Holy angels and blest,
  Through the palms as ye sweep
Hold their branches at rest
  For my babe is asleep.

And ye Bethlehem palm-trees
  As stormy winds rush
In tempest and fury
  Your angry noise hush;-
Move gently, move gently,
  Restrain your wild sweep;
Hold your branches at rest
  My babe is asleep.

My babe all divine,
  With earth’s sorrows oppressed,
Seeks slumber an instant
  His grievings to rest;
He slumbers,- he slumbers,-
  O, hush then and keep
Your branches all still,-
  My babe is asleep.

Cold blasts wheel about him,-
  A rigourous storm,-
And ye see how, in vain,
  I would shelter his form;-
Holy angels and blest
  As above me ye sweep,
Hold these branches at rest,-
  My babe is asleep.