This little Babe so few days old,  [bad word] to rifle Satan's fold; 
All [bad word] doth at his presence quake, 
Though he himself for cold do shake; 
For in this weak unarmed wise
The gates of [bad word] he will surprise. 

With tears he fights and wins the field, 
His naked breast stands for a shield; 
His battering shot are babish cries, 
His arrows made 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' [bad word] alarum 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 be thy guard; 
If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy, 
Then flit not from this heavenly boy.