Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, / Why do ye fall so fast?
Before man's fall the rose was born,St. Ambrose says, without the thorn;But for man's fault then was the thornWithout the fragrant rose-bud born; But ne'er the rose without the thorn.
Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, for a benison to fall on our meat, and on us all. Amen.
Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot, or not, to be content with all.
Here a little child I stand, / Heaving up my either hand; / Cold as paddocks though they be, / Here I lift them up to Thee, / For a benison to fall / On our meat, and on us all. Amen.