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.