by Benjamin Britten

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.

This stable is a Prince’s court,
this 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 prized there.

With joy approach, O Christian wight,
Do homage to thy King,
And highly praise his humble pomp,
wich he from Heaven doth bring.

Inegal Ensemble of Prague, Adam Viktora