A baby is borne us blis to bring;
A maidden, I hard, Loullay, sing:
Dere son, now leive thy wepping,
Thy fadere is the King of Blis.
Nay! Dere modere, for you weppe I noght,
But for thinges that shall be wroght,
Or that I have mankind iboght.
Was ther never pain like it, iwis.
Pes! dere sone, say thou me not so.
Thou art my child, I have no mo.
Alas! That I shuld see this wo:
It were to me gret heivynis.
My hondes, modere, that ye now see,
Thay shall be nailed one a tree;
My feit, also, fastned shall be:
Full mony shall wepe that it shall see.
Alas! dere son, sorrow now is my happe
To see my child that soukes my pappe
So ruthfully taken out of my lappe.
It were to me gret heivynis.
Also, modere, ther shall a speire
My tendere hert all to-teire:
The blud shall kevere my body there.
Gret ruthe it shall be to see.
A! dere sone, that is a heivy cas.
When Gabrell knelled before my face
And said, Heille! Lady, full of grace,
He never told me nothing of this.
Dere modere, pes! Nowe I you pray,
And take no sorrow for that I say,
But singe this song, By, by, loullay,
To drive away all heivynis.
