| Than a carol, for to sing
|
| The birth of this our heavenly King?
|
| Awake the voice! |
| Awake the string!
|
| Dark and dull night, fly hence away,
|
| And give the honor to this day,
|
| That sees December turned to May.
|
| Why does the chilling winter’s morn
|
| Smile, like a field beset with corn?
|
| Or smell like a meadow newly-shorn,
|
| Thus, on the sudden? |
| Come and see
|
| The cause, why things thus fragrant be:
|
| 'Tis He is born, whose quickening birth
|
| Gives life and luster, public mirth,
|
| To heaven, and the under-earth.
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| We see him come, and know him ours,
|
| Who, with his sunshine and his showers,
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| Turns all the patient ground to flowers.
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| The darling of the world is come,
|
| And fit it is, we find a room
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| To welcome him. |
| The nobler part
|
| Of all the house here, is the heart.
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| Which we will give him; |
| and bequeath
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| This holly, and this ivy wreath,
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| To do him honour, who’s our King,
|
| And Lord of all this revelling.
|
| What sweeter music can we bring,
|
| Than a carol for to sing
|
| The birth of this our heavenly King? |