Christmas Carols, Ancient and Modern/Missus est angelus Gabriel

MISSUS EST ANGELUS GABRIEL.

God sent his Aungell Gabriell
To Nazareth the chefe cite
Of Galile, as Luk will telle,
To Marie mylde and mayden fre.

The which was weddid to a man
Of David hows, that Joseph hight;
To her the Aungell entrid than
And seyde unto that mayden bryght,

Hayl, ful of grace, the Lord of all
He is with thee, blessyd mote thou be
Among all wymen grete & small;
Thus salwed he that Lady fre.

When sche this herde sche was affrayede,
And thought with in hir hert wytly
Of this worde howe it was sayde;
And than to her he seyde in highe,

Drede nought, Marye, for thou hast founde
The grace of God in mekenesse trewe;
Thow schalt conseyve and bere a sone,
And thou schalt clepe his name Jh͏̃u.

He schal be grete by goldy myght,
And cleped hys sone that is most hee;
He schal hym gyve by mothir ryght
The sete of David hys fathir free.

In Jacob hows he schal be kyng,
And of hys rewme shcal be noon ende;
Then askyd Marye of this thing,
How it schulde be sche wolde be kende,

For man I purpose nevꝛ to knowe;
Than seyde the Aungell from above
The Holy Gost schal come and schowe
To thee in the strengthe of love,

And umbischadwe thee with light
And vꝛtue grete of hys godhede;
Th͏̃fore that holy thing of myght
That schal be born of thee in dede

Schal be Goddis sone, and so be called,
And so Elizabeth thi awnte
Sche hath conseyved, though sche be olde,
A sone, suche grace God hath hir graunte.

And now the Sixte moneth is this
To hir that passed in childe berynge,
To God unmyghty no thing is,
At hym be may no failyng thinge.

Than spak the mother of pyte,
Lo the Lordys handmayde I am,
Aftꝛ thi woorde be do to me;
And at that poynt God bycome man.

Than roos that blissyd mayde Marye,
And gede up to the hillys with hasty breeth
Unty the hows of Zakarye,
And salewed ther Elizabeth.

And whan Elizabeth dide her
The gretyng of that lady swete,
Hir childe Seynt John glad cher than made
With inne hir wombe there as sche sete.

And than, fulfilled of the holy Goost,
Elizabeth bigan to crye
Blessed the art of wymen moost
So is the fruyt of thi bodye.

And how is this, that thus to me
Cometh the mothir of my Lord,
To make my childe so welcome thee
As voys dothe voys in gode acorde?

And blessyd be thou in feith so trewe,
For what is seyde from God to thee,
By p̄phets alle bothe olde and newe,
Now is fulfilled, blessyd mote the be.

Than spake Mary, Goddis mothir dere,
Moche magnifieth my Sowle my Lord,
And so my spirit hath schewed glad cher
In God my helpe with ful acorde.

This graciouse cowpil of foure in fere,
Of Crist Jh͏̃u and Marye milde,
Elizabeth and hir sone dere
Seynt John Baptist, fro schame us schilde.
Amen.