Benjamin Britten - this little Babe | Текст песни

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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!

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