For nuts and apples scrambling,
Hark how the roofs with laughters sound,
Anon they'll think the house goes round:
For they the cellar's depths have found,
And there they will be merry.
The wenches with their wassel-bowls
About the streets are singing;
The boys are come to catch the owls,
The wild mare in is bringing.
Our kitchen boy hath broke his box,