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Sleep, baby, sleep! what ails my dear, What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, To hear me sing thy lullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?
What thing to thee can mischief do?
Thy G.o.d is now thy father dear, His holy Spouse thy mother too.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Though thy conception was in sin, A sacred bathing thou hast had; And though thy birth unclean hath been, A blameless babe thou art now made.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
While thus thy lullaby I sing, For thee great blessings ripening be; Thine Eldest Brother is a king, And hath a kingdom bought for thee.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear; For whosoever thee offends By thy protector threatened are, And G.o.d and angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When G.o.d with us was dwelling here, In little babes He took delight; Such innocents as thou, my dear, Are ever precious in His sight.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was He; And strength in weakness then was laid Upon His Virgin Mother's knee, That power to thee might be conveyed.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
In this thy frailty and thy need He friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, For of thy weal they tender are.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The King of Kings when He was born, Had not so much for outward ease; By Him such dressings were not worn, Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy Lord, Where oxen lay and a.s.ses fed: Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle for a bed.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The wants that He did then sustain Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee, And by His torments and His pain Thy rest and ease secured be.
My baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
George Wither [1588-1667]
MOTHER'S SONG
My heart is like a fountain true That flows and flows with love to you.
As chirps the lark unto the tree So chirps my pretty babe to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
There's not a rose where'er I seek, As comely as my baby's cheek.
There's not a comb of honey-bee, So full of sweets as babe to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
There's not a star that s.h.i.+nes on high, Is brighter than my baby's eye.
There's not a boat upon the sea, Can dance as baby does to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
No silk was ever spun so fine As is the hair of baby mine.
My baby smells more sweet to me Than smells in spring the elder tree.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
A little fish swims in the well, So in my heart does baby dwell.
A little flower blows on the tree, My baby is the flower to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
The Queen has sceptre, crown and ball, You are my sceptre, crown and all.
For all her robes of royal silk, More fair your skin, as white as milk.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
Ten thousand parks where deer do run, Ten thousand roses in the sun, Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea, My babe more precious is to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
Unknown
A LULLABY
Upon my lap my sovereign sits And sucks upon my breast; Meanwhile his love sustains my life And gives my body rest.
Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
When thou hast taken thy repast, Repose, my babe, on me; So may thy mother and thy nurse Thy cradle also be.
Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
I grieve that duty doth not work All that my wis.h.i.+ng would, Because I would not be to thee But in the best I should.
Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Yet as I am, and as I may, I must and will be thine, Though all too little for thy self Vouchsafing to be mine.
Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Richard Rowlands [fl. 1565-1620]
A CRADLE HYMN
