Alternate Title: New Prince, New Pomp
Words: Robert Southwell, S.J., 1561-1595
Music: C. Steggall, Mus. Doc.
MIDI / Noteworthy Composer / PDF
(Verse 1 Only)
1. Behold a silly1 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.
2. Despise Him not for lying there;
First what He is inquire:
And 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.2
3. This stable is a Prince's Court,
The crib His chair of state,
The beasts are parcel on 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.
4. With joy approach, O Christian soul,
Do homage to thy King;
And highly praise His humble pomp,
Which He from heaven doth bring.'
Notes:
1. According to Sylvestre, this expression frequently occurs in ancient carols. It meant in those days artless, simple. Return
2. According to Bullen, weed = dress. Return
Sheet Music from Henry Ramsden Bramley and John Stainer, Christmas Carols New and Old (London: Novello, Ewer & Co., ca 1878).
 |  |
 |  |
Sheet Music by John Ireland from Martin Shaw and Percy Dearmer, The English Carol Book, Second Series (London: A. R. Mowbray & Co., Ltd., 1913), Carol #46
MIDI / Noteworthy Composer / PDF
Sheet Music, We are poor frozen-out gardeners, from Charles Wood and George Ratcliffe Woodward, The Cambridge Carol-Book, Being Fifty-Two Songs For Christmas, Easter, And Other Seasons (London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1924), #5
MIDI / Noteworthy Composer / PDF
Also found in Edith Rickert, Ancient English Christmas Carols: 1400-1700 (London: Chatto & Windus, 1914), p. 271.
Also found in Joshua Sylvestre, Christmas Carols - Ancient and Modern (circa 1861, reprinted A. Wessels Company, New York, 1901)
Additional note from Sylvestre:
Robert Southwell, the writer of the following poem, is chiefly remembered on account of his unfortunate fate. He was educated for the Catholic priesthood, and when young became a member of the Society of Jesus at Rome. After a time, he returned to his own country in the character of a missionary. But he found the government adverse to his Order. For eight years he managed to escape the particular notice of the authorities, but at length he was arrested, and thrown into prison, where he endured the torture of the rack ten times. Eventually he was executed at Tyburn, February 21, 1595.
Links open in an external site, The Catholic Encyclopedia.
Note: Hugh Keyte, an editor of The New Oxford Book of Carols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992) believes that "Joshua Sylvestre" is a pseudonym for a collaboration between William Sandys (1792-1874) and William Henry Husk (1814-1887). See Appendix 4.
Also found in Edith Rickert, Ancient English Christmas Carols (London: Chatto & Windus, 1914), p. 271.
Also found in A. H. Bullen, A Christmas Garland (London: John C. Nimmo, 1885), pp. 111-2. He also notes, at page 259,
"A very quaint and tender little poem. Another piece, entitled “New Heaven, New War,” is perhaps almost too quaint for modern readers; yet I venture to quote it in full: —
“Come to your heaven, you heavenly quires!
Earth bath the heaven of your desires;
Remove your dwelling to your God,
A stall is now his best abode
Sith men their homage do deny,
Come, angels, all their fault supply.
His chilling cold doth heat require,
Come, seraphims, in lieu of fire;
This little ark no cover hath,
Let cherubs’ wings his body swathe
Come, Raphael, this babe must eat,
Provide our little Toby meat.
Let Gabriel be now his groom,
That first took up his earthly room;
Let Michael stand in his defence,
Whom love bath linked to feeble sense
Let Graces rock when he doth cry,
And angels sing his lullaby.
The same you saw in heavenly seat
Is he that now sucks Mary’s teat;
Agnize your King a mortal wight,
His borrowed weed lets not your sight
Come kiss the manger where lie lies,
That is your bliss above the skies.
This little Babe 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 weak unarmed 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 shots 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, hay-stalks his stakes
Of shepherds he his muster makes
And thus, as sure his foe to wound,
The angels’ trumps alarum sound.
My soul, with Christ join thou in fight;
Stick to the tents that he bath pight;
Within his crib is surest ward,
This little Babe will be thy guard
If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy,
Then flit not from this Heavenly Boy.”
In his note, Bullen also reproduced “The Burning Babe,” and then continued:
"Ben Jonson told Drummond of Hawthornden that he would have been content to destroy many of his own writings if he had written “The Burning Babe.”
"Southwell’s longest poem, “St. Peter’s Complaint,” is smoothly written, but tedious. After three years’ close imprisonment in the Tower, Southwell was executed at Tyburn, on February 22, 5594—5, at the age of thirty-four or thirty-five. Though he was found guilty of treasonable practices, his sole offence was that he had been a zealous priest of the Church of Rome. He appears to have been a man of noble character, humble and gentle and intrepid. [In the last line of the penultimate stanza of “New Prince, New Pomp,” the word praisèd should be prizèd. I quoted from an inaccurate reprint.]"
Bullen reproduced this illustration by Henry G. Wells, inspired by a portion of the first verse.
"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."
Note: This song is treated as a seven verse carol, with burden, in the version printed by Martin Shaw and Percy Dearmer, The English Carol Book, Second Series (London: A. R. Mowbray & Co., Ltd., 1919), Carol #46.
Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, sing we with mirth!
Christ is come well, with us to dwell,
By his most noble birth.Behold a simple, 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.This 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 praisèd there.With joy approach, O Christian wight!
Do homage to thy King;
And highly praise this humble pomp,
Which he from heaven doth bring.
The poem is also found in Christmas: Its Origin, Celebration and Significance as Related in Prose and Verse - Robert Haven Schauffler (1907).
Editor's Note: The following note is from William Chappell, The Ballad Literature and Popular Music of the Olden Time. London: Chappell & Co., 1859, pp. 747-8.
We Are Poor Frozen Our Gardeners.
"This is the tune of many songs. If the reader should meet any half a-dozen men perambulating the streets of London together, and singing, the probabilities are great that they sing to this tune. Sometimes the men are dressed like sailors; at other times they look like workmen out of employment. I recollect hearing the tune at Kilburn, full forty years ago, and have, with tolerable annual regularity, ever since. I regret never having stopped to hear the words."
