23   On the Nativity of Christ

RORATE coeli desuper!
    Hevins, distil your balmy schouris!¹
For now is risen the bricht day- ster,
    Fro the rose Mary, flour of flouris:
    The cleir Sone, quhom no cloud devouris,
Surmounting Phebus in the Est,
    Is cumin² of his hevinly touris:
       Et nobis Puer natus est.

Archangellis, angellis, and dompnationis,
    Tronis, potestatis, and marteiris seir,³
And all ye hevinly operationis,
    Ster, planeit, firmament, and spheir,
    Fire, erd,⁴ air, and water cleir,
To Him gife loving, most and lest,⁵
    That come in to so meik maneir;
       Et nobis Puer natus est.

Synnaris⁶ be glad, and penance do,
    And thank your Maker hairtfully;
For he that ye micht nocht come to
    To you is cumin full humbly
    Your soulis with his blood to buy
And loose you of the fiendis arrest—
    And only of his own mercy;
       Pro nobis Puer natus est.

All clergy do to him inclyne,
    And bow unto that bairn benyng,⁷
And do your observance divyne
    To him that is of kingis King:
    Encense his altar, read and sing
In holy kirk, with mind degest,
    Him honouring attour⁸ all thing
       Qui nobis Puer natus est.

Celestial foulis in the air,
    Sing with your nottis upon hicht,
In firthis and in forrestis fair
    Be myrthful now at all your mycht;
    For passit is your dully nicht,
Aurora has the cloudis perst,⁹
    The Son is risen with glaidsum licht,
       Et nobis Puer natus est.

Now spring up flouris fra the rute,
    Revert you upward naturaly,
In honour of the blissit frute
    That raiss¹⁰ up fro the rose Mary;
    Lay out your levis lustily,
Fro deid take life now at the lest
    In wirschip of that Prince worthày
       Qui nobis Puer natus est.

Sing, hevin imperial, most of hicht!
    Regions of air mak armony!
All fish in flud and fowl of flicht
    Be mirthful and mak melody!
    All Gloria in excelsis cry!
Heaven, erd, se, man, bird, and best,¹¹—
    He that is crownit abone the sky
       Pro nobis Puer natus est!

24   Lament for the Makers

I THAT in heill¹ was and gladnàss
Am trublit now with great sickness
And feblit with infirmitie:—
       Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Our plesance here is all vain glory,
This fals world is but transitory,
The flesh is bruckle,² the Feynd is slee:³—
       Timor Mortis conturbat me.

The state of man does change and vary,
Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary,
Now dansand⁴ mirry, now like to die:—
       Timor Mortis conturbat me.

No state in Erd here standis sicker;⁵
As with the wynd wavis the wicker⁶
So wannis⁷ this world’s vanitie:—
       Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Unto the ded gois all Estatis,
Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis,
Baith rich and poor of all degree:—
       Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He takis the knichtis in to the field
Enarmit under helm and scheild;
Victor he is at all mellie:⁸—
       Timor Mortis conturbat me.

That strong unmerciful tyrand
Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand,⁹
The babe full of benignitie:—
       Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He takis the campion¹⁰ in the stour,¹¹
The captain closit in the tour,
The lady in bour full of bewtie:—
       Timor Mortis conturbat me.