Ye who have nourished sadness,
Estranged from hope and gladness
  In this fast-fading year;
Ye with o'erburdened mind,
Made aliens from your kind,
  Come gather here.
Let not the useless sorrow
Pursue you night and morrow,
  If e'er you hoped, hope now.
Take heart,—uncloud your faces,
And join in our embraces
  Under the Holly-Bough.

  Come, bring with a noise,
  My merry, merry boys,
The Christmas log to the firing,
  While my good dame, she
  Bids ye all be free,
And drink to your heart's desiring.

  With the last year's brand
  Light the new block, and
For good success in his spending,
  On your psalteries play,
  That sweet luck may
Come while the log is a-teending.