Classic Poem

This yonder night I sawe a sighte:
A sterre as bright as ony daye;
And ever amonge a maidene songe,
“By by, lully, lullaye.”

This maiden hight Mary, she was full milde,
She knelede bifore here owne dere childe.
She lullede, she lappede,
She rullede, she wrapped,
She wepped withoutene nay;
She rullede him, she dressede him,
She lissed him, she blessed him,
She sange: “Dere sone, lullay.”

She saide: “Dere sone, ly still and slepe.
What cause hast thu so sore to wepe,
With sighing, with snobbinge;
With crying and with scrycchinge,
All this londe-day;
And thus wakinge with sore wepinge,
With many salt teres droppinge?
Ly stille, dere sone, I thee pray.”

“Moder,” he saide, “for man I wepe so sore
And for his love I shall be tore
With scorging, with thretning,
With bobbing, with beting—
For sothe, moder, I saye—
And on a crosse full hy hanging,
And to my herte foll sore sticking
A spere on Good Fridaye.”

This maidene aunswerde with hevy chere:
“Shalt thu thus sofere, my swete sone dere?
Now I morne, now I muse,
I all gladness refuse—
I, ever for this day.
My dere sone, I thee pray,
This paine thu put away,
And if it possibil be may.”