254. An Ode Of The Birth Of Our Saviour

In numbers, and but these few, I sing thy birth, oh 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 daffadils and roses, Thy cradle, kingly stranger, As gospel tells, Was nothing else, But, here, a homely manger.

But we with silks, not cruels, 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.

The Jews, they did disdain thee; But we will entertain thee With glories to await here, Upon thy princely state here, And more for love than pity: From year to year We'll make thee, here, A free-born of our city.

255. TO HIS SAVIOUR, A CHILD; A PRESENT, BY A CHILD

Go, pretty child, and bear this flower Unto thy little Saviour; And tell him, by that bud now blown, He is the Rose of Sharon known. When thou hast said so, stick it there Upon his bib or stomacher; And tell him, for good handsel too, That thou hast brought a whistle new, Made of a clean straight oaten reed, To charm his cries at time of need; Tell him, for coral, thou hast none, But if thou hadst, he should have one; But poor thou art, and known to be Even as moneyless as he. Lastly, if thou canst win a kiss From those melifluous lips of his;-- Then never take a second on, To spoil the first impression.