Our Lady's Song

Iesu, swete sone dere!
On porful bed list thou here,
And that me greveth sore;
For thi cradel is ase a bere,
Oxe and asse beth thi fere:
Weepe ich mai tharfore.

Iesu, swete, beo noth wroth,
Thou ich nabbe clout ne cloth
The on for to folde,
The on to folde ne to wrappe,
For iche nabbe clout ne lappe;
Bote ley thou thi fet to my pappe,
And wite the from the colde.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Ancient Boar's Head Carol. In die natiuitat

Nowell, nowell, nowell, nowell,
Tydyng' gode y thyngke to telle
The borys hede that we bryng here,
Betokeneth a p'nce with owte pere,
Ys born this day to bye v' dere,
Nowell, &c.

A bore ys a souerayn beste,
And acceptable in eu'y feste,
So mote thys lorde be to moste & leste,
Nowell, &c.

This borys hede we bryng with song,
In worchyp of hym that thus sprang
Of a virgine to redresse all wrong,
Nowell, &c.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Carol

I sing of a maiden
That is makeles;
King of all kings
To her son she ches.

He came al so still
There his mother was,
As dew in April
That falleth on the grass.

He came al so still
To his mother's bour,
As dew in April,
That falleth on the flour.

He came al so still
There his mother lay,
As dew in April
That falleth on the spray.

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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I Sing Of A Maiden

I syng of a mayden
That is mak{.e}les;
Kyng of all{.e} kyng{.e}s
To here Son{.e} sche ches.

He cam also stylle
There his moder was
As dew in Aprylle
That fallyt on the gras;

He cam also stylle
To his moderes bowr
As dew in Aprille
That fallyt on the flour;

He cam also stylle
There his moder lay
As dew in Aprille
That fallyt on the spray;

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Creature Is That Humane Flesh Deuoures

A creature is that humane flesh deuoures,
From out whose bowels fatnesse may be taken,
That being dried by fire, a certaine houres
Will waxe as hard, as crust of bread well baken,
Which fat dissolued, and with the leane confused
Of that bodie, from whom you must it take,
May be with skill and industrie so vsed,
That a confection thereof we doe make
Greatly helping, though it be held no woonder
Against all tempest, lightning and thunder.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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I Have A Gentil Cock

I have a gentil cock
croweth me day
he doth me risen early
my matins for to stay

I have a gentil cock
comen he is of great
his comb is of red coral
his tail is of jet

I have a gentil cock
comen he is of kind
his comb is of red sorrel
his tail is of inde

his legs be of azure
so gentil and so small
his spurs are of silver white
into the wortewale

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Epitaph of William Walworth

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame,
William Walworth callyd by name;
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here,
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere;
Who, with courage stout and manly myght,
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight.
For which act done, and trew entent,
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent;
And gave him armes, as here you see,
To declare his fact and chivaldrie.
He left this lyff the yere of our God
Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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This World's Joy

Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou thise leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike and mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit geth al to noht.

Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Al so hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.

Al that gren me graveth grene,
Nou hit faleweth al bydene:
Jehsu, help that hit be sene
And shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Weep you no more, sad fountains

Weep you no more, sad fountains;
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste.
But my sun's heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that peace begets:
Doth not the sun rise smiling
When fair at even he sets?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes,
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Knight of the Grail

Lully, lully; lully, lulley;
The fawcon hath born my mak away.

He bare hym vp, he bare hym down;
He bare hym into an orchard brown.

In that orchard ther was an hall,
That was hangid with purpill and pall.

And in that hall ther was a bede;
Hit was hangid with gold so rede.

And yn that bed ther lythe a knyght,
His wowndes bledyng day and nyght.

By that bedes side ther kneleth a may,
And she wepeth both nyght and day.

And by that beddes side ther stondith a ston,
'Corpus Christi' wretyn theron.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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