Honour the leaves and the leaves of life,
Upon this blest holiday,
When Jesus asked his mother dear,
Whether he might go to play.
To play! to play! said blessed Mary,
To play, then get you gone;
And see there be no complaint of you
At night when you come home.
Sweet Jesus, he ran unto yonder town,
As far as the holy well;
And there he saw three as fine children
As ever eyes beheld.
He said, “God bless you every one,
And sweet may your sleep be;
And now, little children, I’ll play with you,
And you shall play with me.”
“Nay, nay, we are lords’ and ladies’ sons—
Thou art meaner than us all;
Thou art but a silly fair maid’s child,
Born in an oxen’s stall.”
Sweet Jesus he turned himself about,
Neither laughed, nor smiled, nor spoke,
But the tears trickled down from his pretty little eyes,
Like waters from the rock.
Sweet Jesus he ran to his mother dear,
As fast as he could run—
O mother, I saw three as fine children
As ever were eyes set on.
I said “God bless you every one,
And sweet may your sleep be—
And now, little children, I’ll play with you,
And you shall play with me.”
“Nay,” said they, “we’re lords’ and ladies’ sons,
Thou art meaner than us all;
For thou art but a poor fair maid’s child,
Born in an oxen’s stall.”
Then the tears trickled down from his pretty little eyes
As fast as they could fall.
“Then,” said she, “go down to yonder town,
As far as the holy well,
And there take up those infants’ souls,
And dip them deep in hell.”
“O no! O no!” sweet Jesus then said,
“O no! that never can be;
For there are many of those infants’ souls
Crying out for the help of me!”
I must not close this article either without recalling to the recollection of some of my readers that quaint old carol, which was sung by bands of little children at Christmas, and which brings fairly before us the paintings of the old masters, where Joseph is always represented as so old a man, and Mary sits in the “oxen’s stall” with her crown on her head.
Joseph was an old man, and an old man was he,
And he married Mary, the Queen of Galilee.