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The sylke and sandell, thee to eis, Are hay and sempill sweiling clais, Quhairin thow gloiris, greitest King, As thow in heuin were in thy ring.
Thow tuke like paines temporall, To make me riche perpetuall: For all this warldis welth and gude, Can nothing richt thy celsitude.
O my deir hert, zoung Jesus sweit, Prepare thy creddill in my spreit, And I sail rocke thee in my hert, And neuer mair from thee depart.
But I sail praise thee euermoir, With sangs sweit vnto thy gloir ; The knees of my hert sail I bow, And sing that richt Balulalow.
Gloir bee to God eternally, Quhilk gaif his only Sonne for mee, The angels joyes for to heir, The gratious gift of this new zeir. |
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