Western wind, when wilt thou blow, 
The small rain down can rain? 
Christ, if my love were in my arms, 
And I in my bed again! 
 
 

NOW GOES THE SUN UNDER THE WOOD 

Now goes the sun under the wood-- 
I pity, Mary, thy fair face. 
Now goes the sun under the tree-- 
I pity, Mary, thy son and thee.