Three Medieval Carols

1. Out of your sleep (Anon. c. 1450)

Nowel! Nowel! Nowel!

Nowel! Nowel! Nowel!

Out of your slepe arise and wake,

For God mankind nowe hath itake,

All of a maide without eny make,

Of all women she bereth the belle,

Nowel!

And thorwe a maide, faire and wis,

Now man is made of full grete pris:

Now angelis knelen to mannis servis;

And at this time all this befell,

Nowel!

Now man is brighter than the sonne;

Now man in Heven on hie shall wone;

Blessed be God, this game is begonne,

And his moder Emperesse of helle,

Nowel!

That ever was thralle, now is he free;

That ever was smalle, now grete is she;

Now shall God deme bothe thee and me

Unto his blisse, if we do well,

Nowel!

Now man may to Heven wende,

Now Heven and erthe to him they bende:

He that was foo, now is our frende.

This is no nay that I yowe telle,

Nowel!

Now blessed brother, graunte us grace

A Domesday to se thy face,

And in thy courte to have a place,

That we mow there singe, “Nowel”,

Nowel!

2. Maid, Mother, Mary (Anon. late 15c.)

Blessed be that lady bright,

That bare a child of great might,

Withouten peine, as it was right,

Maid, mother, Mary.

Goddis sonne is borne:

His moder is a maid,

Both after and beforne,

As the prophecy said,

With ay.

A wonder thing it is to see

How maiden and moder one may be:

Was there never nonne but she,

Maid, moder, Mary.

The great Lord of Heven

Our servant is become,

Thorow Gabriel’s steven,

Our kind have benome,

With ay.

A wonder thing it is to see

How lord and servant one may be:

Was there never nonne but he,

Born of maid Mary.

Two sons together they

Ought to shine bright:

So did that fayer lady,

Whan Jesu in her light,

With ay.

A wonder thing is fall,

The Lord that bought free and thrall

Is found in ass’s stall

By his moder Mary

3. Welcome! Our Messias (Anon. late 15c.)

Hey! Now, now, now,

Swet Jesus

Is cum to us,

This good tim of Christmas.

Wherfor with praise

Sing we always

“Welcum, our Messias”.

The God Almight;

And King of light,

Whose powr is over all,

Give us, of grace,

For to purchase

His realme celestial.

Wher his angels

And archangels

Do sing incessantly,

His principates

And potestates

Maketh gret harmony.

The cherubins

And seraphins,

With ther tunikes merry,

The trones all,

Most musical,

Sing the hevenly Kery.

The vertues clere

Ther tunes bere,

Ther quere for to repair;

Whose song to hold

Was manifold

Of dominacions fair.

With one accord

Serve we that Lord

With laudes and oraison,

The which hath sent,

By good assent,

To us his only Son.