1. Dear Son, Leave Thy Weeping
A baby ys borne vs blys to bryng;
A mayddyn I hard loullay synge:
‘Dyre son, now leyfe thi weppng,
Thy fadyre ys þe kyng of blys.’
‘Nay, dere modyre, for yow weppe I noȝt,
But for þingis þat schall be wroȝt
Or þat I have mankynd I-boȝt;
Was þer neuer payn lyke yt I-wys.’
‘Pes, dyre sone, say þou me not soo!
Thow art my chyld, I have noo moo.
Alas! þat I schwld see þis woo,
Hyt were to me gret heyuenys.’
‘My hondys, modyre, þat ȝe now see,
Thay schall be nayllyd one a tre;
My feyt all-soo fastnyd schal be—
fful monny schall wepe þat hit schall see.’
‘Alas! dyre son, sowerov now ys my happe;
To see my chyld þat sovkys my pappe
So rwthfully takyn ovt of my lape,
Hyt wer to me gret heyuenys.’
‘Alsoo, modyre, þer schall a speyre
My tendure hert all to-teyre;
The blud schall keuyre my body þer—
Gret rwthe yt schall be to see.’
‘A! dere sone, þat is a heyvy cas;
When gabrell cnellyd before my face,
And sayd “heylle lady full of grace”,
He neuer told me nooþing of þis.’
‘Dere modyre, peys, nowe I yow pray,
And take noo sorrow for þat I say;
But synnge þis song “by by lowllay”,
To dryfe away all heyuenys.’
