Lullay, my chyld, and wepe no more,
Slepe and be now styll;
The kyng of blys thi fader ys,
As it was hys wyll.
This endrys ny3t I saw a sy3th,
A mayde a cradyllkepe,
And ever she song and seyd among,
Lullay, my child, and slepe.
I may not slep, but I may wepe,
I am so wo begone;
Slep I old, butt I am colde,
And clothys have I none.
Me thou3t I hard, the chyld answard,
And to hys moder he sayd,
My moder der, what do I her,
In crybbe why am I layd.
I was borne and layd beforne
Bestys, both ox and asse.
My moder myld, I am thi chyld,
But he my fader was.
Adams gylt this man had spylt,
That syn grevyt me sore;
Man, for the her shal I be
Thyrty wynter and mor.
Dole it is to se, her shall I be
Hang upon the rode,
With baleis to-bete, my woundes to-wete,
And 3effe my fleshe to bote.
Her shal I be hanged on a tre,
And dye as it is skyll;
That I have bou3t lesse wyll I nou3t,
It is my faders wyll.
A spere so scharp shall perse my herte,
For dedys that I have done.
Fader of grace, where thou hase
Forgetyn thy lytyll sonne.
Withoutyn pety her shall aby,
And mak my flese al blo.
Adam i-wys, this deth it ys
For the and many mo.
Lullay My Chyld And Wepe No More Video (MV)
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Lullay, my chyld, and wepe no more,
Slepe and be now styll;
The kyng of blys thi fader ys,
As it was hys wyll.
This endrys ny3t I saw a sy3th,
A mayde a cradyllkepe,
And ever she song and seyd among,
Lullay, my child, and slepe.
I may not slep, but I may wepe,
I am so wo begone;
Slep I old, butt I am colde,
And clothys have I none.
Me thou3t I hard, the chyld answard,
And to hys moder he sayd,
My moder der, what do I her,
In crybbe why am I layd.
I was borne and layd beforne
Bestys, both ox and asse.
My moder myld, I am thi chyld,
But he my fader was.
Adams gylt this man had spylt,
That syn grevyt me sore;
Man, for the her shal I be
Thyrty wynter and mor.
Dole it is to se, her shall I be
Hang upon the rode,
With baleis to-bete, my woundes to-wete,
And 3effe my fleshe to bote.
Her shal I be hanged on a tre,
And dye as it is skyll;
That I have bou3t lesse wyll I nou3t,
It is my faders wyll.
A spere so scharp shall perse my herte,
For dedys that I have done.
Fader of grace, where thou hase
Forgetyn thy lytyll sonne.
Withoutyn pety her shall aby,
And mak my flese al blo.
Adam i-wys, this deth it ys
For the and many mo.
Slepe and be now styll;
The kyng of blys thi fader ys,
As it was hys wyll.
This endrys ny3t I saw a sy3th,
A mayde a cradyllkepe,
And ever she song and seyd among,
Lullay, my child, and slepe.
I may not slep, but I may wepe,
I am so wo begone;
Slep I old, butt I am colde,
And clothys have I none.
Me thou3t I hard, the chyld answard,
And to hys moder he sayd,
My moder der, what do I her,
In crybbe why am I layd.
I was borne and layd beforne
Bestys, both ox and asse.
My moder myld, I am thi chyld,
But he my fader was.
Adams gylt this man had spylt,
That syn grevyt me sore;
Man, for the her shal I be
Thyrty wynter and mor.
Dole it is to se, her shall I be
Hang upon the rode,
With baleis to-bete, my woundes to-wete,
And 3effe my fleshe to bote.
Her shal I be hanged on a tre,
And dye as it is skyll;
That I have bou3t lesse wyll I nou3t,
It is my faders wyll.
A spere so scharp shall perse my herte,
For dedys that I have done.
Fader of grace, where thou hase
Forgetyn thy lytyll sonne.
Withoutyn pety her shall aby,
And mak my flese al blo.
Adam i-wys, this deth it ys
For the and many mo.