Medieval Lyrics

WESTERN WIND

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.