Behold, a seely 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 seely beasts 
 In crib to shroud his head.
Despise him not for lying there, 
 First, what he is enquire, 
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, 
 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 right, 
 Do homage to thy king; 
And highly prize his humble pomp 
 Which he from heaven doth bring.