Rejoysing greatly at the same,

And praisinge Godes most holye name,
For sending downe his only sonne
For our salvacyone to be bourne;
Which was as now this Christenmas,
Rejoyce therefor, bothe more and lesse.

XXIX.

[MS. Cott. Vesp. A. xxv. fol. 168, vo.]

A CHRISTENMESSE CARROLL.

A BONNE, God wote!

Stickes in my throate,
Without I have a draught
Of cornie aile,

Nappy and staile,

My lyffe lyes in great wauste.

Some ayle or beare,

Gentill butlere,

Some lycoure thou hus showe,

Such as you mashe,

Our throtes to washe,

The best were that yow brew.

Saint, master, and knight,

That saint Mault hight,

Were prest betwen two stones;

That swet humour

Of his lycoure

Would make us sing at once.

Mr. Wortley,

I dar well say,

I tell you as I thinke,
Would not, I say,

Byd hus this day,

But that we shuld have drink.

XXX.

[MS. Cott. Vesp. a. xxv. p. 172, r". imperfect at the end.]

PRAISE we the Lord that haith no peare,
And thanke we hym for this new yere!

The second person in Trinitié,
Man to restore to lybertie,

The shape of hym to tak certaine
Dyd not refusse, but was full fayne.

On earthe he teached many a yere,
Willing mankinde for to forebeare
When he were up to fall againe,
And then of hym he would be faine.

When he had taught and preched longe,
He choysse out twelff our selves amonge,
To whom he would gyve knowledg plaine,
To teache the truth, which maid them faine.

When he had wrought thus for our sake,
His deth full mekely he did take,

His hart with speare was rent in twaine,
Man to reedeme he was so faine.

But all this same we do forgett,

By hym right nought that we do sett,

E

From synne we wyll no whytt refraine,
To love the world we be so faine.

Let hus take up our selves in tyme,
From darknes let hus seke to clyme,
Or that our bodye by dethe be slaine,
Our Lord we let-

He be faie

FFINIS.

XXXI.

[From MS. Addit. in Mus. Brit. No. 5665, fol. 5, vo, written in the reign of Henry VIII. This is the MS. formerly in the possession of Ritson.]

NOWELL, nowell, nowell, nowell,
Tydynges gode y thyngke to telle.

The borys hede, that we bryng here,
Betokeneth a prince withowte pere,
Ys borne this day to bye us dere,

A bore ys a soverayn beste,

nowell.

And acceptabe in every feste;

So mote thys lord be to moste and leste,

nowell.

This borys hede we bryng with song,
In worchyp of hym that thus sprang

Of a virgine, to redresse alle wrong;

nowell.

1

XXXII.

[From MS. Addit. No. 5665, fol. 6, vo.]

NOWELL, nowell, nowell, nowell,

Who ys ther that syngith so nowell, nowell, nowell?

I am here, syre Crystesmasse,

Wellcome, my lord syre Christesmasse,

Wellcome to us alle bothe more and lasse;

come nere, nowell.

Diew wous garde, byewe syre, tydynges y 30u bryng, A mayde hathe born a chylde fulle song,

The weche causeth for to syng,

nowell.

Criste is now born of a pure mayde,

In an oxe stalle he ys layde,

Wherefor syng we alle atte a brayde,

nowell.

Bevvez bien par tutte la company,
Make gode chere and be ryght mery,
And syng with us now joyfully,

nowell.