Moder, white as lily flour

Moder, white as lily flour,
Your lulling lesseth my langour,

As I up rose in a morning,
My thought was on a maidé ying,
That song aslepe with her lulling
Her deré sone, our Saviour.

As she him toke all in her lap,
He toke that maiden be the pap,
And toke thereof a right god nap,
And soke his fille of that licour.

To his moder than he gan say,
‘For this milk me musté deye;
It is my kind therewith to play,
My swete moder, my par amour.’

The maiden freely gan to sing,
And in her song she made morning,
‘How he that is our heven king
Shuld shed his blod with grete dolour.

‘Your weping, moder, greveth me sore;
But I wold deye, ye wern forlore.
Do way, moder, and wepe no more!
Your lulling lesseth my langour,’