1. Dark and dull night, fly hence away, And give the honour to this day, That sees December turn’d to May. 2. If we may ask the reason, say The why and wherefore all things here Seem like the spring-time of the year? 3. Why does the chilling winter’s morn Smile like a field beset with corn? Or smell like to a mead new shorn, Thus on the sudden? 4. Come and see The cause why things thus fragrant be: ’Tis He is born whose quickening birth Gives life and lustre, public mirth, To heaven and the under-earth. _Chorus._ We see Him come, and know Him ours, Who with His sunshine and His showers Turns all the patient ground to flowers. 1. The Darling of the world is come, And fit it is we find a room To welcome Him. 2. The nobler part Of all the house here is the heart. _Chorus._ Which we will give Him; and bequeath This holly and this ivy wreath, To do Him honour; who’s our King, And Lord of all this revelling. ROBERT HERRICK 38. 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 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. ROBERT HERRICK 39. CHRISTMAS All after pleasures as I rid one day, My horse and I both tired, body and mind, With full cry of affections quite astray, I took up in the next inn I could find. There, when I came, whom found I but my dear— My dearest Lord; expecting till the grief Of pleasures brought me to Him; ready there To be all passengers’ most sweet relief? O Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted, light, Wrapt in night’s mantle, stole into a manger; Since my dark soul and brutish is Thy right, To man, of all beasts, be not Thou a stranger. Furnish and deck my soul, that Thou may’st have A better lodging than a rack or grave.