A CAROL FOR SAINT STEPHEN'S DAY
Seynt Stevene was a clerk,
In kyng Herowdės halle,
And servyd him of bred and cloth,
As every kyng befalle.
Stevyn out of Kechoun cam,
Wyth boris bed on honde,
He saw a sterr was fayr and bryght
Over Bedlem stonde.
He kyst adoun the bores hed,
And went into the halle:
"I forsake the, kyng Herowde,
And thi werkės alle.
"I forsak the, kyng Herowde,
And thi werkės alle:
Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born,
Is better than we alle."
"Quhat eylyt the, Stevene?
Quhat is the befalle?
Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk
"Lakyt me neyther mete ne drynk
In kyng Herowdės halle;
Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born,
Is better than we alle."
"Quhat eylyt the, Stevyn, art thu wod?
Or thu gynnyst to brede?
Lakyt the eyther gold or fe,
Or ony rychė wede?"
"Lakyt me neyther gold ne fe,
Ne non rychė wede;
Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born,
Shal helpyn us at our nede."
"That is al so soth, Stevyn,
Al so soth, I wys,
As this capon crowė schel
That lyth her in myn dych."
That word was not so sonė seyd,
That wordė in that halle,
The capon crew, Christus natus est!
Among the lordės alle.
"Rysyt up, myn túrmentowres
Be to and al be on,
And ledyt Stevyn out of this town,
And stonyt hym wyth ston."
Tokyn hem Stevene,
And stonyd hym in the way:
And therfor is his evyn
On Crystės owyn day.
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