Als I lay on Yoolis Night,
Alone in my longynge,
I thought I saw a well faire sight,
A maid hir child rockynge.

Lullaye, lullaye, lullaye, lullaye,
My dere moder, synge lullaye.

The maiden wolde withouten song,
Hir childe aslepe to brynge.
The Childe, he thought she did him wrong,
And bade his moder synge.

Lullaye, lullaye, lullaye, lullaye,
My dere moder, synge lullaye.

“Synge, now, Moder,” sayed the Childe,
“Of what shalle me befalle,
Hereafter, when i cum to eld,
For so don modres alle.”

Lullaye, lullaye, lullaye, lullaye,
My dear moder, synge lullaye.

“Ich moder truely,
That can hir cradle kepe,
Is won to lullen lovely
And singen hir childe aslepe.”

Lullaye, lullaye, lullaye, lullaye,
My dear moder, synge lullaye.

“Swete moder, faire and fre,
Sithen that it is so,
I pray thee that thou lullen me,
For so don modres alle.”

Lullaye, lullaye, lullaye, lullaye,
My dear moder, synge lullaye.

“Swete sonne,” sayed she,
“Whereof shoulde I synge?
Wist I never yet more of thee
But Gabriele’s gretynge.

Lullaye, lullaye, lullaye, lullaye,
My dear moder, synge lullaye.

"He grete me godely on his knee
And sayed, "Oh, hail Mary!
Hail, full of grace.  God is with thee,
And beren thou shalt Messye.”

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