Why dost weep, my Babe? alas! Cold winds that pass Vex, or is 't the little ass? Lullaby, O Paradise; Of my heart Though Saviour art; On thy face I press a kiss. Wouldst thou learn so speedily, Pain to try, To heave a sigh? Sleep, for thou shalt see the day Of dire scath, Of dreadful death, To bitter scorn and shame a prey. Rays now round thy brow extend, But in the end A crown of cruel thorns shall bend. Lullaby, O little one, Gentle guest Who for thy rest A manger hast, to lie upon. Born in winter of the year, Jesu dear, As the lost world's prisoner. Lullaby (for thou art bound Pain to know, And want and woe), Mid the cattle standing round. Beauty mine, sleep peacefully; Heaven's monarch! see, With my veil I cover thee. Lullaby, my Spouse, my Lord, Fairest Child Pure, undefiled, Thou by all my soul adored. Lo! the shepherd band draws nigh; Horns they ply Thee their Lord to glorify. Lullaby, my soul's delight, For Israel, Faithless and fell, Thee with cruel death would smite. Now the milk suck from my breast, Holiest, best, Thy kind eyes thou openest. Lullaby, the while I sing; Holy Jesu Now sleep anew, My mantle is thy sheltering. Sleep, sleep, thou who dost heaven impart My Lord thou art; Sleep, as I press thee to my heart. Poor the place where thou dost lie, Earth's loveliest! Yet take thy rest; Sleep my Child, and lullaby. It would be interesting to know if Mrs Browning ever heard any one of the many variants of this lullaby before writing her poem "The Virgin Mary to the Child Jesus." The version given above was communicated to me by a resident at Vallauria, in the heart of the Ligurian Alps. In that district it is sung in the churches on Christmas Eve, when out abroad the mountains sleep soundly in their snows and a stray wolf is not an impossible apparition, nothing reminding you that you are within a day's journey of the citron groves of Mentone. There are several old English carols which bear a strong resemblance to the Italian sacred lullabies. One, current at least as far back as the time of Henry IV., is preserved among the Sloane MSS.: Lullay! lullay! lytel child, myn owyn dere fode, How xalt thou sufferin be nayled on the rode. So blyssid be the tyme! Lullay! lullay! lytel child, myn owyn dere smerte, How xalt thou sufferin the scharp spere to Thi herte? So blyssid be the tyme!