William Drummond of Hawthornden (1585–1649)

O THAN the fairest day, thrice fairer night!

Night to best days, in which a sun doth rise

Of which that Golden eye which clears the skies

Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow light!

And blessèd ye, in silly pastors’ sight,

Wild creatures in whose warm crib now lies

That heaven-sent youngling, holy maid-born wight,

’Midst, end, beginning of our prophecies!

Blest cottage that hath flowers in winter spread!

Though withered,—blessed grass, that hath the grace

To deck and be a carpet to that place!

Thus sang unto the sounds of oaten reed,

Before the Babe, the shepherds bowed on knees;

And springs ran nectar, honey dropped from trees.