Benjamin Britten
Miscellaneous
This Little Babe
This little bab so few days old
Is come to rifle Satan's fold;
All hell doth at his presence quake
Though he himself for cold do shake;
For in this week unarmed wise
The gates of hell he will surprise
With tears he fights and wins the field
His naked breast stads for a shield
His battering shot are babish cries
His arrows looks of weeping eyes
His martial ensigns Cold and Need
And feeble flesh his warrior's steed
His camp is pitched in a stall
His bulwark but a broken wall;
The crib his trench, haystalks his stakes
Of shepherds he his muster makes
And thus as sure his foe to wound
The angels' trumps a larum sound
My soul with Christ
Join thou in fight;
Stick to the tents
That he hath pight
Within his crib
Is surest ward;
This little Babe
Will by thy guard
If thou wilt foil thy
Foes with joy, then
Flit not from this
Heavenly boy!