And ye shall see
That kinges three
Shall come on the twelfth day;
For this behest
Give me thy breast,
And sing, by-by, lullay!"
"See here," quoth Miles Standish, "when my Rose singeth, the children
gather round her like bees round a flower. Come, let us all strike up a
goodly carol together. Sing one, sing all, girls and boys, and get a bit
of Old England's Christmas before to-morrow, when we must to our work on
shore."
Thereat Rose struck up a familiar ballad-meter of a catching rhythm, and
every voice of young and old was soon joining in it:
"Behold a silly,[1] tender Babe,
In freezing winter night,
In homely manger trembling lies;
Alas! a piteous sight,
The inns are full, no man will yield
This little Pilgrim bed;
But forced He is, with silly beasts
In crib to shroud His head.
Despise Him not for lying there,
First what He is inquire:
An orient pearl is often found
In depth of dirty mire.
"Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish,
Nor beasts that by Him feed;
Weigh not His mother's poor attire,
Nor Joseph's simple weed.
This stable is a Prince's court,
The crib His chair of state,
The beasts are parcel of His pomp,
The wooden dish His plate.
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