_Chor._ What sweeter music can we bring, Than a carol for to sing The birth of this our heavenly King? Awake the voice! awake the string! Heart, ear, and eye, and everything Awake! the while the active finger Runs division with the singer. _FROM THE FLOURISH THEY CAME TO THE SONG._ 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 quick'ning birth Gives life and lustre, public mirth, To heaven and the under-earth. _Chor._ 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, _Chor._ 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. _The musical part was composed by M. Henry Lawes._ _Division_, a rapid passage of music sung in one breath or a single syllable. 97. THE NEW-YEAR'S GIFT: OR, CIRCUMCISION'S SONG. SUNG TO THE KING IN THE PRESENCE AT WHITEHALL. 1. Prepare for songs; He's come, He's come; And be it sin here to be dumb, And not with lutes to fill the room. 2. Cast holy water all about, And have a care no fire goes out, But 'cense the porch and place throughout. 3. The altars all on fire be; The storax fries; and ye may see How heart and hand do all agree To make things sweet. _Chor._ Yet all less sweet than He. 4. Bring Him along, most pious priest, And tell us then, whenas thou seest His gently-gliding, dove-like eyes, And hear'st His whimpering and His cries; How can'st thou this Babe circumcise? 5. Ye must not be more pitiful than wise; For, now unless ye see Him bleed, Which makes the bapti'm, 'tis decreed The birth is fruitless. _Chor._ Then the work God speed.