Hodie Christus Natus Est
Hodie Christus natus est,
Hodie salvator apparuit.
Hodie in terra canut angeli:
Laetantur archangeli.
Hodie exultant justi, dicentes:
Gloria in excelsis Deo,
Alleluia.
Wolcom Yole
Wolcom be thou heavenly kyng!
Wolcom yole!
Wolcom born in one mornyng!
Wolcom ale for whom we sall syng!
Wolcom be ye Stephene and Johne!
Wolcom be ye goode newe yere!
Wolcom yole!
Candlemesse, Queen of blisse,
Wolcom bothe to more and lesse!
Wolcom be ye that are here!
Wolcom ale and make goode cheer!
Wolcom ale another yere!
Wolcom yole!
Ther is no Rose
Ther is no rose of swytch virtu,
As is the rose that bare Jesu.
Alleluia.
For in this Rose contained was
Heaven and earth in little space.
Resmiranda.
By that rose we may well see,
Ther beone Gode in persons thre.
Paresforma.
The aungel sungen, the sheepherds toe,
Gloria in excelsis Deo.
Gaudeamus
Leave we all this worldly mirth,
And follow we this joyful birth.
Transeamus.
That Yonge Childe
That yonge childe when nip and weap,
With songes she lulled him alseep.
That was so sweet a melody,
It passed all the minsterylse.
The nightengale sang also.
Her song is course and not ther toe.
Who so I did neth to her song,
And leaveth the first then doth he wrong.
Oh Me Dere Hert
Oh me dere hert yonge Jesu sweet,
Prepare thy cradil in me sprit,
I sall rock thee to me hert,
And never mare from thee depart.
But I sall praise thee evermore
With sanges sweet unto thy glore
The knees of me hert sall I bow,
And syng that riche Balulalow.
I Syng of a Mayden
I syng of a mayden
That is makeles,
Kyng of alle kynges
To her sone che ches.
He cam also stylle
Ther His moder was,
As dew in Aprylle
That fallyt on the gras.
He cam also stylle
To His moder's bowr,
As dew in Aprylle
That fallyt on the flour.
He cam also stylle
Ther His moder lay
As dew as Aprylle
That fallyt on the spray.
Moder and Mayden
Was never none but Che.
Well may swych a Ladi
Godes moder be.
This Little Babe
This little Babe so few days old
Has come to rifle Satan's fold.
All hell doth at His presence quake,
Though He Himself for cold do shake.
For in this weak unarmed wise,
The gates of hell He will surprise.
With tears He fights and wins the field,
His naked breast stands for a shield.
His battering shots are babish cries,
His arrows looks of weeping eyes.
His marshal ensigns cold and need,
And feeble flesh His warrior's steed.
His camp is pitched in a stall,
His bulwark but a broken wall.
His crib His trench, haystalks His stakes,
Of shepherds He His muster makes.
And thus He's sure His foe to wound
The angel's trumpalarum sound.
My soul with Christ join thou and fight.
Stick to the tents that He hath pight.
Within His crib, the surest ward;
This little Babe will be thy guard,
If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy,
Then flit not from this heavenly boy.
Pleasure it is to Hear I Wys
Pleasure it is
To hear I wys,
The birdes syng,
The deer in the dale,
The sheep in the vale,
The corn springing.
Godes previance
For sustiance,
It is for man.
Then we awake
To give Him praise
And thank Him then.
Adam Lay-i Bounden
Adam lay-i bounden,
Bounden in a bond,
Four thowsand winter
Thowt he not too long;
And al was for an appil,
An appil that he tok,
As clerkes finden wretyn
In ther book.
Ne hadde appil taken ben,
The appil take ben,
Ne hadde never our Ladie,
A ben hevene quene.
Blyssid be the time
That appil take was,
Therefore we moun singen,
Deo Gracias.