Sweet Jesus, go down to yonder town
As far as the Holy Well,
And take away those sinful souls,
And dip them deep in hell.
Nay, nay, sweet Jesus said,
Nay, nay, that may not be ;
For there are too many sinful souls
Crying out for the help of me.
The Holly and the Ivy,
Now both are full well grown;
Of all the trees that spring in wood,
The holly bears the crown.
The holly bears a blossom
As white as a lily flow'r;
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
To be our sweet Saviour.
The holly bears a berry
As red as any blood,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
To do poor sinners good.
The holly bears a prickle
As sharp as any thorn,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
On Christmas Day in the morn.
The holly bears a bark
As bitter as any gall,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
For to redeem us all.
The holly and the ivy
Now are both well grown;
Of all the trees that are in the wood,
The holly bears the crown.
The Contest of the Vines.
THE CONTEST OF THE VINES.
Nay, ivy, nay,
It shall not be, I wis;
Let holly have the mastery,
As the manner is.
Holly stand in the hall,
Fair to behold;
Ivy stand without the door,
She is full sore a-cold.
Nay, ivy, nay, etc.
Holly and his merry men
They dancen and they sing;
Ivy and her maidens
They weepen and they wring.
Nay, ivy, nay, etc.
Ivy hath a kybe,*
She caught it with the cold;
So mot they all have ae, t
That with ivy hold.
Nay, ivy, nay, etc.
Holly hath berries
As red as any rose,
The forester and the hunters
Keep them from the does.
Nay, ivy, nay, etc.
Ivy hath berries
As black as any sloe;
There come the owl
And eat him as she go.
Nay, ivy, nay, etc.
Holly hath birdés
full fair flock, The nightingale, the popinjay, The gentle laverock.
Nay, ivy, nay, etc.
Good ivy,
What birdés bast thou ? None but the howlet
That krey *"How, how."
Nay, ivy, nay,
It shall not be, I wis;
Let holly have the mastery,
As the manner is.
Ane Sang of the Birth of Christ.
ANE SANG OF THE BIRTH OF CHRIST.
I come from hevin to tell
The best nowellis that ever befell ;
To you this tythinges trew I bring,
And I will of them say and sing:
This day to yow is borne ane childe
Of Marie meike and Virgine mylde,
That blessit barne, bining and kynde,
Sall yow rejoyce baith heart and mynd.
My saull and lyfe, stand up and see
Quha lyes in ane cribe of tree,
Quhat babe is that, so gude and faire ?
It is Christ, God's sonne and aire.
O God, that made all creature,
How art Thow becum so pure,
That on the hay and stray will lye
Amang the asses, oxin, and kye!
O my deir hert, young Jesus sweit,
Prepare Thy creddill in my spreit,
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