Benjamin Britten This Little Babe
This little babe
so few days old
is come to rifle
Santan's fold
All hell doth at
his presence quake
though he himself for
cold do shake
For in this weak
un armed wise
the gates of hell he
will surprise
With tears he fights
and wins the field
his naked breast stands
for a shield
His battering shot
are babish cries
his arrows looks of
weeping eyes
His martial en sings
Cold a Need
and feeble Flesh his
war rior's steed.
His camp is pitched
in a stall
his bulwark but a
boken 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 la rum sound
My soul with Christ
join thou in fight
stick to the tents
that he hath pight
With in his crib
is surest ward
This Little Babe
will be thy guard
If thou wilt foil
foes with joy then
flit not from this
heavenly Boy!
