WINTER SONG Wynter wakeneth al my care, 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, 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 Brighter than the dayis light, Ic crie to thee, thou see to me, That ic mote come to thee, Al this world was for-lore Tyl our Lord was y-bore With ave it went away Thuster nyth and cometh the day Salutis; The wellé springeth ut of thee, Virtutis. Levedy, flour of alle thing, Thu bere Jhesu, hevene king, Of alle thou ber'st the pris, 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, Off angels ther came a company, The shepperdes anonne gane them aspy. 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, And thor they found that glorious streme. 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, I pray yow all that be here, 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, That falleth on the spray. Mother and maiden Was never none but she; FIFTEENTH CENTURY CAROLS THE KING'S SON From a Manuscript at Balliol College, Oxford Mater, ora filium, Ut post hoc exilium Fair maiden, who is this bairn That thou bearest in thine arm? That in Heaven above doth wone. |