Modyr, whyt os lyly flower

Attempted translation of a Christmas poem

Catholics (and some other Christians, I believe), are still in the Christmas season, which actually didn’t start until Christmas Day, December 25. It will end for us this Monday, on January 8^th. Most of this is reformatted into a post from my Notes.

Peregrinus

posted this beautiful Middle English Christmas poem, which reminded me of the first website I ever created in the mid-90’s. It was so long ago, there was no Internet Archive, so it’s been lost by now. It was called “Maria Lactans” and I was breastfeeding my daughter at the time. So I just had to take a stab at the translation.

For the Middle English and a beautiful image, check out his post: Christmas Mother & Child

Mother, White as the Lily Flower

As I arose upon the morning,
Thought I of a maid young,
And she sang to sleep with lulling,
Her sweet son, our savior.

On her lap she held him fast,
Full of love, he took the breast,
Drawing sweetly of the feast,
His fill took of her nectar.

Then he to his mother said,
For this milk I must taste death,
So my nature to play out,
Mother, sweet and lovely.

Freely now the mother sings,
Mourning to the song she brings,
How comes it that our heavenly king,
Should shed his blood so sadly.

Mother, your weeping grieves me sore,
But I would die, you must be lorn,
Be done, my mother, weep no more,
Your lulling soothes my sorrow.

Such mourning as the maiden had,
This morning can I not have said,
Instead make merry and be glad,
Rejoice for this our savior.