Come hither, lyttel chylde, and lie upon my breast to-night,
For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white,
And yonder sings ye angell, as onely angells may,
And hys songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.
To them that have no lyttel chylde Godde sometimes sendeth down
A lyttel chylde that ben a lyttel lampkyn of His own,
And, if soe be they love that chylde, He willeth it to staye,
But, elsewise, in His mercie He taketh it awaye.
And, sometimes, though they love it, Godde yearneth for ye chylde,
And sendeth angells singing whereby it ben beguiled—
They fold their arms about ye lamb that croodleth at his playe
And bear him to ye garden that bloometh farre awaye.
I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that Godde hath lent to me—
If I colde sing that angell songe, hoy joysome I sholde bee!
For, with my arms about him my music in his eare,
What angell songe of paradize soever sholde I feare?
Soe come, my lyttel chylde, and lie upon my breast to-night,
For yonder fares an angell, yclad in raimaunt white,
And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may,
And hys songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.