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WINTER SONG

Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare,

Ofte y sike ant mourne sare,

When hit cometh in my thoth

Of this worldes joie, how hit goth al to noht.

Now hit is, ant now hit nys,

Also hit ner nere y-wys,

That moni mon seith soth hit ys,

Al goth bote Godes wille,

Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.

Al that gren me graueth greene,
Nou hit faleweth al by-dene;

Jhesu, help that hit be sene,

Ant shild us from helle:

For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.

A SONG TO THE VIRGIN

Of on that is so fayr and bright
Velut maris stella,

Brighter than the dayis light,
Parens et puella:

Ic crie to thee, thou see to me,
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,
Tam pia,

That ic mote come to thee,
Maria.

Al this world was for-lore
Eva peccatrice,

Tyl our Lord was y-bore
De te genetrice.

With ave it went away

Thuster nyth and cometh the day

Salutis;

The wellé springeth ut of thee,

Virtutis.

Levedy, flour of alle thing,
Rosa sine spina,

Thu bere Jhesu, hevene king,
Gratia divina:

Of alle thou ber'st the pris,
Levedy, quene of paradys

Electa:

Mayde milde, moder es

Effecta.

SHEPHERD'S SONG

Tyrle, tyrle, so merrylye the shepperdes begin to blowe.

Abowt the fyld thei pyped full right,
Even abowt the middes off the nyght;
Adown frome heven thei saw cum a light.
Tyrle, tyrle, etc.

Off angels ther came a company,
With mery songes and melody.

The shepperdes anonne gane them aspy.
Tyrle, tyrle, etc.

Gloria in excelsis, the angels song,

And said, who peace was present among, To every man that to the faith would long. Tyrle, tyrle, etc.

The shepperdes hyed them to Bethleme,
To se that blyssid sons beme;

And thor they found that glorious streme.
Tyrle, tyrle, etc.

Now preye we to that mek chyld,

And to His mothere that is so myld,

The wich was never defylyd,

Tyrle, tyrle, etc.

That we may cum unto His blysse,
Where joy shall never mysse,
Than may we syng in Paradice;
Tyrle, tyrle, etc.

I pray yow all that be here,
Fore to syng and mak good chere,
In the worship off God thys yere.
Tyrle, tyrle, etc.

CAROL OF THE VIRGIN

I sing of a maiden

That is makeles;

King of all kings

To her Son she ches.

He came al so still

There His mother was,

As dew in April

That falleth on the grass.

He came al so still

To His mother's bour,

As dew in April

That falleth on the flour.

He came al so still

There His mother lay,
As dew in April

That falleth on the spray.

Mother and maiden

Was never none but she;
Well may such a lady
Goddes mother be.

FIFTEENTH CENTURY CAROLS

THE KING'S SON

From a Manuscript at Balliol College, Oxford

Mater, ora filium,

Ut post hoc exilium
Nobis donet gaudium
Beatorum omnium!

Fair maiden, who is this bairn

That thou bearest in thine arm?
Sir, it is a Kingés Son,

That in Heaven above doth wone.
Mater, ora, etc.

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