'Mary hath borne alone'

Virgin and Child, from a 15th-century Book of Hours (BL Add. 50001, f. 119v)

Mary hath borne alone
The Son of God in throne.

That maiden mild her child did keep
As mothers doth echone, [as all mothers do]
But her dear son full sore did weep
For sinful man alone.

She rocked him and sung 'Lullay',
But ever he made great moan.
'Dear son,' she said, 'tell, I thee pray,
Why dost thy weep alone?'

'Mother,' he said, 'I shall be slain,
Who sin did never none,
And suffer death with woeful pain;
Therefore I weep alone.'

'Lullay,' she said, 'sleep and be still,
And let be all thy moan,
For all thing is at thine own will
In heaven and earth alone.'

'Mother,' he said, 'how should I sleep?
How should I leave my moan?
I have more cause to sob and weep,
Since I shall die alone.'

'Dear son,' she said, 'the king of bliss,
That is so high in throne,
Knoweth that thou didst never amiss,
Why shouldest thou die alone?'

'Mother,' he said, 'only of thee
I took both flesh and bone,
To save mankind and make it free
With my heart blood alone.'

'Dear son,' she said, 'thou art equal
To God, that is in throne,
For man therefore, that is so thrall,
Why shouldest thou die alone?'

'Mother,' he said, 'my father's will
And mine, they be but one;
Therefore by skill I must fulfill [for this reason I must fulfill]
My father's will alone.'

'Dear son,' she said, 'since thou hast take
Of me both flesh and bone,
If it may be, me not forsake
In care and woe alone.'

'For man I must the ransom pay,
The which to hell is gone,
Mother,' he said, 'on Good Friday,
For he may not alone.' [man cannot do this by himself]

'Dear son,' she said unto him tho [then]
'When thou from me art gone,
Then shall I live in care and woe
Without comfort alone.'

'Mother,' he said, 'take thou no thought,
For me make thou no moan;
When I have bought that I have wrought, [when I have redeemed what I created]
Thou shalt not be alone.'

'On the third day, I thee behight, [promise]
After that I am gone,
I will arise by my great might
And comfort thee alone.'

Baby Jesus (BL Add. 50001, f. 95v)

This is a poem from a manuscript of carols which was compiled by the Canterbury friar James Ryman at the end of the fifteenth century. Ryman's manuscript (now CUL MS. Ee 1.12) contains more than 150 carols on a range of topics and in varying moods, from a cheery farewell to Advent fasting to stately songs in praise of the Virgin Mary and sombre songs like this one. In this week's Catholic Herald I've written a short piece about medieval Christmas celebrations, with an emphasis on festivity and fun and all the things people in the Middle Ages did to celebrate the season, and medieval carols give us some lively pictures of that merriment. But amid the jollity there is another strain, which seeks to explore something more serious, sad, and strange. Medieval carols can speak of joy, comfort, liberation - but they can also imagine a tiny baby telling his mother 'I shall die alone.'

At this time of year medieval images of the Nativity are to be found everywhere, and they usually look serene and beautiful - gazing mother, quiet baby, angels adoring. Some medieval Nativity carols are like this too, but others - a surprisingly large number - offer Nativity scenes which are not peaceful but deeply painful and poignant: the baby Jesus shivering in the cold, or crying and screeching, while Mary and Joseph lament their poverty. I wrote about one particularly powerful example in detail here, but I think this one, gentle and dignified and sad, is my favourite example of the theme:

Child, it is a wepyng dale that thou art comen in;
Thy poure cloutes it proven wel, thy bed made in the bynne;
Cold and hunger thou most thoeln, as thou were geten in synne,
And after deyen on the tree for love of all mankynne.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, no wonder thogh thou care,
Thou art comen amonges hem that thy deeth shullen yare.

The central idea in all these poems is that we live in a 'weeping world', a place of many sorrows; this baby faces pain and death in his future because he has come to share that sorrow, to feel the grief that all human beings feel, and to suffer for our sake.

In James Ryman's poem the keyword, repeated again and again, is that poignant alone. The carol plays delicately with the different shades of meaning this word had in Middle English, so it doesn't quite mean the same thing every time it is used here: sometimes it means 'solitary', but it also means 'only', conveying the sense that this child alone, by his death, can save mankind. In response to Mary's confusion about why her child should suffer by his Father's will, alone also emphasises the unity of will between the Father and the Son (they are 'all one'). No wonder poor Mary struggles to understand, and the carol follows several stages of her confusion and her attempts at comfort: if everything in the universe is at her baby's command, she wonders, what can there be to cry about? She knows her child's power, and his nature - that he is God, equal with his Father - but not what that means, or what it will mean for her. His death alone is also his choice alone; her child is God enough to choose his own death, and yet human enough to weep for it.

It's Mary's reaction which makes this poem particularly moving, especially when she begins to comprehend, and asks him not to leave her: 'If it may be, me not forsake / In care and woe alone.' The force of her grief is reminiscent (perhaps deliberately so) of the powerful dialogues between Mary and Christ on the cross, such as 'Stond wel, moder, under rode', where she clings to her son and cannot let him go, though he begs her to let him die. There she learns, her son tells her, a common sorrow: 'What pain they endure who children bear, / What sorrow they have who children lose.' In her grief she gains kinship with all mothers, just as Christ, becoming a crying baby, shares a pain we all have known.

This genre of medieval poem can be painful reading at Christmastime, but it seems more honest and clear-eyed than the sentimentality which often surrounds a modern Christmas; there is no expectation here that everyone is happy and jolly, living the perfect life which really exists only in Christmas adverts and newspaper supplements. In truth many people at Christmas do feel very much alone; this is a season which, precisely because of its expectation of pleasure, draws painful attention to absences in our lives - whether a specific person or place we are missing, or a more general sense of something we wish to have and don't. These poems offer companionship in that sorrow. Their predominant mood is compassion, in its literal sense: Christ has come into this 'weeping world' to suffer with us. This baby grieves for us, and the idea is that we should be moved by these poems to feel compassion for him and for his mother. It's almost impossible not to, just as it's hard to hear a crying baby and not respond to it. These poems seek to provoke a stirring of what Middle English poets called kynd love - the love which is innate to all creatures, a part of our essential nature, which comes ultimately from God and can be trained to lead us back to him. The love between a mother and her baby is the most kynd instinct in the human heart, Julian of Norwich says; and so she explains why God chose to become a child to his mother that he might be a mother to us all:

Our kynd Mother, our gracious Mother, for he would all wholly become our Mother in all things, he took the ground of his work full low and full mildly in the maiden’s womb... Our high God, the sovereign wisdom of all, in this low place he arrayed him and dyte him [prepared himself] full ready in our poor flesh, himself to do the service and the office of motherhood in all things. The mother’s service is nearest, readiest, and surest. Nearest for it is most of kynd, readiest for it is most of love, and surest for it is most of truth. This office might not nor could never be done to the full but by him alone. We know that all our mothers bear us to pain and to dying. And what is that but our very Mother Jesus? He, all love, beareth us to joy and to endless living...

This fair, lovely word mother, it is so sweet and so kynd of itself that it may not verily be said of none nor to none but of him and to him who is very Mother of life and of all... And in this I saw that all our debts that we owe, by God’s bidding, to fatherhood and motherhood is fulfilled in true loving of God, which blessed love Christ worketh in us; and this was shewed in all, and namely in the high plenteous words where he sayeth, I it am that thou lovest.

Miniature Nativity (BL Add. 50001, f. 100v)

'Learn to love as I love thee'

Nativity (BL Harley 2915, f.28)

Learn to love as I love thee.
In all my limbs thou mayest see
How sore they quake for cold;
For thee I suffer all this woe,
Love me, sweet, and no mo; [no other]
To thee me take and hold.

Jesu, sweet son dear,
In poor bed thou liest now here,
And that grieveth me sore.
For thy cradle is a bier,
Ox and ass are thy fere, [companions]
Weep may I therefore!

Jesu, sweet, be not wroth;
I have neither scrap nor cloth
Thee in for to fold;
I have but a piece of a lappe, [the fold of a cloak]
Therefore lay thy feet to my pap
And keep thee from the cold.

Cold thee taketh, I may well see;
For love of man it must be
For thee to suffer woe;
For better it is thou suffer this
Than man should lose heaven's bliss.
Thou must ransom him thereto.

Since it must be that thou be dead
To save man from the fiend,
Thy sweet will be done.
But let me not stay here too long:
After thy death me underfonge [receive]
To live for evermore. Amen.

One last Christmas poem. This is a version in modern spelling of a fourteenth-century poem (the original can be found here) which imagines a dialogue between Mary and the infant Christ. It comes from a manuscript which belonged to a friar called John of Grimestone (the manuscript is now Edinburgh, National Library of Scotland, Advocates Lib. 18.7.21; the first three verses also appear in British Library, Harley 7322). His manuscript, which dates to 1372, is a collection of preaching materials, containing a large amount of English verse and including several tender poems about the baby Christ: 'Lullay little child, rest thee a throwe' is especially lovely, as are 'As I lay upon a night' and this lullaby carol. Although it focuses on Christ's death rather than his birth, Grimestone's 'Love me brought' also has some parallels to this poem.

Long-term readers of this blog will know that I have a soft spot for Middle English lullaby carols, especially ones in which the baby and his mother talk about his future, the suffering both will face before his work on earth is completed. I always feel - perhaps this is excessively literal of me - that these poems are more fitting reading for the weeks after Christmas than for the day itself. They look forward, turning the reader's attention from Christ's birth to his future life, while being careful always to evoke the naturalistic details of their setting in his first newborn days: makeshift cradle, anxious mother, a baby to be fed, wrapped, soothed, sung to. This one is not a lullaby, though the lulling ls of its first line might bring the sound to mind, but the speaker of all except the first verse is Mary; the fact that the verses are all dialogue makes it possible for the reader to take on her voice, to feel and to plead with her. 'Learn to love as I love thee', she, and we, are told.

These poems are sweet and gentle but tinged with sadness, the vulnerability of the child and his mother's fears piercing any sentimentality with a sharp dart of cold realism. Cold is a word which quivers through this poem, and it seems to be the discomfort most troubling baby and mother - not only because they're poor, we might think, and staying in a chilly stable, but perhaps too because it suggests something about the nature of the world this child has come to. In Middle English cold often evokes death, the chill of the clammy grave, and so hints at the death the baby will face for mankind's sake; and it also suggests the coldness of a hard heart, cruelty and lack of love, the very opposite of the warm-hearted tenderness we are supposed to learn from this poem. The months after Christmas are usually colder than December itself, despite the turn of the year at the solstice; there used to be a proverbial saying, 'as the day lengthens, so the cold strengthens'. And so it is here, as the elation of the child's birth turns into contemplation of the sorrow his future will bring. It reminds me of Neale's 'Earth Today Rejoices', a version of a medieval carol which is titled, in some carol-books, 'A January Carol':

Though the cold grows stronger,
Though the world loves night;
Yet the days grow longer,
Christ is born, our Light.

BL Royal 2 A XXII, f. 13v (The 'Westminster Psalter', c.1200)

'As do mothers all'

BL Stowe 16, f. 120

This yonder night I saw a sight,
A star as bright as any day,
And ever among a maiden sung,
'By by, lully, lullay.'

This maiden hight Mary, she was full mild,
She knelt before her own dear child.
She lulled, she lapped,
She rolled, she wrapped,
She wept, without a nay;
She rolled him, she dressed him,
She lissed him, she blessed him,
She sang, "Dear son, lullay."

She said, "Dear son, lie still and sleep!
What cause hast thou so sore to weep?
With sighing, with sobbing,
With crying and with screeching,
All this long day,
And thus waking, with sore weeping,
With many salt tears dropping?
Lie still, dear son, I thee pray."

"Mother," he said, "for man I weep so sore,
And for his love I shall be torn,
With scourging, with threatening,
With bobbing, with beating,
For truth, mother, I say;
And on a cross full high hanging,
And to my heart full sore sticking
A spear on Good Friday."

This maiden answered with heavy cheer, [great sorrow]
"Shalt thou thus suffer, my sweet son dear?
Now I mourn, now I muse,
I all gladness refuse;
I, ever from this day.
My dear son, I thee pray,
This pain thou put away,
If it possible be may."

Fordwich, Kent

Like the lullaby I posted the other day, this carol about the infancy of Christ seems like appropriate reading for the days and weeks after Christmas. Much of the power of this poignant little poem lies in its swift-moving rhythm and rhyming verbs, which don't entirely come through in translation, so in the above version I've left some words untranslated: she lissed him means 'she comforted him' and bobbing is 'beating, tormenting'. Here's the unmodernised poem, as edited from the manuscript Oxford, Bodleian Library Ashmole 189 (SC 6777) by Carleton Brown, Religious Lyrics of the XVth Century (Oxford, 1939), pp. 7-8:

Thys yonder ny3th y sawe A sy3te,
A sterre As bry3th As ony daye
& euer A-monge A maydene songe,
'by by, lully, lullaye.'

Thys mayden hy3th mary, she was full mylde,
she knelyde by-fore here oune dere chylde.

She lullyde, She lappyde,
she rullyde, she wrapped,
She weppede wyth-owtyne nay;
She rullyde hym, she dressyde hym,
she lyssyd hym, she blessyd hym,
She sange 'dere sone, lullay'.

She sayde, 'dere sone, ly styll & slepe.
What cause hast þu so sore to wepe,

Wyth sy3hyng, wyth snobbynge,
wyth crying & wyth scrycchynge
All þis londe daye;
And þus wakynge wyth sore wepynge
Wyth many salt terys droppynge?
ly stylle, dere sone, I þe pray.'

'Moder,' he sayde, 'for mane I wepe so sore
& for hys loue I shall be tore

Wyth scorgyng, wyth thretnyng,
wyth bobbyng, wyth betyng
for sothe, moder, I saye;
And one A crosse full hy hanggyng,
And to my herte foll sore styckynge
A spere on good frydaye.'

Thys maydene Aunswerde wyth heuy chere,
'Shalt þy thus sovere, my swete sone dere?
Now y morne, now y muse,
I All gladnes refuse;
I, euer fro thys day.
My dere sone, y þe pray,
thys payne þu put Away,
and yf hyt possybyll be may.'

As a vision of Mary and her baby son, this poem belongs with a group of related poems which also begin 'this yonder (or endris, 'other') night', such as this one I posted last year. But this is perhaps the most insistently heart-tugging example, urgent and restless in tone, and offering no comfort in its final lines. This is not a peaceful scene of a mother lulling her baby to sleep: the piling up of verbs in the first verse suggests her increasingly frantic attempts to find something which will comfort the 'screeching' child (we don't often think of the baby Christ 'screeching'!). Whatever she does the baby won't be soothed, and his mother, too, is weeping - exhausted like many a new mother, we might imagine. When the child speaks he only makes things worse, explaining why he has good cause to weep, and this carol does not end, as some of the poems do, with Christ promising he will make everything right after his death; it closes with his mother's shock and grief at the future foretold for him. (Although the end of the poem may have been lost, of course). In style this carol is reminiscent of 'Suddenly afraid', another poem full of distinctive rhyming verbs and a vision of the Virgin with her son on her lap: but in that poem Christ is dead, and it's his mother who weeps and cannot be comforted.

BL Royal 2 B I, f. 76v

I posted this poem today partly as an excuse to repost the following carol (of which the unmodernised text can be found here):

Lullay, lullay, la, lullay,
My dear mother, lullay.

As I lay upon a night
Alone in my longing
Methought I saw a wondrous sight:
A maid a child rocking.

The maiden wished without a song
Her child asleep to bring;
The child thought she did him wrong,
And bade his mother sing.

"Sing now, mother," said that child,
"What me shall befall
Hereafter, when I come to age,
As do mothers all.

"Every mother, truly,
Who can her cradle keep
Is wont to lullen lovingly
And sing her child asleep.

"Sweet mother, fair and free,
Since that this is so,
I pray thee that thou lullen me,
And sing somewhat thereto."

"Sweet son," said she,
"Whereof should I sing?
I never yet knew more of thee
Than Gabriel's greeting!

"He greeted me well, upon his knee,
And said, 'Hail, Mary,
Full of grace, God is with thee.
Thou shalt bear Messiah.'

"I wondered greatly in my thought
For man knew I never none.
'Mary,' he said, 'fear thee not:
Trust God of Heaven alone.

'The Holy Ghost shall do all this.'
He said it should be done
That I should bear mankind's bliss,
Thee, my sweet son!

"He said, 'Thou shalt bear a king
In King David's city,
In all Jacob's nation
King there shall he be.'

"He said that Elizabeth
Who barren was before,
A child now conceived hath,
'Therefore believe me the more!'

"I answered blithely,
For his words me pleased,
'Lo, God's servant, here am I,
Be it as thou me said.'

"There, as he said, I thee bore
On a mid-winter night,
In maidenhead, without sorrow,
By grace of God almighty.

"The shepherds that waked in the wold
Heard a wondrous mirth
Of angels there, as they told,
At the time of thy birth.

"Sweet son, certainly,
No more can I say;
But if I could I gladly would,
To do all at thy pay." ['everything that would please you']

"Mother," said that sweet thing,
"To sing I shall thee lere [teach]
What I shall endure of suffering,
And do while I am here.

"When the seven days are done
Right as Abraham wished,
Cut shall I be with a stone
In a very tender place.

"When the twelve days are done,
By leading of a star
Three kings shall seek for me then
With gold, incense, and myrrh.

"The fortieth day, to fulfill the law,
We shall to the temple go;
There Simeon shall pronounce a saw
And shall tell you of woe.

"When I am twelve years of age,
Joseph and thou, mourning,
Shall me find, mother mild,
In the temple teaching.

"Til I be thirty at the least
I never shall from thee sever,
But ever, mother, be at thy behest,
Joseph and thee to serve.

"When the thirty years be spent,
I must begin to fulfill
That for which I am hither sent,
Through my Father's will.

"John Baptist, of merit most,
Shall me baptise by name;
Then my Father and the Holy Ghost
Shall witness what I am.

"I shall be tempted by Satan,
Who fallen is in sin;
Just as he tempted Adam,
But I shall it better withstand.

"Disciples I shall gather
And send them out to preach,
The laws of my Father
In all this world to teach.

"I shall be so simple
And yet so all-knowing
That a great part of the people
Shall want to make me king."

"Sweet son," then said she,
"No sorrow could cause me pain,
If I might live to see the day
When you were made a king!"

"No, no, mother," said that sweet,
"For that came I not,
But to be poor, and ease the woe
To which man has been brought.

"Therefore when two and thirty years be done
And a little more,
Mother, thou shalt make great moan
And see me die so sore.

"The sharp sword of Simeon
Shall pierce into thine heart,
For my great grief and dreadful pain
Sorely thee shall smart.

"Shamefully then I shall die
Hanging on the rood,
For man's ransom shall I pay
Mine own heart's blood."

"Alas! son," said that maid,
"Since this will be so,
How can I live to see the day
That will bring thee such woe?"

"Mother," he said, "take it light,
For I shall live again,
In flesh like yours, through my might,
For else I lived in vain.

"To my Father I shall wend
In human flesh to Heaven;
The Holy Ghost I shall thee send,
With his gifts seven.

"I shall thee take, when the time is,
To me at the last,
To be with me, mother, in bliss:
All this have I cast.

"All this world judge I shall,
At the dead's rising;
Sweet mother, this is all
That I will now sing."

Certainly this sight I saw,
This song I heard sing,
As I lay this Yule's day,
Alone in my longing.

This is less unrelentingly painful than the first carol, simpler in form and language, but in other ways considerably more complex. At 37 verses long, it's hard to believe this was ever sung as a carol; the author got a little carried away with the poetic potential of his subject, I think, but he had good reason to. There are many things I like about this poem: the interplay between mother and child is very naturalistic (she hopes to get him to sleep without having to sing a lullaby, but the child insists, as little children often do!), and Mary's reactions are entirely believable (I like her readiness to tell the story of his birth - a subject on which mothers generally need little encouragement to talk - and her delight that her son will be a king). The entwining of voices is beautifully intricate, as Mary repeats what Gabriel said to her and what she said in reply, partly in direct and partly in indirect speech, as if she really is telling the story of her own experiences and trying to comprehend what has been said to her. And then the child takes over the story, and the parent's role of prophesying a baby's future. He's clearly no more than a few days old - even his circumcision, on the eighth day after his birth, is still in his future - but his knowledge is complete, his mother's incomplete; he teaches her to sing. All the familiar story of Christ's life is recast as the past, present, and future of these two people, who are in many ways an ordinary mother and baby (even if this baby isn't 'screeching'). There is even something ordinary about the act of prophecy, though in this case it comes from the child himself. The act of forecasting a baby's future over its cradle is both literary tradition and a natural human impulse; and although this scene is a vision, lit by a miraculous star, its setting in the unearthly lonely silence of a winter's night reminds me of a later parent, baby, and prophecy:

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness...

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself...

(from 'Frost at Midnight')

'Far other lore, and far other scenes' from the medieval poem; but the same impulse, perhaps.

BL Harley 2915, f. 28

'Lullay, little child, rest thee a throwe'

BL Harley 2915 f. 138v

This is an exquisitely sad nativity song, a lullaby addressed to the baby Christ, but full of compassion and pain and regret for the suffering that the child will later undergo. It dates to the fourteenth century and comes from a manuscript compiled by a Franciscan friar, John of Grimestone.

Lullay, lullay, litel child, child, rest thee a throwe,
From heighe hider art thou sent wyth us to wonen lowe;
Poure and litel art thou made, uncouth and unknowe,
Pyne and wo to suffren heer for thyng that nas thyn owe.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, sorwe mythe thou make;
Thou are sent into this world, as thou were forsake.

Lullay, lullay, litel grome, kyng of alle thyng,
What I thenke of thy myschief me listeth wel litel synge;
But caren I may for sorwe, if love were in myn herte,
For swiche peynes as thou shalt dreyen were nevere non so smerte.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, wel myghte thou crie,
For-than thy body is bleik and blak, soon after shal ben drye.

Child, it is a wepyng dale that thou art comen in;
Thy poure cloutes it proven wel, thy bed made in the bynne;
Cold and hunger thou most thoeln, as thou were geten in synne,
And after deyen on the tree for love of all mankynne.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, no wonder thogh thou care,
Thou art comen amonges hem that thy deeth shullen yare.

Lullay, lullay, litel child, for sorwe myghte thou grete;
The anguissh that thou suffren shalt shal don the blood to swete;
Naked, bounden shaltow ben, and sithen sore bete,
No thyng free upon thy body of pyne shal ben lete.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, it is al for thy fo,
The harde bond of love-longyng that thee hath bounden so.

Lullay, lullay, litel child, litel child, thyn ore!
It is al for oure owene gilt that thou art peyned sore.
But wolden we yet kynde ben and lyven after thy lore,
And leten synne for thy love, ne keptest thou no more.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, softe sleep and faste,
In sorwe endeth every love but thyn atte laste.

John of Grimestone seems to have had a fondness for lullaby poems of this kind, since his manuscript also includes this lullaby and this on roughly the same subject. 'Lullay, lullay, little child, child, rest thee a throwe' is also close in style and theme to this poem in the same metre, which is not addressed to Christ but to an ordinary baby. In both cases the central image is of a crying child, innocent and uncomprehending, who weeps for no reason - and yet has a reason to weep, though he doesn't know it, because of the world he has been born into.

Here's a lightly modernised version, preserving the rhymes and some of the rhythm:

Lullay, lullay, little child, child, rest thee a throwe, [a little while]
From on high hither art thou sent, with us to dwell low;
Poor and little art thou made, unrecognised and unknown,
Pain and woe to suffer here for a crime that was not thine own.
Lullay, lullay, little child, sorrow thou mayst well make;
Thou art sent into this world, as if thou were forsaken.

Lullay, lullay, little boy, king of all things!
When I think of thy sad state, I hardly wish to sing;
But I may lament for sorrow, if love be in my heart,
For such pains as thou shalt suffer were never none so sharp.
Lullay, lullay, little child, well mayst thou cry,
Thy body then will grow pale and white, and then it shall grow dry.

Child, it is a weeping world that thou art comen in;
Thy poor rags prove that well, thy bed made in the bin; [manger]
Cold and hunger thou must endure, as one begot in sin,
And after die upon the tree for love of all mankyn. [mankind]
Lullay, lullay, little child, no wonder that thou cry;
Thou art come among those who shall cause thee to die.

Lullay, lullay, little child, for sorrow thou mayst well grete; [cry]
The anguish that thou suffer shalt shall cause thee blood to sweat;
Naked, bound, shalt thou be, and afterwards sorely beat, [beaten]
No part of thy body free of pain shall be lete. [left]
Lullay, lullay, little child, it is all for thy foe,
The hard bond of love-longing that has bound thee so.

Lullay, lullay, little child, little child, thine ore! [mercy]
It is all for our guilt that thou art pained so sore.
But would we yet more loving be, and live after thy lore, [according to your teaching]
And forsake sin for thy love’s sake, ne keptest thou no more. [your suffering would be over]
Lullay, lullay, little child, softly sleep and fast;
In sorrow endeth every love but thine, at the last.

BL Harley 947 f. 170

That last couplet is so memorable. This loving, tender look ahead from the birth of the baby Christ to the suffering and death which awaits him is a sombre theme for Christmastide - perhaps surprisingly so for modern taste, but very much in harmony with medieval attitudes to the season. Many medieval writers about Christmas would have felt it gave only an incomplete picture of the Incarnation to celebrate Christ's birth without remembering too the death he came to suffer; to talk about one and neglect the other can fail to give the magnitude of his birth in a mortal human body its full weight and meaning. In the Middle Ages Christmas was a season of light and shade, not constant full-out festivity. The Twelve Days of Christmas were a time of holiday and celebration, but within that joyous season the feasts which clustered around Christmas Day involved violent stories of martyrdom: the second and fifth days of Christmas were the feasts of St Stephen, Christianity's first martyr, and St Thomas Becket, whose blood stained the stones of Canterbury Cathedral in Christmastide 1170. The eighth day commemorated Christ's Circumcision, the first time (medieval preachers say) that Christ's blood was shed.

And today, the fourth day of Christmas, is the feast of the Holy Innocents, commemorating the children slain by Herod as he sought to kill the infant Christ. Since the Anglo-Saxon period this has been known in English as 'Childermas' - the feast of the children. John of Grimestone's grief-filled lullaby finds an echo in the most famous text associated with the Childermas story, the Coventry Carol, a sad, strange medieval lullaby which still exerts a strong power:

Lullay, lullay, thou little tiny child,
By, by, lully, lullay.
Lullay, lullay, thou little tiny child.
By, by, lully, lullay.

O sisters two, how may we do,
For to preserve this day
This poor youngling for whom we do sing,
By, by, lully, lullay.

Herod the king, in his raging,
Charged he hath this day
His men of might, in his own sight,
All young children to slay.

Then woe is me, poor child, for thee,
And ever mourn and may,
For thy parting, neither say nor sing,
By, by, lully, lullay.

The Coventry Carol wasn't written for Christmas or Childermas; it's part of the cycle of the Coventry Mystery Plays, which would have been performed in the summer. The Massacre of the Innocents formed a regular part of mystery play cycles, following straight after plays depicting more joyful parts of the Nativity story, such as the visits of the Shepherds and the Magi. Like the Twelve Days of Christmas, mystery play cycles were an experience of juxtaposition and contrast, light and shade, shifting moods and emotions as different aspects of the Christian story were explored in turn.

Mystery plays about the Massacre of the Innocents offer some of the most moving depictions of grief in medieval culture. We see innocent babies killed because of a cruel tyrant's lust for power, and we see their mothers mourn. It's confronting and painful, and it doesn't allow you to look away. At one moment there's the Nativity, Mary and her baby, a happy image of parenthood and infancy; and then there's the other side of parental love, with grief, loss and despair. 'Longe lullynge have I lorn!', says one mother in the N-town Plays, as if remembering all the lullabies she's sung to her baby, all those long hours watching over the cradle, now lost because her child lies dead in her arms. She can see nothing but grief in her future: 'Sorrow I see behind and before / Both midnight, midday and at morn'.

The Coventry Carol is born of this particular story of grief, but over time it has come to speak for other losses. After centuries of suppression and neglect, there was a revival of interest in the mystery plays in the first half of the twentieth century. On Christmas Day 1940, the first Christmas after the terrible bombing of Coventry in the Second World War, the BBC broadcast a message from the ruins of Coventry Cathedral which included the singing of the Coventry Carol. It was a lament, but also a sign of hope and endurance: 'He suffers alongside of us, just as this Cathedral suffered the same fate as the city. He lost everything he had, and won the world. Nothing can destroy Him, any more than, in the words of our ancient Coventry Carol, 'Herod the King in his raging' could slay the Christ Child.'

Of the many hundreds of surviving medieval carols, the Coventry Carol is one of the very small number which have now found their way into the modern Christmas repertoire. It's regularly heard and performed at Christmas, widely known and recognised, both with its original haunting melody and in a diversity of new settings. It's a peculiar journey for a song from a medieval mystery play to take, from the streets of 16th-century Coventry to concert-halls and shopping malls, sung by everyone from Sting to Annie Lennox and the most unlikely performers. The popularity of this deeply sad song at Christmastime is intriguing, and it makes me wonder what draws people to it today in our very different Christmas season. Whatever it is, perhaps it's something akin to what drew John of Grimestone and other medieval readers to lullabies like 'Lullay, little child'. There are in fact a considerable number of medieval lullabies which share the mood of the Coventry Carol: somewhere between lullaby and lament, full of melancholy and pity for the child being comforted, whether it's Herod's victims, the Christ-child, or any baby born into a weeping world. (Here are some more beautiful examples: 'This endris night / about midnight'; 'This maiden hight Mary'; 'As I lay on Yule's night'; 'Learn to love as I love thee'; 'Mary hath borne alone') They use the lullaby form, the genre of song above all others associated with tenderness, vulnerability, comfort and love, to explore deeply poignant and painful ideas of the nature of human sorrow.

I wonder if the popularity of the Coventry Carol today indicates that it expresses something people don't find in the usual run of joyful Christmas carols - this song of grief, of innocence cruelly destroyed. The Feast of the Holy Innocents is not an easy subject for a modern audience to understand, and the images which often accompany it in medieval manuscripts, of children impaled on spears, are truly horrible. But they are meant to be; they are intended to disgust and horrify, and they're horrible because they're not fantasy violence but all too close to the reality of the world we live in. Children do die; the innocent and vulnerable do suffer at the hands of the powerful; and as this carol says, every single form of human love, one way or another, will ultimately end in parting and grief. Every child born into the world - every tiny, innocent, adorable little baby - however loved, however cared for, will grow up to face some kind of sorrow, and the inevitability of death. Of course no one wants to think about such things, especially when they look at a newborn baby; but pretending otherwise, not wanting to think otherwise, doesn't make it any less true.

Medieval writers were honest and clear-eyed about such uncomfortable truths. The idea that thoughts like these are incongruous with the Christmas season (as you often hear people say about the Holy Innocents) is largely a modern scruple, encouraged by the comparatively recent idea that Christmas is primarily a cheery festival for happy children and families. Our images of Christmas joy, both secular and sacred, are all childlike wonder and picture-perfect families gathered round the tree. And this is nice, of course, for those who have children or happy families, but for those who don't - those who have lost children or parents or others dear to them, those who face loneliness or exclusion, those who want but don't have children, family, or home - it can be intensely painful. Not everyone can choose not to think about grief at Christmas; many people will find it intrudes upon them, whether they wish it to or not. 'In sorrow endeth every love but thine, at the last'. The modern version of Christmas tends to sideline and ignore that pain, asking it to at least keep quiet so as not to spoil the 'magic'. But that's not the case with medieval writing about Christmas and the Christ-child. There are, of course, many merry and joyful medieval carols, and the season was celebrated in the Middle Ages with great enthusiasm; but there are also many carols like this which are serious, melancholy, and sad, which acknowledge the fact that the child whose birth is celebrated came to earth to die. Older writings on Christmas, like this lullaby, do not exclude but encompass human pain - because it's that pain, they say, which Christ has come to earth to share. That was what it meant for God to become a human child. The idea is well expressed by John Donne, writing a little later than the medieval period (though only a few decades after the Coventry mystery plays were abolished), in a sermon he preached on Christmas Day 1626:

The whole life of Christ was a continual passion; others die martyrs, but Christ was born a martyr. He found a Golgotha, where he was crucified, even in Bethlehem, where he was born; for, to his tenderness then, the straws were almost as sharp as the thorns after; and the manger as uneasy at first, as his cross at last. His birth and his death were but one continual act, and his Christmas Day and his Good Friday are but the evening and morning of one and the same day.

John of Grimestone's poem perfectly illustrates that idea.

BL Arundel 302 f. 152

He said, 'Ba, bay', she said, 'Lullay'

BL Sloane 2321, f. 54

This is an interesting fifteenth-century carol in a favourite genre of mine: the infant Christ tells his mother about his future life.

'Ah, my dear, ah, my dear Son,'
Said Mary, 'Ah, my dear;
Ah, my dear, ah, my dear Son,'
Said Mary, 'Ah, my dear;
Kiss thy mother, Jesu,
Kiss thy mother, Jesu,
With a laughing cheer.’ [a happy, smiling face]

1. This endris night, [the other night]
About midnight,
As I lay down to sleep,
I heard a may [maid]
Sing lullay;
For poverty she sore did weep.
He said, 'Ba, bay;'
She said, 'Lullay,'
The virgin fresh as rose in May.

2. Sore she sought,
But found she naught
To wrap her son Jesu from cold;
Joseph said, 'Belif, [indeed]
Sweet wife,
Tell me what ye would, [what you want]
Heartily I you pray.'
He said, 'Ba, bay;'
She said, 'Lullay,'
The virgin fresh as rose in May.

3. She said, 'Sweet spouse,
It seems grievous
My child should lie in hay,
Since he is king
And made all thing,
And now is poorest in array.'
He said, 'Ba, bay;'
She said, 'Lullay,'
The virgin fresh as rose in May.

4. 'Here he is
Who bears the prize
In all things he has wrought;
To wrap my bairn
For some clothes I yearn,
But get them I could not,
This Yule's Day.'
He said, 'Ba, bay;'
She said, 'Lullay,'
The virgin fresh as rose in May.

5. 'Mother dear,
Amend your cheer,'
Thus says her son Jesu her till; [to]
'Although I be
In poor degree,
It is my Father's will.'
He said, 'Ba, bay;'
She said, 'Lullay,'
The virgin fresh as rose in May.

6. 'A crown of thorn
For souls forlorn
Upon my head I must wear,
And to a tree
So nailed be,
That pains they will me dere; [cause me]
I must assay.'
He said, 'Ba, bay;'
She said, 'Lullay,'
The virgin fresh as rose in May.

7. 'The truest shall fall
Of the apostles all
Unto you, mother, alone to dwell;
While I call
From the fiend's thrall
Adam out of hell
To joy verray.' [truly]
He said, 'Ba, bay;'
She said, 'Lullay,'
The virgin fresh as rose in May.

8. She said, 'Sweet son,
When shall this be
That ye shall suffer all this woe?'
'Mother free,
All shall ye see
At thirty years and two;
It is no nay.' [there is no contradicting it]
He said, 'Ba, bay;'
She said, 'Lullay,'
The virgin fresh as rose in May.

9. 'Son, I you ask,
When shall you rise?
'Mother, verray,
Upon the third day
After Judas has me said contray.’ [spoken against me]
He said, 'Ba, bay;'
She said, 'Lullay,'
The virgin fresh as rose in May.

10. 'I shall up ascend
That ye may see,
To my Father's right hand,
In bliss to be,
And so shall ye,
To wear a crown garland
In bliss for ay.'
He said, 'Ba, bay;'
She said, 'Lullay,'
The virgin fresh as rose in May.

11. 'Sing me e'er
My mother dear,
With sweet voice, I you pray;
Weep no more,
Ye grieve me for
Your mourning in this way.
Sing or say lullay.’
He said, 'Ba, bay;'
She said, 'Lullay,'
The virgin fresh as rose in May.

The first line of this carol shows it to be related to other carols which present similar visions of the Virgin and Child; one begins 'This endris night I saw a sight, a star as bright as day', another 'This ender night I saw a sight, a maid a cradle keep'. It seems to have been a popular theme in the fifteenth century, and it's worth exploring why. Part of the appeal of this genre of carols lies in the intrinsic prettiness of the subject - a mother playing with her baby, singing to him, and fretting over whether he's warm enough (a reasonable concern for a baby born in a stable, but also probably something new mothers have been worrying about since the dawn of time!). The echoing of the baby's babble, 'ba ba', entwined with the mother's 'Lullay' and the refrain 'ah, my dear, ah, my dear son', produces a sound-picture which almost transcends language - a tender lullaby more like wordless crooning than a song.

But even if you are allergic to such prettiness, as I know some people are, there's something more serious in this carol and its related examples. When Joseph fails to comfort Mary as she weeps for their poverty, the baby speaks up to reassure her in a distinctly uncomforting way: he tells her of the sufferings he will undergo, the crown of thorns, the cross, and his eventual triumph. At this point, from a sweetly simple lullaby, the refrain becomes a jarring, disquieting contrast to the body of the text: how can a baby who still babbles 'ba, ba' speak these confident, articulate words? The repetition of the refrain keeps us circling back to this paradox, and it begins to change its meaning: as the poem goes on, and the truth is made known to her, Mary's 'ah, my dear son' becomes a lament, not a lullaby.

This kind of shifting in meaning and role reversal is central to this group of poems, and to their interest in knowledge, language and paradoxical relationships. The child who is comforted by his mother's singing becomes the comforter; from her worries about finding clothes to wrap him in, we move to his promise to crown her with a garland in heaven; in the 'a star as bright as day' variant, Mary addresses her child as 'my son, my brother, father dear'. Looking forward to the Crucifixion makes the contrasts deeply poignant, a literary equivalent of the deliberate parallel developed in late medieval art between the Pietà and the Nativity scene: a mother with her helpless child on her lap (as in the medieval reredos at Yarnton, or in this brutal poem).

Beyond these subtle explorations of the mystery of the Incarnation, there's a more general context of human experience, which is encapsulated in the two poems 'Lullay little child, rest thee a throwe' and 'Lullay, little child, why weepest thou so sore?' Both of these poems are addressed to a crying child, and reflect on the idea that the baby's cry, unknowingly, is a kind of lament for the sorrow that will come to the child as it grows up. The first poem is about Christ's sufferings, but the second is about any child - all of us. The idea of a Christ-child, God in a baby, is a great mystery, but every baby is a mystery - what do they think about, or feel, which they cannot express in words? What motivates their determined little actions? Each baby is a whole and unique person wrapped in a tiny, speechless body, like Christ's 'glorious, yet contracted light, wrapt in night's mantle', 'the Son of Almighty God, whom the heavens could not encompass, laid in a narrow manger'; and unlike the infant Christ, neither they nor their parents know what their fate will be.

The slightly later 'Quid petis, o fili' (words here), which is from the sixteenth century, draws on this tradition, including the baby's 'ba ba':



Below is the unmodernised text of British Library MS. Harley 2380 (a manuscript of medical recipes, with this one carol and a few other English poems), with the burden taken from another copy of the carol in BL Additional MS. 5465, where it has music set for three voices.

‘A, my dere, a, my dere Son,’
Seyd Mary, ‘A, my dere;
A, my dere, a, my dere Son’
Seyd Mary, ‘A, my dere;
Kys thy moder, Jhesu,
Kys thy moder, Jhesu,
With a lawghyng chere.’

1. This endres nyght,
About mydnyght,
As I me lay for to sclepe,
I hard a may
Syng lullay;
For powaret sor scow wrypt.
He sayd, ‘Ba, bay;’
Sco sayd, ‘Lullay,’
The virgin fresch as ros in May.

2. Sar sco soght,
Bot fand sco nought
To hap hyre son Jhesu fro cold;
Josef sayd, ‘Belif,
Scuet wyfe,
Tell me wat ye wald,
Hartly I you pray.’
He sayd, ‘Ba bay;’
Scho sayd, ‘Lullay,’
The virgin fresch as ros in May.

3. Scho sayd, ‘Scuett spows,
Me thynk greuus
[M]y child sud lig in hay,
S[ith] he is Kyng
And mayd al thyng,
And now is powrest in aray.’
He sayd, ‘Ba, bay;’
Scho sayd, ‘Lullay,’
The virgin fresch as ros in May.

4. ‘Hire he is
That bers the prys
In all thyng that he as wrowght;
To hap my barn
Som clas I yarn,
Bot wat it I ne rowght,
This Yoles Day.’
He sayd, ‘Ba bay;’
Sche sayd, ‘Lullay,’
The virgin fresche as ros in May.

5. ‘Modere dere,
Amend youre chere,’
Thus says hire son Jhesu hir till;
‘Al of I be
In poure degre,
It is my Fadirs will.’
And sayd, ‘Ba bay;’
Sche sayd, ‘Lullay,’
The virgin fresche as ros in May.

6. ‘A crown o thorn
For sawllis lorn
Opon my hed me most ned were,
And till a tre
So nayled be,
Thare payns thay wyl me dere.
I mon asay.’
He sayd, ‘Ba bay;’
Sche sayd, ‘Lullay,’
The virgin fresch as ros in May.

7. ‘The trewght sal fal
Hout of the postill hall
Vnto you, modere, alloon to duell;
Qwyll I call
Fro the fends thrall
Adam out of hel
To joy verray.’
He sayd, ‘Ba bay;’
Sche sayd, ‘Lullay,’
The virgin fresch as ros in May.

8. Sco sayd, ‘Swett Son,
Wen sal this be
That ye sal suffire al this w[o]?’
Moder fre,
Al sal ye se
At xxx ye[re] and thuo;
It is no nay.’
He sayd, ‘Ba bay;’
Sche sayd, ‘Lullay,’
The virgin fresch as ros in May.

9. ‘Son, I yow ax,
Qwen sal you ris?
...
‘Moder, verray,
Apon the thyrd day
That Judas has me said contray.’
He sayd, ‘Ba bay;’
Sche sayd, ‘Lullay,’
The virgin fresch as ros in May.

10. ‘I sall vp steiien
That ye ma se,
Apon my Fader ryght hand,
In blis to be,
And so sal ye,
To were a croune garland
In blis for hay.’
He sayd, ‘Ba bay;’
Sche sayd, ‘Lullay,’
The virgin fresch as [ros] in [May].

11. ‘Syng me ere
My moder dere,
Wet souet uois, I you pray;
Wep no mor,
Ye gref me fo[r]
Your mour[n]ing this a way.
Sing ore say lullay.’
He sayd, ‘Ba bay;’
Sche sayd, ‘Lullay,’
The virgin fresch as ros in M[ay].

Virgin and Child (BL Royal 1 D I, f. 272)

"Sing now, mother," said that child, / "What me shall befall / Hereafter, when I come to age, / As do mothers all."

Virgin and Child from Rochester Cathedral

This fourteenth-century lullaby lyric is a good example of the genre, both in how well-developed the subject is - the baby Christ predicts his own life, from birth to death - and in the naturalistic touches the anonymous poet adds to this dialogue between mother and child - particularly the detail in verse 2 that the mother is hoping to get her child to sleep without having to sing to him, but he feels cheated without a lullaby! I also like the moment in verse 27 where Mary, hearing the child say he will be a king, interrupts with excited delight, almost ambitious for her son (only to be told that he will not be a king of this world). There's a very pretty interplay between the child demanding to hear his mother predict his future ('as all mothers do'), and her amused protest that she knows nothing more of him than what Gabriel told her (going over the familiar details of his birth as mothers, indeed, all do), darkening into something more solemn as he tells her what sorrow she will have to face when he is grown up. The idea of a baby who is childish enough to insist on being sung to, but who can yet predict his own life and death, seems to get right to the heart of the mystery of the Incarnation.

The poem is found in John of Grimestone's commonplace book, like this lullaby and this related text; John must have had a taste for this particular theme, and thank goodness he did, or this poems might have been lost to us! My modernised version of the text comes first, and the Middle English follows.

Lullay, lullay, la, lullay,
My dear mother, lullay.

1. As I lay upon a night
Alone in my longing
Methought I saw a wondrous sight:
A maid a child rocking.

2. The maiden wished without a song
Her child asleep to bring;
The child thought she did him wrong,
And bade his mother sing.

3. "Sing now, mother," said that child,
"What me shall befall
Hereafter, when I come to age,
As do mothers all.

4. "Every mother, truly,
Who can her cradle keep
Is wont to lullen lovingly
And sing her child asleep.

5. "Sweet mother, fair and free,
Since that this is so,
I pray thee that thou lullen me,
And sing somewhat thereto."

6. "Sweet son," said she,
"Whereof should I sing?
I never yet knew more of thee
Than Gabriel's greeting!"

7. "He greeted me well, upon his knee,
And said, 'Hail, Mary,
Full of grace, God is with thee.
Thou shalt bear Messiah.'

8. "I wondered greatly in my thought
For man knew I never none.
'Mary,' he said, 'fear thee not:
Trust God of Heaven alone.'

9. 'The Holy Ghost shall do all this.'
He said it should be done
That I should bear mankind's bliss,
Thee, my sweet son!

10. "He said, 'Thou shalt bear a king
In King David's city,
In all Jacob's nation
King there shall he be.'

11. "He said that Elizabeth
Who barren was before,
A child now conceived hath,
'Therefore believe me the more!'

12. "I answered blithely,
For his words me pleased,
'Lo, God's servant, here am I,
Be it as thou me said.'


13. "There, as he said, I thee bore
On a mid-winter night,
In maidenhead, without sorrow,
By grace of God almighty.

14. "The shepherds that waked in the wold
Heard a wondrous mirth
Of angels there, as they told,
At the time of thy birth.

15. "Sweet son, certainly,
No more can I say;
But if I could I gladly would,
To do all at thy pay." ['everything that would please you']

16. "Mother," said that sweet thing,
"To sing I shall thee lere [teach]
What I shall endure of suffering,
And do while I am here."

17. "When the seven days are done
Right as Abraham wished,
Cut shall I be with a stone
In a very tender place.

18. "When the twelve days are done,
By leading of a star
Three kings shall seek for me then
With gold, incense, and myrrh.

19. "The fortieth day, to fulfill the law,
We shall to the temple go;
There Simeon shall pronounce a saw
And shall tell you of woe.

20. "When I am twelve years of age,
Joseph and thou, mourning,
Shall me find, mother mild,
In the temple teaching.


21. "Til I be thirty at the least
I never shall be from thee severed,
But ever, mother, be at thy behest,
Joseph and thee to serve.

22. "When the thirty years be spent,
I must begin to fulfill
That for which I am hither sent,
Through my Father's will.

23. "John Baptist, of merit most,
Shall me baptise by name;
Then my Father and the Holy Ghost
Shall witness what I am.

24. "I shall be tempted by Satan,
Who fallen is in sin;
Just as he tempted Adam,
But I shall it better withstand.

25. "Disciples I shall gather
And send them out to preach,
The laws of my Father
In all this world to teach.

26. "I shall be so simple
And yet so all-knowing
That a great part of the people
Shall want to make me king."

27. "Sweet son," then said she,
"No sorrow could cause me pain,
If I might live to see the day
When you were made a king!"

28. "No, no, mother," said that sweet,
"For that came I not,
But to be poor, and ease the woe
To which man has been brought.

29. "Therefore when two and thirty years be done
And a little more,
Mother, thou shalt make great moan
And see me die so sore.

30. "The sharp sword of Simeon
Shall pierce into thine heart,
For my great grief and dreadful pain
Sorely thee shall smart.


31. "Shamefully then I shall die
Hanging on the rood,
For man's ransom shall I pay
Mine own heart's blood."

32. "Alas! son," said that maid,
"Since this will be so,
How can I live to see the day
That will bring thee such woe?"

33. "Mother," he said, "take it light,
For I shall live again,
In flesh like yours, through my might,
For else I lived in vain.

34. "To my Father I shall wend
In human flesh to Heaven;
The Holy Ghost I shall thee send,
With his gifts seven.

35. "I shall thee take, when the time is,
To me at the last,
To be with me, mother, in bliss:
All this have I cast. [arranged]

36. "All this world judge I shall,
At the dead's rising;
Sweet mother, this is all
That I will now sing."

37. Certainly this sight I saw,
This song I heard sing,
As I lay this Yule's day,
Alone in my longing.




Here's the poem in Middle English (a conflation of the texts found in this book and this one):


Lullay, lullay, la, lullay,
My dere moder, lullay.

1. As I lay upon a night
Alone in my longing
Me thoughte I saw a wonder sight,
A maiden child rocking.

2. The maiden wolde withouten song
Hire child aslepe bringe;
The childe thoughte she ded him wrong,
And bad his moder singe.

3. "Sing now, moder," seide that child,
"What me shalle befalle
Hereafter whan I cum to eld
So don modres alle.

4. "Ich a moder treuly,
That can hire credel kepe
Is wone to lullen lovely
And singen hire child aslepe.

5. "Swete moder, fair and fre,
Sithen that it is so
I preye thee that thu lulle me,
And sing sumwhat therto."

6. "Swete son," seide she,
"Wherof shud I singe?
Wist I nevere yet more of thee
But Gabrieles gretinge."

7. "He grette me godly on his kne
And seide, 'Heil, Marye,
Full of grace, God is with thee.
Beren thu shalt Messye.'

8. "I wondred michil in my thoghte
For man wold I right none.
'Marye,' he seide, 'drede thee nought:
Lat God of Hevene alone;

9. 'The holy ghost sal don al this.'
He seide withouten wone
That I suld beren mannis blis,
Thee, my swete sone.

10. "He seide, 'Thou salt beren a king
In King Davids see,
In al Jacobs woniing
Ther king suld he be.'

11. "He seyde that Elizabeth
That baraine was before,
A child conceyued hath,
'To me leue thu the more.'

12. "I answerede blethely,
For his word me paiyede,
“Lo! Godis servant, her am I,
Be it as thu me seide."

13. "Ther, as he seide, I thee bare
On midwenter night,
In maidenhed, withouten care,
By grace of God almight.

14. "The shepperdis that wakkeden in the wolde
Herden a wonder mirthe
Of angles ther, as they tolde,
In time of thy birthe.

15. "Swete son, sikirly,
No more can I say;
And, if I coude, fawen wold I
To don all at thy pay."

16. "Moder," seide that swete thing,
"To singen I shall thee lere
What me fallet to suffring
And don whil I am here.

17. "Wanne the seuene daies ben don
Rith as Abraham wasce
Cut sal I ben with a ston
In a wol tendre place.

18. "Wanne the tuelue dayes ben do,
Be leding of a stere
Three kingges me sul seke tho
With gold, ensens, and mirre.

19. "The fourti day, to fille the lawe,
We solen to temple ifere;
Ther simeon sal thee sey a sawe
That changen sal thi chere.

20. "Wan I am tuelue yer of elde,
Joseph and thu, murningge,
Solen me finden, moder milde,
In the temple techingge.

21. "Til I be thretti at the leste
I sal neuere fro the suerue,
But ay, moder, ben at thin heste,
Joseph and the to serue.

22. "Wan the thretti yer ben spent,
I mot beginne to fille
Wer-fore I am hidre sent,
Thoru my fadres wille.

23. "Jon baptist of merite most
Sal baptize me be name;
Than my fader and the holi gost
Solen witnessen wat I ame.

24. "I sal be tempted of Satan,
That fawen is to fone,
The same wise that was Adam,
But I sal betre with-stonde.

25. "Disciples I sal gadere
And senden hem for to preche,
The lawes of my fader,
In al this werld to teche.

26. "I sal ben so simple
And to men so conning
That most partiye of the puple
Sal wiln maken me king."

27. "Suete sone," than seyde sche,
"No sorwe sulde me dere,
Miht I yet that day see
A king that thou were!"

28. "Dowey, moder," seide that suete,
"Therfor cam I nouth,
But for to ben pore and bales bete,
That man was inne brouth.

29. "Therfore wan to and thretti yer ben done
And a litel more,
Moder, thou salt maken michil mon
And seen me deye sore.

30. "The sarpe swerde of simeon
Perse sal thin herte,
For my care of michil won
Sore the sal smerte.

31. "Samfuly for I sal deye
Hangende on the rode,
For mannis ransoun sal I paye
Myn owen herte blode."

32. "Allas! sone," seide that may,
"Sithen that it is so,
Whorto shall I biden that day
To beren thee to this wo?"

33. "Moder," he seide, "tak it lighte,
For liven I shall ayeine,
And in thy kinde, thoru my might,
For elles I wroughte in veine.

34. "To my Fader I shall wende
In mine manhed to Hevene;
The Holy Ghost I shall thee sende,
With hise sondes sevene.

35. "I shall thee taken, whan time is,
To me at the laste,
To ben with me, moder, in blis:
All this, than, have I caste.

36. "All this werld demen I shall,
At the dom rising;
Swete moder, here is all
That I wile now sing."

37. Certeinly this sighte I say,
This song I herde sing,
As I lay this Yolisday,
Alone in my longing.

Lullay, lullay, little child, softly sleep and fast / In sorrow endeth every love but thine, at the last

This is an exquisitely sad nativity song, a lullaby addressed to the baby Christ, but full of compassion and pain and regret for the suffering that the child will later undergo. It's from the same manuscript as this lullaby and is on roughly the same subject, but this is a much finer treatment (they both come from a book belonging to the friar John Grimestone, who may or may not be the author). Today's lullaby is also very close in style and theme to this poem in the same metre, which is not addressed to Christ but to an ordinary baby - that anonymous poem laments the sorrows of the world and the human condition, while this focuses on the sorrows of Christ. In both cases the central image is of the crying child, innocent and ignorant, who weeps for no reason - and yet has a reason to weep, though he doesn't know it, because of the world he has been born into.

This poem is almost too sad to post at Christmas, really, but today is the feast of the Holy Innocents, whose own sad, strange lullaby still exerts a strong power; and Christmas is not all jollity - as John Donne said, in a sermon he preached on Christmas Day 1626:

The whole life of Christ was a continual passion; others die martyrs, but Christ was born a martyr. He found a Golgotha, where he was crucified, even in Bethlehem, where he was born; for, to his tenderness then, the straws were almost as sharp as the thorns after; and the manger as uneasy at first, as his cross at last. His birth and his death were but one continual act, and his Christmas Day and his Good Friday are but the evening and morning of one and the same day.

This poem perfectly illustrates that idea.


Lullay, lullay, litel child, child, rest thee a throwe,
From heighe hider art thou sent wyth us to wonen lowe;
Poure and litel art thou made, uncouth and unknowe,
Pyne and wo to suffren heer for thyng that nas thyn owe.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, sorwe mythe thou make;
Thou are sent into this world, as thou were forsake.

[Lullay, lullay, little child, rest you a while; from on high you are sent hither to dwell with us below. Poor and little are you made, unrecognised and unknown, to suffer pain and woe for a crime that was not your own. Lullay, lullay, little child, sorrow you might well make; you are sent into this world like one who has been forsaken.]

Lullay, lullay, litel grome, kyng of alle thyng,
What I thenke of thy myschief me listeth wel litel synge;
But caren I may for sorwe, if love were in myn herte,
For swiche peynes as thou shalt dreyen were nevere non so smerte.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, wel myghte thou crie,
For-than thy body is bleik and blak, soon after shal ben drye.

[Lullay, lullay, little boy, king of all things! When I think of your sad situation I hardly feel like singing; but I may lament, for sorrow, if love be in my heart, because such sharp pains as you will suffer have never been known. Lullay, lullay, little child, well might you cry! Your body then will grow pale and white, and then it shall grow dry.]

Child, it is a wepyng dale that thou art comen in;
Thy poure cloutes it proven wel, thy bed made in the bynne;
Cold and hunger thou most thoeln, as thou were geten in synne,
And after deyen on the tree for love of all mankynne.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, no wonder thogh thou care,
Thou art comen amonges hem that thy deeth shullen yare.

[Child, it is a weeping world that you have come into! Your poor rags prove this well, and your bed in the manger. Cold and hunger must you suffer, like one begotten in sin, and afterwards die upon the cross for the love of all mankind. Lullay, lullay, little child, no wonder that you cry; you are come among those who shall cause your death.]

Lullay, lullay, litel child, for sorwe myghte thou grete;
The anguissh that thou suffren shalt shal don the blood to swete;
Naked, bounden shaltow ben, and sithen sore bete,
No thyng free upon thy body of pyne shal ben lete.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, it is al for thy fo,
The harde bond of love-longyng that thee hath bounden so.

[Lullay, lullay, little child, for sorrow you may well cry; the anguish that you shall suffer will make you sweat blood. Naked, bound, you will be, and afterwards sorely beaten; no part of your body shall be left free of pain. Lullay, lullay, little child, it is all for your foe - the hard bond of love-longing that has bound you so.]

Lullay, lullay, litel child, litel child, thyn ore!
It is al for oure owene gilt that thou art peyned sore.
But wolden we yet kynde ben and lyven after thy lore,
And leten synne for thy love, ne keptest thou no more.
Lullay, lullay, litel child, softe sleep and faste,
In sorwe endeth every love but thyn atte laste.

[Lullay, lullay, little child, little child, your mercy! It is all for our guilt that you are sorely suffering. But if we yet acted rightly and lived according to your teaching, and left sin for your love, your suffering would be at an end. Lullay, lullay, little child, softly sleep and fast; in sorrow ends every love but yours, at the last.]

Thou little baron, thou little king

This lullaby carol is from a manuscript of the 1370s, which belonged to a Franciscan friar named John of Grimestone. The manuscript is a kind of 'commonplace book' with notes for his own preaching, mostly in Latin, and various short poems jotted down throughout - perhaps things he had composed himself, or things he had heard and liked.

In this carol a sinner, standing in for all mankind, addresses the infant Christ. Note that the refrain also appears in this poem (as well as in some others), suggesting the phrase had a wide currency.


Refrain: Lullay, lullay, little child,
Why weepest thou so sore?

Lullay, lullay, little child,
Thou who wast so stern and wild, [mighty]
Now art become meek and mild,
To save those who were forlore. [lost]

But for my sin I know it is
That God's Son has suffered this:
Mercy, Lord, I have done amiss!
Indeed, I will never more.

Against my Father's will I chose
An apple, with a rewful res; [in a lamentable frenzy]
Therefore my heritage I lost,
And now thou weepest therefore.

An apple I took from a tree;
God it had forbidden me;
For that I ought damned to be,
If it were not for thy weeping.

Lullay for woe, thou little thing,
Thou little baron, thou little king;
Mankind is the cause of thy mourning,
That thou hast loved so yore. [so long]

For man that thou hast aye loved so,
Yet shalt thou suffer pains mo, [yet more pain]
In head, in feet, in hands too,
And yet weep well more.

That pain us make of sin free,
That pain us bring, Jesu, to thee,
That pain us help aye to flee
The wicked fiend's lore.

[May that pain free us from sin; may that pain bring us, Jesu, to thee; may that pain ever help us to flee the teaching of the wicked fiend]


Here it is in something closer to the original spelling (John of Grimestone's commonplace book is now Edinburgh, National Library of Scotland, MS Advocates 18.7.21):

Refrain: Lullay, lullay, litel child,
Why wepest thou so sore?

Lullay, lullay, litel child,
Thou that were so sterne and wild
Now art become meke and mild,
To saven that was forlore.

But for my senne I wot it is
That Godes Sone suffret this:
Mercy, Lord, I have do mis;
Iwis, I wile no more.

Ayenis my Fadres wille I ches
An appel with a rewful res;
Werfore myn heritage I les,
And nou thou wepest therfore.

An appel I tok off a tre;
God it hadde forboden me;
Wherfore I shulde dampned be,
Yef thy weping ne wore.

Lullay for wo, thou litel thing,
Thou litel barun, thou litel king;
Mankinde is cause of thy murning,
That thou hast loved so yore.

For man that thou hast ay loved so,
Yet shaltou suffren peines mo,
In heved, in feet, in hondes to,
And yet wepen wel more.

That peine us make of senne fre,
That peine us bringe Jesu to thee,
That peine us helpe ay to fle
The wickede fendes lore.

Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber

Last year around Christmas I was interested in (and posted here) a number of medieval lullaby carols. It's a genre I find particularly moving, I think because it's so personal and intimate; not having my own baby to sing lullabies to, I'll have to be content with the carols! So I'm going to post a few later examples this Christmas season, starting with this, which is known as 'Watts' Cradle Song'. It was written by Isaac Watts but seems to have entered folk tradition, set to this tune; in that form it was collected by Vaughan Williams in Northumberland.

Seven verses of Watts' fourteen are included in The Oxford Book of Carols, but with the assistance of Google Books, I've included four more (nos. 5-7 and 11 here) because I like them.


1. Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber;
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.

2. Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide,
All without thy care and payment,
All thy wants are well supplied.

3. How much better thou'rt attended
Than the Son of God could be
When from heaven he descended
And became a child like thee.

4. Soft and easy is thy cradle;
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,
When his birthplace was a stable
And his softest bed was hay.

5. Blessed Babe! What glorious features,
Spotless fair, divinely bright!
Must he dwell with brutal creatures?
How could angels bear the sight?

6. Was there nothing but a manger
Cursed sinners could afford
To receive the heavenly stranger?
Did they thus affront their Lord?

7. Soft, my child, I did not chide thee,
Though my song might sound too hard;
'Tis thy mother sits beside thee
And her arms shall be thy guard.

8. See the lovely Babe a-dressing;
Lovely Infant, how he smiled!
When he wept, the mother's blessing
Soothed and hushed the holy Child.

9. Lo, he slumbers in his manger,
Where the horned oxen fed;
Peace, my darling! here's no danger;
Here's no ox a-near thy bed.

10. Mayst thou live to know and fear him,
Trust and love him all thy days:
Then go dwell for ever near him,
See his face and sing his praise.

11. I could give thee thousand kisses,
Hoping what I most desire;
Not a mother's fondest wishes
Can to greater joys aspire.