A bore ys a souerayn beste, And acceptable in eury feste, So mote thys lord be to moste and leste, Nowell. This borys hede we bryng w~t~ song, In worchyp of hym that thus sprang Of a virgyne to redresse all wrong. Nowell. [Illustration] VII. NOWELL, nowell, nowell, nowell. Who ys there that syngith so nowell, nowell? I am here, syre Cristsmasse; Well, come, my lord s^{r} Crstsmasse, Welcome to vs all bothe more & lasse, Com ner, nowell. _Dievs wous garde brewe s^{rs}_ tydyge y ȝow bryng. A mayde hath borne a chylde full ȝong, The weche causeth ȝew for to syng, Nowell. Criste is now born of a pure mayde, In an oxe stalle he ys layde, Wher’for syng we alle atte abrayde, Nowell. _Bevvex bien par tutte la company_, Make gode chere and be ryght mery, And syng w^{t} vs now ioyfully, Nowell. VIII. A Bonne God wote! Stickes in my throate, Without I have a draught Of cornie aile, Nappy and staile, My lyffe lyes in great wauste. Some ayle or beare, Gentill butlere, Some lycoure thou hus showe, Such as you mashe, Our throates to washe, The best were that yow brew. Saint, master, and knight, That Saint Mault hight, Were prest betwen two stones; That swet humour Of his lycoure Would make us sing at once. Mr. Wortley, I dar well say, I tell you as I thinke, Would not, I say, Byd hus this day, But that we shuld have drink. His men so tall Walkes up his hall, With many a comly dishe; Of his good meat I cannot eate, Without a drink i-wysse; Now gyve hus drink, And let cat wynke, I tell you all at once, Yt stickes so sore, I may sing no more, Tyll I have dronken once. IX. Nowel el el el, now is wel that evere was woo. A BABE is born al of a may, In the savasyoun of us, To hem we syngyn bothe nyȝht and day, _Veni creator spiritus_. At Bedlem that blyssid pas, The chylde of blysse born he was, Hym to serve, go ȝeve us gras, _O lux beata trinitas_. Ther come thre kynges out of the est, To worchepe the Kyng that is so fre, With gold and myrre and francincens, _A solis ortus cardine_. The herdes herdyn an aungele cry, A merye song then sungyn he, Qwy arn ȝe so sore a-gast? _Jam ortus solis cardine_. The aungele comyn down with on cry, A fayr song then sungyn he, In the worchepe of that chyld, _Gloria tibi, Domine_. [Illustration] X. Make we myrth, For Crystes byrth, And syng we ȝole tyl Candelmes.