Lullay my chyld and wepe no more

Lullay, my chyld, and wepe no more,
    Slepe and be now styll;
The kyng of blys thi fader ys,
    As it was hys wyll.

This endrys ny3t I saw a sy3th,
    A mayde a cradyllkepe,
And ever she song and seyd among,
    Lullay, my child, and slepe.

I may not slep, but I may wepe,
    I am so wo begone;
Slep I old, butt I am colde,
    And clothys have I none.

Me thou3t I hard, the chyld answard,
    And to hys moder he sayd,
My moder der, what do I her,
    In crybbe why am I layd.

I was borne and layd beforne
    Bestys, both ox and asse.
My moder myld, I am thi chyld,
But he my fader was.

Adams gylt this man had spylt,
    That syn grevyt me sore;
Man, for the her shal I be
    Thyrty wynter and mor.

Dole it is to se, her shall I be
    Hang upon the rode,
With baleis to-bete, my woundes to-wete,
    And 3effe my fleshe to bote.

Her shal I be hanged on a tre,
    And dye as it is skyll;
That I have bou3t lesse wyll I nou3t,
    It is my faders wyll.

A spere so scharp shall perse my herte,
    For dedys that I have done.
Fader of grace, where thou hase
    Forgetyn thy lytyll sonne.

Withoutyn pety her shall aby,
    And mak my flese al blo.
Adam i-wys, this deth it ys
    For the and many mo.