When that our gen­tle Lord was born,
And cra­dled in the hay,
There rode three wise men from the east—
Three rich wise men were they—
All in the star­ry night they came
Their hom­age gifts to pay.

They got them down from cam­el-back,
The cat­tle shed before,
And in the dark­ness vain­ly sought
A great latch on the door;
Ho, this is strange, quoth Bal­tha­zar,
Aye, strange, quoth Mel­chi­or.

Quoth Gas­par, I can find no hasp,
Well hidd­en is the lock;
The door, quoth Mel­ch­ior, is stout
And fast, our skill to mock;
Quoth Balthazar, The lit­tle King
Might wake, we dare not knock.

The three wise men they sat them down
To wait for morn­ing dawn,
The cun­ning wards of that old door
They thought and mar­veled on;
Quoth they, No gate in all the East
Hath bar-bolts tight­er drawn.

Anon there came a lit­tle lad
With lamb­skins for the King,
He had no key, he raised no latch,
He touched no hid­den spring,
But gent­ly pushed the silent door
And op­en it gan swing.

A mi­ra­cle! a mi­ra­cle!
Cried out the wise men three;
A lit­tle child hath solved the locks
That could not op­ened be.
In won­der spake the shep­herd lad,
It hath no locks, quoth he.