A Nineteenth Century depiction of Sixteenth-Century Mummers

Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning
The ovens they with baked meats choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie,
And if for cold it hap to die,
We'll bury't in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.

- George Wither