An Ode On The Birth Of Our Saviour



In numbers, and but these few,

I sing thy birth, O Jesu!

Thou pretty baby, born here

With sup'rabundant scorn here;

Who for thy princely port here,

Hadst for thy place

Of birth, a base

Out-stable for thy court here.

Instead of neat enclosures

Of interwoven osiers,

Instead of fragrant posies

Of daffodils and roses,

Thy cradle, kingly stranger,

As gospel tells,

Was nothing else

But here a homely manger.

But we with silks, not crewels,

With sundry precious jewels,

And lily work will dress thee,

And, as we dispossess thee

Of clouts, we'll make a chamber,

Sweet babe, for thee

Of ivory,

And plaster'd round with amber.