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In Devonshire, now, the Christmas chime Is carolling over the lea; And the sexton shovels away the snow From the old church porch, maybe; And the waifs with their lanthorns and noses a-glow Come round for their Christmas fee; But, as in old England it's Christmas-time, Why, so is it here at sea, My lads, Why, so is it here at sea! When the ship comes home, from turret to poop Filled full with Spanish gold, There'll be many a country dance and joke, And many a tale to be told; Every old woman shall have a red cloak To fend her against the cold; And every old man shall have a big round stoup Of jolly good ale and old, My lads, Jolly good ale and old! |