VII.

NOWELL, nowell, nowell, nowell.

Who ys there that syngith so nowell, nowell?

I am here, syre Cristsmasse;

Well, come, my lord s^r Crstsmasse,

Welcome to vs all bothe more & lasse,

Com ner, nowell.

Dievs wous garde brewe s^{rs} tydyge y ȝow bryng.

A mayde hath borne a chylde full ȝong,

The weche causeth ȝew for to syng,

Nowell.

Criste is now born of a pure mayde,

In an oxe stalle he ys layde,

Wher’for syng we alle atte abrayde,

Nowell.

Bevvex bien par tutte la company,

Make gode chere and be ryght mery,

And syng w^t vs now ioyfully,

Nowell.