New Prince, New Pomp. 
By Southwell, Robert. 


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.

The 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 prized there.

With joy approach, O Christian wight,
Do homage to thy King;
And highly praise his humble pomp,
Which He from heaven doth bring.