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 placeOf birth, a baseOut-stable for thy court here.
Instead of neat enclosuresOf interwoven osiers;Instead of fragrant posiesOf 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 theeOf 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 theeWith glories to await here,Upon thy princely state here,And more for love than pity:From year to yearWe’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 flowerUnto 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 thereUpon 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 beEven as moneyless as he.Lastly, if thou canst win a kissFrom those melifluous lips of his;—Then never take a second on,To spoil the first impression.