Medieval Lyrics

Nu goth Sonne

Nu goth Sonne under wode.
Me rueth, Mary, thy faire rode.
Nu goth Sonne under tree.
Me rueth, Mary, thy Sone and thee.

Now goes sun beneath woods.
I pity, Mary, thy fair face.
Now goes sun under tree.
I pity, Mary, thy Son and thee.

Summer is i-comen in

Summer is i-comen in,
Loude sing cucku!
Groweth seed and bloweth meed
And springeth the woode nu.
Sing cucku!

Ewe bleateth after lamb,
Loweth after calve cu;
Bullock sterteth; bucke ferteth
Murry sing cucku!
Cucku, cucku!
Ne swik thu never nu.

Sing cucku nu, sing cucku!
Sing cucku nu, sing cucku!

Stabat Mater

There stood the Mother deeply sorrowing
At the Cross-side, tears outpouring,
As they hanged her Son, her Christ;
How her heart was gravely groaning,
Wracked with pain and full of moaning,
As the swords inside her sliced.

Ah, the grieving, great affliction
Heaped on this maid of benediction,
Mother of the Chosen One;
Full of suffering, filled with pining
She stood shuddering while divining
The penalties for her great Son.

Stetit Puella

There stood the girl
In the crimson dress
At the softest press,
How that tunic rustled:
Eia!

There stood the girl,
Rosebud on a vine;
Face ashine,
Mouth a reddish bloom.
Eia!

I singe of a Maiden

I singe of a Maiden
That is makeless;
King of all kinges
To her Sone she ches.

He cam all so stille
Ther his Moder was,
As dew in Aperille
That falleth on the grass.

He cam all so stille
To his Modres bour,
As dew in Aperille
That falleth on the flour.

He cam all so stille
Ther his Moder lay,
As dew in Aperille
That falleth on the spray.

Moder and maiden
Was nevere non but she.
Well may swich a lady
Goddes Moder be.

I have a gentil cock

I have a gentil cock,
Croweth me the day;
He doth me risen erly,
My matins for to say.

I have a gentil cock;
Comen he is of gret:
His comb is of red coral,
His tayil is of jet.

I have a gentil cock;
Comen he is of kynde;
His comb is of red coral,
His tayil is of Inde.

His legges been of asor,
So gentil and so smale;
His spures arn of silver-whyt
Into the wortewale.

His eyen arn of crystal,
Looking all in aumber;
And every nyght he percheth him
In myn lady’s chaumber.

In a garden under a hawthorn bower

In a garden under a hawthorn bower
A lover to his lady’s closely drawn
Until a watchman shouts the mourning hour.
O God! O God! how swift it comes—the dawn!

“Dear God, if this night would never fail
And my lover never far from me was gone,
And the watchman never saw the morning pale
But, O my God! how swift it comes—the dawn!”

“Come, pretty boy, give me a little kiss
Down in the meadow where birds sing endless song.
Forget my husband! Think—just think of this—
For, O my God! how swift it comes—the dawn!”

“Hurry, my boy. The new games end at morn.
Down to that garden—those birds—that song!
Play, play till the crier blows his horn,
For, O my God! how swift it comes—the dawn!”

“Down in the sweet air over the meadow hovering
I drank a sweet draught—long, so long—
Out of the air of my handsome, noble lover.
O God! O God! how swift it comes—the dawn!”

The lady’s pretty. She has many charms.
Toward her beauty many men are drawn.
But she lies happy in one pair of arms.
O God! O God! how swift it comes—the dawn!

I have a yong syster

I have a yong syster
Fer beyonde the see;
Many be the drueries
That she sente me.

She sente me the cherry
Withouten any ston;
And so she did the dove
Withouten any bon.

She sente me the brere
Withouten any rinde;
She bad me love my lemman
Withouten longinge.

How should any brere
Be withouten rinde?
How should I love my lemman
Withouten longinge?

Whan the cherry was a flour,
Than hadde it no ston.
Whan the dove was an ey,
Than hadde it no bon.

Whan the brere was unbred
Than hadde it no rinde.
Whan the maid hath that she loveth
She is without longinge.

In the sweetness of the budding spring

In the sweetness of the budding spring
When woods are leafing, winged things
Cast their songs in native speech
By the verse of their own spring chant;
Ah, then for men it’s right that each
Should have the easing that he wants.

From where all’s goodness, all is beauty,
Comes no seal, no runner on duty,
And so my heart can’t laugh or rest;
And I dare not draw on for a task
Till I know if my entire behest
Will be fulfilled as I have asked.

Our love affair will be reborn
Like a branch upon a hawthorn
Which, trembling over the trunk, will sway
At nighttime in the hail and rain,
But comes the dawn, the sun’s bright rays
Make leaf and branch all green again.

O I still remember that day
When we signed a truce to our fray,
And she gave me that gift I adore:
Her loving, with ring in troth.
God, let me live some more
To put my hand beneath her cloak!

No strange Latin do I need
To part my Good Neighbor from me:
For I know how the gossiping spreads
In some quick talk that runs rife.
We don’t need to brag how our love’s bred:
No, we have the meat and the knife!