Classic Poem

Lollay, lollay, little child, why wepestou so sore?
Nedes mostou wepe--it was iyarked thee yore
Ever to lib in sorow, and sich and mourne evere,
As thine eldren did er this, whil hi alives were.
Lollay, lollay, little child, child, lollay, lullow,
Into uncuth world icommen so ertou.

Bestes, and thos foules, the fisses in the flode,
And euch shef alives, imaked of bone and blode,
Whan hi commeth to the world, hi doth hamsilf sum gode,
All bot the wrech brol that is of Adames blode.
Lollay, lollay, little child, to car ertou bemette;
Thou nost noght this worldes wild before thee is isette.

Child, if betideth that thou shalt thrive and thee,
Thench thou wer ifostred up thy moder kne:
Ever hab mund in thy hert of thos thinges thre,
Whan thou commest, what thou art, and what shall com of thee.
Lollay, lollay, little child, child, lollay, lollay,
With sorrow thou com into this world, with sorrow shalt wend away.

Ne tristou to this world: it is thy ful fo.
The rich he maketh pouer, the pore rich also.
It turneth woe to wel, and ek wel to wo.
Ne trist no man to this world whil it turneth so.
Lollay, lollay, little child, the fote is in the whele:
Thou nost whoder turne, to wo other wele.

Child, thou ert a pilgrim in wikedness ibor:
Thou wandrest in this fals world--thou lok thee befor!
Deth shall come with a blast, ute of a well dim horre,
Adames kin dun to cast, himsilf hath ido befor.
Lollay, lollay, little child, so wo thee worp Adam,
In the lond of paradis, throgh wikedness of Satan.

Child, thou nert a pilgrim bot an uncuthe guest:
Thy dawes beth itold, thy jurneys beth icest.
Whoder thou shalt wend, north other est,
Deth thee shall betide with bitter bale in brest.
Lollay, lollay, little child, this wo Adam thee wroght,
Whan he of the apple ete and Eve it him betoght.