Last, for December, houses on the plain
Ground floors to live in, logs heap'd mountain high
Carpets stretched and newest games to try
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]1 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
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