join hands and move around the table, all singing to the music in “Macbeth”)
Around, around, around, around;
About, about, about, about;
All good the pudding putting in,
All ill keep out.

Good H.
(dropping one of the small ornaments into the vase)
Here's some fine suet fat!

Gen.
Put in that—put in that!

Good C.
Some flour I've found!

(dropping in bouquet)
Gen.
Put in a pound!

Good F.
Plums, currants, eggs and spice I add, then.

(flinging in a heap of small articles)
Gen.
The pudding won't be very bad, then.
Put in all those with candied peel, if handy.

Good C.
Hold! here's a gill of the best Cognac brandy.

(apparently emptying a small bottle of Eau de Cologne— All stir furiously with their wands, passing round and singing as before)
[Good H., Good C., Good F., Gen.]
Around, around, around, around;
About, about, about, about;
All good the pudding put in,
All ill keep out.

Gen.
By the splitting of the plums,
Something ugly this way comes!

Good F.
(looking out)
You may say ugly. Why, it's Care!

Good H.
Confusion!
Good Humour vanishes at Care's intrusion!
(Exit Good Humour)

Good C.
(to Genius)
Excuse me, madam, I'm off too with speed!
The sour old crab, he puts me off my feed.
(Exit Good Cheer)

Gen.
Will you all leave me, then, to Care a prey?

Good F.
No! come what will, Good Fun will with you stay.
A fig for Care, with spirits good as mine,
I laugh to scorn his miserable whine.
“Care killed a cat,” the proverb says, but I'm
A jolly dog can kill both Care and Time!

Gen.
I hear his heavy footstep!

Enter Care, dressed like a beggar; he has a heavy load on his back, marked, “For mortals—with care.”
Gen.
(to Care)
Fiend! how dare
You enter here?

Care.
I enter everywhere!
From the proud palace to the lowly cot,
Shew me the place on earth Care enters not!

Good F.
But not at Christmas time.

Care.
Indeed! What say
Those who have heavy Christmas bills to pay,
And rack their brains in vain the cash to find?
Are they to Good Fun or Care most inclined?
Or the poor wretches, who are all but starving,
While you, and Good Cheer, are your turkey carving?
And though Good Humour may laugh off some ills,
There are blue devils which defy blue pills!

Gen.
He'll give them me, if longer he stand croaking!

Good F.
Begone, dull Care! or you'll find I'm not joking.

Care.
I mightn't find it, even should you be!
Some people's jokes are too dull e'en for me.

Good F.
No insolence! but pack off with your pack,
Or in a coarser way you'll get the sack.

Gen.
Yes; out of windows with him and his rags!

(Good Fun seizes Care)
Enter Christmas, in a travelling dress, with a carpet bag and an umbrella.
Christmas.
How now, ye merry, mad, and midnight wags!
What is't ye do?

Good F.
To ask it what's your right?

Christmas.
I'm Christmas. Come, as you all know, to-night.

Gen.
Christmas! a bag and an umbrella with!

Good F.
Pooh! He's some party by the name of Smith.

Gen.
You're not a bit like Christmas! Where's your crown
Of holly, and your gaily garnished gown—
Collar of brawn, and baldrick of mince pies—
And all your other proper properties?

Christmas.
My crown and robe are in my sac de nuit.
I'm in my costume de voyage, you see,
Having but just arrived by the express,
And for to-morrow keep my full court dress.
Why shouldn't Christmas be permitted, pray,
As well as you, to dress like sons of clay?
I think I may assert, without much vanity,
Few spirits own more habits of humanity;
But to convince you I am Christmas—there!
(touches with his umbrella the load of Care, which drops from his shoulders)
You see I have the power to lighten Care;
To fling him out of windows were in vain;
Christmas or not, he would creep in again,
Or meet you somewhere on life's chequered road.
Care you for him, and ease him of his load.
Free from the burden he has borne so long,
He'll bear a merry burden to your song.

Care.
Oh, Christmas, weary mortals prompt to cheer.
Why do you come to them but once a year?

Christmas.
To set a good example, which I'd fain
All folks would follow till I come again.
To-night begins my brief reign of hilarity;
But my chief mission and delight is charity!
To feed the hungry—cause the hearts to glow
Of those who shiver, houseless, in the snow;
Find feuds forgotten, bid detraction cease,
And all the world enjoy my Christmas piece.

All.
Hail, Christmas! You're the king of all good fellows.

Good F.
And now we'll “Sing old Rose, and burn the bellows.”

Christmas.
With all my heart! Despite of this apparel,
You shall know Christmas by his cheery carol.

Song—Christmas—Air, “Cheer, boys, cheer.”

Christmas.
Farewell, Care, for the present.
(Exit Care)
Speed, Good Fun,
Thy gay career throughout the kingdom run;
And of this fact be thou at any rate sure,
There's no good fun where there is not good nature.

(Exit Good Fun)
Gen.
Most gracious sovereign, may I presume
To hope you'll hold in mine your drawing-room?

Christmas.
With pleasure. Nay, I hither came to hold
A revel with my spirits as of old;
And Time so rapidly I make to fly,
You'll scarce believe a week has flitted by
Since I came in.

Gen.
A week!

Christmas.
If me you doubt,
(bells)
Listen! the Old Year is just going out.
An audience to take leave he will request,
And by this time Christmas should be full dressed.
(Exit Christmas—bells heard getting up)

Gen.
The bells are getting up. I understand
They've got “The Bells” up finely in the Strand;
But as we never here cast horror-scopes,
We've only to pull through—got up our hopes.

(Our ropes?)
Enter the Old Year.
Old Y.
Pity the sorrows of a poor Old Year,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
Whose days have dwindled to the shortest here,
And who “to-morrow” will behold no more!
This is my last appearance on the stage,
And so to say farewell I have made bold.
Yet not so very great appears my age,
Though an old year, I am but a year old!
The fact is, I've been living much too fast,
A fashion which has made so many fail;
The world has had a rage for some time past
To go ahead—and thereby hangs a tale.
Don't be alarmed! I haven't time to tell it,
For, “Soft! methinks I scent the morning air;”
And as I'm not allowed to stop and smell it,
You must ask Christmas; he's got time to spare.
(calling)
Christmas!

Enter Christmas.
Christmas.
I'm coming—no, I mean I'm come—
That is, I came; I'm always making some
Confusion in that verb. It seems as though
Christmas was always coming for to go.

Old Y.
To go it, I suspect you mean to say;
For you do go it, finely, while you stay.
Excuse my poor old joke!

Christmas.
Of course. O, dear!
That's nothing to what I'm compelled to hear.
The poor old jokes are bad enough, 'tis true;
But—mercy on us!—hear some of the new.
In cracking theirs, our former funny men
Broke Priscian's head a little, now and then;
But these young wags run such a muck for fun,
They knock his very brains out for a pun.
Talking of going—aren't you gone?

(bells again)
Old Y.
All but.

Christmas.
It strikes me it's quite time for you to cut.

Old Y.
Yes, yes; I hear the bells. Ah me! just so
They rang when I was born, twelve months ago.
Poor, silly, empty, unreflecting things!
How can they tell what my successor brings?
They may regret they cannot me recall.
Well, well; a Happy New Year to you all,
This poor old body wishes from his soul.
Time sounds my knell; I go to pay the toll.

Trio—Old Year, Christmas, and Genius—Air, “Gavotte de Vestris.”
Old Y.
Just twelve o'clock!
My stay by minutes now I measure;
At twelve o'clock
Precisely I take flight.
You'll see me out?

(to Christmas)
Christmas.
Of course! I mustn't add—with pleasure,
Or you no doubt
Would think it not polite.

Old Y.
Let not my leave-taking
Mar your merry-making;
For the New Year yearning,
Time his hour-glass turning,
Will like an ancient Charley soon shout—
“Past twelve o'clock!”

Together.
For the New Year yearning, &c.

Christmas.
Here, take my arm, I'll see you to the door.
I've seen some hundreds of you out before,

Old. Y.
I hope you'll live to see out many more.

Christmas.
Thank you.

(he leads Old Year to the door or wing—clock chimes the four quarters, then strikes twelve)
Old Y.
Good night! the clock has given me warning.

Gen.
Good night!
(they shake hands—Exit Old Year and Christmas)
There goes another year.

Bells strike up—Enter New Year jumping.
New Y.
Good morning!

Gen.
Whoe'er you are, young sir, the same to you.

New Y.
I'm the New Year. (jumps)


Gen.
I thought so. How d'ye do?

New Y.
I'm seventy-two.

Gen.
I can't say that you look it.

New Y.
I thought that old boy never meant to hook it.
Either the clock or he was much too slow.

(jumps)
Gen.
You seem too fast. Why keep on jumping so?

New Y.
Ain't I Leap Year? You wouldn't have me creep.

(jumps)
Gen.
(stopping him)
Stop. You've two months to look before you leap.
So many springs if you intend to make,
'Twill be quick March with us and no mistake.

New Y.
I thought you'd jump with joy to see my face.

Gen.
Not if you mean to travel at that pace.
You'd jump to a conclusion far too soon,
And jumble January into June.
Give me some hint of what you mean to do.

New Y.
I! Bless your heart, I know no more than you.

Gen.
Indeed! Suppose then you consult the table.

New Y.
To answer do you think it really able?

Gen.
It has been found to answer wondrous well
By those who know the trick to make it tell.

New Y.
I'll try it then. Here—will this table do?

Gen.
In one sense I've no doubt it will do you.
But we must have a medium, I suppose?

New Y.
“A generous friendship no cold medium knows.”

Gen.
Oh! if a generous friendship you would test,
You'll find “the circulating medium” best;
If that respond according to your need,
The friendship will be generous indeed.
But in this special sort of necromancy,
'Tis no cold medium, but a heated fancy,
That works the spell. So to your aid I'll call
Fancy—the greatest medium of them all.

(waves her fan—the curtains at the back open, and discover Fancy, of course in a fancy dress)
Trio—Genius, New Year, and Fancy—Air, “Va pensiero sull ali dorate—” “Nabucco” (Verdi).
Gen.
Fancy! Queen of Imagination!
By the aid of thy potent spell,
Be our medium of communication
With the spirits you know so well.

New Y.
Of the New Year, in life now starting,
The coming events imparting.

Fancy.
I appear at your invocation,
And by aid of my potent spell,
Will afford you such information
As the spirits may choose to sell;
To your visual organ impartin'
The pow'r of Elizabeth Martin.

All.
Fancy! Queen of, &c.
I appear, &c.

Fan.
You wish for a séance?

Gen.
Exactly so.

Fan.
(seating herself at the table)
Be seated. (they sit)
What is it you wish to know?

New Y.
All that will happen during my existence.

Fan.
A modest wish; but yet, with my assistance,
It may be gratified. You're the New Year.

New Y.
(to Genius)
Now how could she know that?

Gen.
'Twas pretty clear
From what you told her. Folks in conversation
Furnish themselves half of the information.

Fan.
Is there a spirit in the room? (a rap is heard)
You hear
There is.

New Y.
Could you induce it to appear?

Fan.
A hand or foot I have contrived to show,
But the whole animal I never go.
Still, upon this particular occasion,
Fancy might do it by extreme persuasion.

New Y.
Whose spirit is it?

Gen.
At the name to get,
You must call over all the alphabet.

Fan.
My spell's more rapid. Such work is to me,
Without an alphabet, mere A B C.
This spirit was a weather-wise magician,
Known by the name of Francis Moore, physician.

New Y.
The great astrologer? The very man.
O, let us, Fancy, see him if we can!

Fan.
Well, if on Fancy you have full reliance,
She will set all your senses at defiance.

(waves her wand—the stage darkens)
New Y.
Holloa! why, what the dickens is she at?

Gen.
Fancy's chef d'œuvre.

New Y.
But I'm not a cat.
I want to see—

Gen.
Of course; and you'll remark,
Those who'd see clearest are kept in the dark.

Fan.
Behold him by a spiritual light!

(curtains open, and the Spirit of Francis Moore is seen under a strong lime light)
New Y.
Well, I admit that is a sub-lime sight!
He is all there, and I am now all ear.

Fan.
(to Spirit)
What will occur the first month in this year?

Spirit.
Changes will take place 'mongst the lords in waiting,
And should there be hard frost, there may be—skating.

New Y.
That's an-ice calculation—cool and wary.

Fan.
What's your prediction, pray, for February?

Spirit.
Some love letters will furnish food for laughter
On the fourteenth—a day before or after.

Fan.
March?

Spirit.
A malignant aspect now has Mars.
If peace be not preserved, there will be wars.

New Y.
(to Christmas)
This prophet seems to me uncommon small.
I shall not profit by such news at all.

Fancy.
April?

Spirit.
Unsettled are the raining powers,
Which renders probable the fall—of showers.

New Y.
Bother the weather! Tell us some event
Which in the month of May is imminent.

Spirit.
A noble lord the Derby wins a lot upon,
If the horse isn't scratched he's put the pot upon.

New Y.
Give us a tip. Tell us which horse will win.

Spirit.
Between ourselves, the one that first comes in.

New Y.
The spirit will move me to kick it soon.
I'll ask it no more questions.

Fan.
What in June?

Spirit.
Let concert-goers now for squalls look out;
And certain parties are much talked about.

Fan.
July?

Spirit.
The dog-star rages—and 'tis puzzling
To say if dogs or damsels most need muslin.

Fan.
August?

Spirit.
A potentate renowned for craft
Great danger runs of being—photographed.

Fan.
September?

Spirit.
To much peril man exposes;
Many will get their goose cooked ere it closes.

Fan.
October?

Spirit.
Hops are either cheap—or dear,
And something's brewing which may turn out beer.

Fan.
November!

Spirit.
On the fifth and ninth you may
Expect commotions both by night and day;
Squibs on the former—on the latter fogs.
May Gog and Magog not prove demagogues!

Fan.
December?

Spirit.
Matters in the East look murky—
Projects reviving to dismember turkey.

New Y.
Oh, worse and worse! This is the spirit sure
Of old Joe Miller, not of Francis Moore,
That palters with us in a double sense.
I'll hear no more—unreal mockery, hence!
(Spirit disappears)
For information still I am athirst;
Not a whit wiser than I was at first.

Fan.
Yes, for you've learned, though Fancy's power is great,
Heaven e'en from Fancy hides the book of fate;
Your task is not to pry into that mystery,
But add a glorious page to English history.
There's work enough for a good year before you,
Get it well done and—no—we can't encore you;
But we will raise a statue to your name—

New Y.
Not if you love me! Thank you all the same;
For judging from the specimens I see,
I'd rather nobody should chisel me.

Gen.
Give art new life! free it from job and fetter,
And take my word for it, 'twill soon be better!
It is not genius that Old England lacks,
But courage to contend with cant and quacks;
There's room in all things for much reformation.
Bid trade revive—check frantic speculation;
Obtain from Chance a power of attorney,
To give us safety on a railway journey;
The prices down of beef and mutton beat for us;
And don't drive us to eat what isn't meet for us;
If horseflesh won't suffice to feed the masses,
Our next resource will certainly be asses!
And heaven only knows where that will end,
Some people won't have left a single friend—
The present company excepted—

New Y.
Oh,
I say, shut up! Don't go on preaching so.
As spirits you can raise, give mine a lift.
If only of the gab you've got the gift,
For the New Year say something that is pleasant,
I came for pastime, though I am the present.

Gen.
What shall it be? I'm game for any game
That you or Fancy may think fit to name!

Fan.
Private theatricals are all the rage,
In every drawing-room you find a stage!

Gen.
Oh don't I know it? Didn't I begin it?
Yet some folks vowed there was no genius in it;
I have a stage myself behind that curtain.

New Y.
Oh, then we'll act a play on it for certain.

Fan.
No, not a play. In these degenerate days
Nobody ever thinks of acting plays.

Gen.
Well then, a burlesque, or a pantomime.

Fan.
Or masque—many are worn at Christmas time.

New Y.
A masque by all means, and with music too,
So old, 'twill seem to everybody new.

Fan.
And for the subject, what if by a flight,
Of fancy, we suppose it is Twelfth Night;
And shew the way 'twas kept ages ago.

Gen.
“Ages ago!” I played in that, I know.

Fan.
Christmas is here, and will his own part play.

New Y.
I'll play the fool.

Gen.
'Tis probable you may.
But who shall be our audience?

Fan.
Fancy there
Is one already.

Gen.
Well! I do declare!
I see a brilliant one—in my mind's eye.

Fan.
May you see proof on't in your treasur-y.

Gen.
Oh, Fancy! But to work—an audience hates
Waiting as much—

New Y.
As I hate Christmas Waits.

(Exeunt New Year and Genius)
Fan.
Song—Fancy—Air, “The Season of the Year.”
(Exit Fancy)

Enter before the curtain the Lord of Misrule, in the dress of an ancient jester, with a wooden dagger in his girdle, a fool's bauble in his right hand, and a gilt vizor in his left.
L. of M.
Song—Air, “The Days when we went Gipsying.”

(curtain draws and discovers Old King Christmas on a throne—table set out for banquet—flourish of trumpets)
Christmas.
To all our lieges and our lovers greeting,
Our reign draws to a close, our power is fleeting;
We trust ye have not pined beneath our sway,
But lightly laughed the leisure hours away.
To-night we hold a solemn feast—the last
Until this new-born year be well nigh past!
Be jocund, then, and let our little span
Of rule end merrily as it began.

(flourish)
L. of M.
An't please your Majesty, that worthy wight,
Old England, comes to keep with you Twelfth Night.

Christmas.
Now by our holly crown, a noble guest!
Place for Old England 'mid the first and best!

(March—“Oh, the Roast Beef of Old England”)
Enter Old England, in a rich Elizabethan costume, with Young England in velvet jacket and knickerbockers, silk stockings, shoes and buckles, a billycock hat with a feather in it, and a cigar in his mouth.
Song—Old England—(the same air).
King Christmas, Old England, who welcomed your reign,
Regrets you no longer with us can remain,
But he hopes next December to see you again
Enjoy the roast beef of Old England,
His famous old English roast beef!

Christmas.
(who has descended from his throne and advanced to meet them)
Dear honoured friend, who always honoured me,
Thrice welcome to our feast! Who's this we see?

Old E.
My son, Young England, who, ere hence you went,
I deemed it was my duty to present.

Christmas.
A goodly youth. Young gentleman, your hand,
May you do honour to your fatherland.

Young E.
Thanks. (taking out a cigar case and offering it to Christmas)
Take a weed?

Christmas.
(declining with a smile)
I've not yet learned that fashion.

Old E.
Oh, my boy has for it a downright passion.

Christmas.
I've smoked a pipe with brave Sir Walter Raleigh.

Old E.
A pipe! My son, sir, smokes some dozens daily.

L. of M.
Let's hope he'll shew the spirit of his sire.
Where so much smoke is, there must be some fire.

(Young England lounges up stage)
Old E.
Song—Old England—Air, “The Fine Old English Gentleman.”

Christmas.
I hope so, too, with all my heart, and yearn
To know what he'll be like when I return.
Where is Dame Fortune? But for her we wait.

L. of M.
We can't depend on her. Sometimes she's late;
Sometimes unlooked for. I've known folks wait all
Their lives for her, and she's not come at all!

Enter Dame Fortune, richly attired in Elizabethan costume, and bearing a golden wheel.
For.
That was Miss Fortune, simpleton, not I;
I am Dame Fortune, good you can't deny.

Old E.
You look so! and it does one good to see you!

For.
Fear not, Old England, that I e'er will flee you.
Nail your untarnished ensign to the mast,
And Fortune will befriend you to the last.

Old E.
Oh, I ne'er yet sang “Fortune is my foe!”
Croakers are always saying I must go
To ruin. But I somehow still contrive.
Despite their prophecies, to live and thrive.

L. of M.
Thank your good constitution, and enjoy it,
I'm not amongst the fools who would destroy it.

For.
Christmas, you know, I always follow you.
Your coming brings good Fortune many to.
I'm called capricious: but few people lose me,
Who, when I visit them, know how to use me.

Christmas.
All here, I'm sure, appreciate your visit;
If that is not Good Fortune, pray what is it?

For.
For compliments, of course, this is the season.

Old E.
The world at all times goes, to you, its knees on.

For.
The world, my friend, makes a sad blunder.

Old E.
Which is—

For.
It can't distinguish Good Fortune from Riches.
To pagan Plutus mortals bow the knee,
And vainly fancy that they worship me;
Thankless for wisdom, talent, honour, health,
To them Good Fortune's nothing else but wealth,
And when too late the fools their error find,
'Tis not themselves, but Fortune they call blind.

Old E.
Well, you are so described in verse.

For.
I know it!
The weak invention of some poor old poet,
Who never in his life Good Fortune knew,
So lied, as poets licensed are to do.

Christmas.
Come, to the merry business of the night;
For in your presence we forget Time's flight.
So, while my waits befitting music make,
With due solemnity, let's cut the cake!
Lord of Misrule, be you Grand Carver.

L. of M.
But
My dagger is of lath, not made to cut;
If you have something sharper there to spare—

Young E.
“Voici le sabre, le sabre de mon père!”

(trying to draw his father's sword)
Christmas.
Hold, boy! your spirits run with you away!
Old England's sword must not be bared in play.
Ne'er be the blade, so oft with laurels wreathed,
Drawn without reason, without honour sheathed.

For.
(producing a small morocco case, in which is a silver or silver gilt dessert knife)
“Behold, I have a weapon!” as Othello,
That black who was so very green and yellow,
Exclaims. My own dessert knife I have brought,
By Art and Industry, for Fortune wrought.
Though by desert 'tis said I am not guided,
Yet as 'tis “in this case made and provided,”
(To use a phrase as apt as it is legal),
I'll be Grand Carver at this revel regal;
And prove to all who doubt may entertain,
Fortune can sometimes cut and come again.

(takes out knife and divides the cake which is handed round by the Lord of Misrule)
Enter Fancy who touches with her wand the piece of cake about to be chosen by Young England.
Chorus
—Air, “Hearts of Oak.”
To the King of the Bean
(Though he may be a Queen),
Like the gallant Hungarian nobles we'll sing;
Irrespective of sex,
“Vivat Rex! Vivat Rex!”
Long life to the king! long life to the king!
To the King of the Bean,
(Though he may be a Queen)
We always are ready, though not always steady,
To drink till we wink
To the King of the Bean.

Young E.
Hurrah! I've got the Bean!

Old E.
I knew he would!
Fortune to us has always been so good!

Fan.
Fortune has less to do with this than I.
Fancy has had a finger in this pie.
I've taken quite a fancy to the child,
And only hope he won't turn out too wild.

For.
He's young and thoughtless, but of that he'll cure.
Noblesse oblige. He'll own that fact, I'm sure.
And while in honour's path your son shall wend,
Good Fortune ever will his steps attend.

(a royal mantle, crown, and sceptre are brought forward by the Lord of Misrule—and Christmas, assisted by Fortune, invests and crowns the new sovereign—grand flourish)
Christmas.
Thus, in obedience to time-honoured laws,
Old Christmas from his throne and state withdraws;
And cheerfully departs with all his train,
Until December brings him back again.
Good Fortune with you here he hopes to leave,
May she smile on you till next Christmas Eve.
Fill bumpers round, and drink, before retreating,
The good old toast, “To our next merry meeting.”

Finale—Air, “Here's to the Maiden of bashful fifteen.”
Christmas.

Old E.

Fan.

L. of M.

For.

Chorus.