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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Twa Corbies, recorded by Cannach

Twa Corbies (or Two Ravens) is a traditional Scottish/English folk song. It was first collected and published in 1611 by Thomas Ravenscroft (tell me that isn’t just fun, name-wise), in his collection Melismata. It is recorded as Child Ballad #26.

International Music Source Library Project’s Entry (includes PDF sheet music): [Link]

There is a “happier” version of the song, but I like the cynical one better.

Lyrics:

As I was walking a’ alane,
I heard twa corbies makin’ a mane.
The tane untae the tither did say,
Whaur sail we gang and dine the day, O.
Whaur sail we gang and dine the day?

It’s in ahint yon auld fail dyke
I wot there lies a new slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk and his hound, and his lady fair, O.
But his hawk and his hound, and his lady fair.

His hound is to the hunting gane
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady ta’en anither mate,
So we may mak’ our dinner swate, O.
So we may mak’ our dinner swate.

Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I’ll pike oot his bonny blue e’en
Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair
We’ll theek oor nest when it grows bare, O.

We’ll theek oor nest when it grows bare.
There’s mony a ane for him maks mane
But nane sail ken whaur he is gane
O’er his white banes when they are bare
The wind sail blaw for evermair, O.
The wind sail blaw for evermair.

Happy October!

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