by Benjamin Britten

That yongë child when it gan weep
with song she lulled him asleep:

That was so sweet a melody
it passèd alle minstrelsy.

The nightingalë sang also:
Her song is hoarse . . and nought thereto:

Whoso attendeth to her song
and leaveth the first. then doth he wrong.

Inegal Ensemble of Prague, Adam Victora

O my deare hert, young Jesu sweit,
Prepare thy creddil in my spreit,

And I sall rock thee to my hert,
And never mair from thee depart.

But I sall praise thee evermoir
With sanges sweit unto thy gloir;

The knees of my hert sall I bow,
And sing that richt Balulalow.