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 inclosures
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 cruels),
With sundry precious jewels,
And lily-work will dress Thee
Of clouts; we’ll make a chamber,
Sweet Babe, for Thee,
Of ivory,
And plastered 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.