Thre kynges comen fro Segent,

To Jhesu Cryst they browte present;
Lord God omnipotent,

Saf us alle throw thi vertu !

Jhesu deyid and schad his blod,
For al mankynde, upon the rod;
He graunt us grace of happis good,

I be-seke the, swete Jhesu!

Jhesu, for thi modere sake,

Kepe us fro the fyndis blake,

Azene hym that we mown wake,

And save us alle throw thi vertu!

VI.

[From MS. Sloane, No. 2593, fol. 57, ro.]

Nowel el el el el el el el el el el, Mary was gret with

Gabriel.

MARY moder, meke and mylde,

Fro schame and synne that ze us schyllde,

For gret on grownd ze gon with childe,

Gabriele nuncio.

Mary moder, be not a-dred,

Jhesu is in 3our body bred,

And of 30ur bryst he wil be fed,

cum pudoris lilio.

Mary moder, the frewit of the
For us was naylid on a tre,
In hevene is now his magesté,

fulget resurrexcio.

Mary moder, the thredde day
Up he ros, as I 30w say,

To helle he tok the ryzte way,

motu fertur proprio.

Mary moder, after thin sone

Up thou steyist with hym to wone,

The aungele wern glad quan thou were come,

in celi palacio.

VII.

[From MS. Sloane, No. 2593, fol. 63, ro.]

A NEW 3er! a new 3er! a chyld was i-born,
Us for to savyn that al was for-lorn,

So blyssid be the tyme!

The fader of hevene his owyn sone he sent,

His kyngdam for to cleymyn,

So blyssid be the tyme!

Al in a clene maydyn our Lord was i-lyzt,

Us for to savyn with al his myst,

So blyssid, etc.

Al of a clene maydyn our Lord was i-born,
Us for to savyn that al was for-lorn,

So blyssid, etc.

Lullay! lullay! lytil chyld, myn owyn dere fode,
How xalt thou sufferin be naylid on the rode?

So . .

Lullay! lullay! lytil chyld, myn owyn dere smerte, How xalt thou sufferin the scharp spere to thi herte? So . . .

Lullay! lullay! lytyl child, I synge al for thi sake, Many on is the scharpe schour to thi body is schape;

So . .

Lullay! lullay! lytyl child, fayre happis the be-falle!
How xal thou sufferin to drynke ezyl and galle?
So . . .

Lullay! lullay! lytil chyld, I syng al be-forn,
How xalt thou sufferin the scharp garlong of thorn?
So . . .

Lullay! lullay! lytil chyld, qwy wepy thou so sore? And art thou bothin God and man? quat woldyst thou be more?

So . .

Blyssid be the armys the chyld bar abowte!

And also the tetes the chyld on sowkyd!
So . . .

Blyssid be the moder! the chyld also!

With benedicamus Domino!

So blyssid be the tyme.

VIII.

[From MS. Sloane, No. 2593, fol. 70, ro.]

NOWEL el el el el el el el el el el el el el el el.

Mary moder, cum and se,

Thi sone is naylyd on a tre,

Hand and fot he may not ge,

His body is woundyn al in woo.

Thi swete sone, that thou hast born,

To save mankynde that was for-lorn,

His hed is wrethin in a thorn,

His blysful body is al to-torn.

Quan he this tale be-gan to telle,
Mary wold non longer dwelle,
But hyid here faste to that hylle,

Ther Jhesu his blod be-gan to spylle.

Myn swete sone, that art me dere,

Qwy han men hangyd the here?

Thi hed is wrethin in a brere;

Myn lovely sone, qwer is thi chere?

Thin swete body, that in me rest,

Thin comely mowth, that I have kest,

Now on rode is mad thi nest,

Leve chyld, quat is me best?

Woman, to Jon I the betake!

Jon, kyp this woman for myn sake,

For synful sowlys my deth I take,

On rode I hange for manys sake.

This game alone me muste play,

For synful sowle I deye to day,

Ther is no wy3t that goth be the way,

Of myn peynys can wel say.

IX.

[From MS. Sloane, No. 2593, fol. 71, ro.]

MAN, be glad in halle and bour,
This tyme was born our savyour.

In this tyme, Cryst hazt us sent
His owyn sone in present,

To dwelle with us verement,

To ben our helpe and socour.

In this tyme ros a sterre cler
Over Bedlem, as bryst as fer,
In tokenyng that he hadde non per,
Lord, god, kyng, and emperour.

In this tyme it is be-falle,
He that deyid for us alle,

Born he was in assis stalle,

Of Mary, that swete flour.