Chapter XVI: The Adoration of the Shepherds

_Angelus ad pastores dicit_, “Gloria in excelsis Deo.”

Joye to God that sytt in hevyn,
And pes to man on erthe grownde!
A chylde is born benethe the levyn,
Thurwe hym many ffolke xul be unbownde.
Sacramentys ther xul be vij.,
Wonnyn thorowe that childys wounde;
Therfore I synge a joyful stevene,
The flowre of frenchep now is founde!
God that wonyght on hyȝ,
He is gloryed mannys gost to wynne,
He hath sent salve to mannys synne,
Pes is comyn to mannys kynne,
Thorwe Goddys hiȝe wysdam I saye.
_Primus Pastor._ Maunfras, Maunfras, felawe myn,
I saw a grett lyght with bryght shyne,
ȝit saw I nevyr so mervely a syne,
Shapyn upon the skyes.
It is bryghtere than the sunne bem,
It comyth ryght over alle this rem,
Evyn above Bedleem,
I saw it brenne thryes!
_Secundus Pastor._ Thu art my brother Boosras,
I have beholdyn the same pas,
I trowe it is tokenynge of gras,
That shynynge shewyght beforn!
Balaam spak in prophesye,
A lyght xuld shyne upon the skye,
Whan a chylde of a mayd Marye
In Bedleem were i-born.
_Tertius Pastor._ Thow I make lytyl noyse of this,
I am an herde man that hattyht sayyng amyce,
I herde spekyng of a chylde of blyce,
Of Moyses in his lawe.
Of a mayd a child xuld be borne,
On a tre he xuld be torn,
Delyver folkys that arn forlorn,—
The chylde xulde be slawe.
_Primus pastor._ Balaam spake in prophecie,
Out of Jacob xuld shyne a skye,
Many ffolke he xulde bye
With his bryght blood.
Be that bryght blod that he xulde blede,
He xal us brynge fro the develys drede,
As a duke most dowty in dede,
Thorwe his dethe on rode.
_Secundus Pastor._ Amos spak with mylde methe,
A frute swettere than bawmys brethe,
His dethe xulde slen owre sowlys dethe,
And drawe us alle from helle.
Therfore suche lyght goth beforn,
In tokyn that the childe is born,
Whiche xal save that is forlorn,—
As prophetys gonne spelle.
_Tertius pastor._ Danyel the prophete thus gan speke,
Wyse God from woo us wreke,
Thi bryght hevyn thou to-breke,
And medele the with a mayde.
This prophecye is now spad,
Cryst in our kende is clad,
Therfore mankend may be glad,
As prophetes beforn han seyd.
“Gloria in excelsis deo,” _Cantent._
_Primus Pastor._ Ey, ey! this was a wondyr note,
That was now songyn above the sky!
I have that voys, fful wele I wote,
Thei songe _gle glo glory_.
_Secundus Pastor._ Nay, so mot y the, so was it nowth,
I have that songe fful wele I num,
In my wytt weyl it is wrought:—
It was _gle glo glas glum_.
_Tertius Pastor._ The songe me thought it was glory;
And aftyrwarde he seyd us to,—
Ther is a chylde born xal be a prynce myghty,
ffor to seke that chylde I rede we go.
_Primus Pastor._ The prophecye of Boosdras is spedly sped;
Now leyke we hens, as that lyght us lede:
Myght we se onys that bryght on bed,
Oure sorow it wolde unbynde.
We xulde shadyr for no shoure,
Buske us hens to Bedleem boure,
To se that fayr fresche flowre,
The mayde mylde in mynde.
_Secundus Pastor._ Lete us ffolwe with alle oure myght,
With songe and myrthe we xul us dyght,
And wurchep with joye that wurthy wyght,
That Lord is of mankynne.
Lete us go fforthe fast on hye,
And honowre that babe wurthylye,
With merthe, songe, and melodye;
Have do! this songe begynne!

_Tunc pastores cantabunt “Stella cæli extirpavit.” Quo facto, ibunt ad querendum Christum._

_Primus Pastor._ Heyle floure of floures, fayrest i-fownde!
Heyle, perle peerles, prime rose of prise!
Heyl, blome on hedde! we xul be unbownde
with thi blody woundys and werkys fulle wyse.
Heyl, God grettest, I grete the on grownde!
The gredy devyl xal grone grysly as a gryse,
Whan thou wynnyst this worlde with thi wyde wounde,
And puttyst man to paradys with plenty of prys;
To love the is my delyte.
Heyl, floure and fre!
Lyght from the Trynyté!
Heyl, blyssyd mote thou be!
Heyl, mayden, fayrest in syght!
_Secundus Pastor._ Heyl, floure ovyr fflour fowndyn in fryght!
Heyl, Cryst, kynde in oure kyth!
Heyl, werker of wele to wonyn us wyth!
Heyl wynner i-wys!
Heyl, fformere and ffrende!
Heyl, ffellere of the fende!
Heyl, clad in oure kende!
Heyl, prince of paradys!
_Tertius pastor._ Heyl, Lord over lordys, that lyggyst ful lowe!
Heyl, kynge ovyr kynges thi kynrede to knowe!
Heyl, comely knyth the devyl to overthrowe!
Heyl, flowre of alle!
Heyl, werkere to wynne
Bodyes bowndyn in synne!
Heyl, in a bestys bynne,
Be-stad in a stalle!
_Joseph._ Herdys on hylle,
Bethe not stylle,
But seyth ȝour wylle,
To many a man;
How God is born,
This mery morn,
That is forlorn
Fyndyn he can.
_Secundus Pastor._ We xulle telle,
Be dale and hylle,
How harwere of helle
Was born this nyght,
Myrthis to melle,
And fendys to quelle,
That were so felle
Aȝens his ryght.
_Secundus Pastor._ ffarewel, babe and barne of blys!
ffarewel, Lord that lovely is!
The to wurchep thi feet I kys;
On knes to the I falle.
The to wurchepe I falle on kne,
Alle this werd may joye of the!
Now farewel, Lord of grett pousté!
ȝa, farewel, kynge of alle.
_Tertius Pastor._ Thow I be the last that take my leve,
ȝit fayre mullynge, take it nat at no greve;
Now, fayre babe, wele mut thou cheve!
ffayr chylde, now have good day.
ffareweyl, myn owyn dere derlyng:
I-wys thou art a ryght fayr thyng!
ffarewel, my Lorde and my swetyng!
ffarewel, born in pore aray!
_Maria._ Now, ȝe herdmen, wel mote ȝe be,
ffor ȝoure omage and ȝour syngynge:
My sone xal aqwyte ȝow in hefne se,
And ȝeve ȝow alle ryght good hendynge! _Amen._