Robert Southwell (c. 1561–1595)

BEHOLD a silly, 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.

The persons in that poor attire

His royal liveries wear;

The Prince himself is come from heaven:

This pomp is praisèd there.

With joy approach, O Christian wight!

Do homage to thy King;

And highly praise this humble pomp,

Which he from heaven doth bring.