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By Nancy Campbell

Little Christ was good, and lay

Sleeping, smiling in the hay;

Never made the cows round eyes

Open wider at His cries;

Never when the night was dim,

Startled guardian Seraphim,

Who above Him in the beams

Kept their watch round His white dreams;

Let the rustling brown mice creep

Undisturbed about His sleep.

Yet if it had not been so—

Had He been like one I know,

Fought with little fumbling hands,

Kicked inside His swaddling bands,

Puckered wilful crimsoning face—

Mary Mother, full of grace,

At that little naughty thing,

Still had been a-worshipping.