| Disc 1 | ||||||
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1. |
| 3:08 | 
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| 2. |
| 2:19 |
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| 3. |
| 3:37 |
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| 4. |
| 2:58 |
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| 5. |
| 2:39 | 
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Through the glass window shines the sun
Through the glass window shines the sun And I so young Through the glass window shines the sun Through the glass window shines the sun How should I, how should I, how should I love? How should I, how should I, how should I love? The silver is white, the red is the gold The robes, they lay in fold They lay in fold How should I, how should I, how should I love? How should I, how should I, how should I love? How should I, how should I, how should I love? How should I, how should I, how should I love? Through the glass window |
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| 6. |
| 2:41 |
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There is no rose of such virtue
As is the Rose that bore Jesu Alleuja! For in this Rose contained was Heaven and earth in little space Resmiranda! By that Rose we may well see That He is God in persons three Paresforma! The angels sung, the shepherds, too Gloria in excelsis Deo! (??????) Then leave we all this worldly mirth And follow we His joyful birth. Transeamus |
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| 7. |
| 1:54 |
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| 8. |
| 2:22 |
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| 9. |
| 3:03 |
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| 10. |
| 3:40 |
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| 11. |
| 3:13 |
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| 12. |
| 4:27 |
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Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child
By, by, lully, lullay, thou little tiny child By, by, lully, lullay O! Sisters too How may we do For to preserve this day This pore yongling For whom we do singe "By, by, lully, lullay"? Herod, the king In his raging Charged he hath this day His men of might In his owne sight All yonge children to slay That wo is me Pore child for thee And ever morne and may For thy parting Nether say nor sing "By, by, lully, lullay" |
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| 13. |
| 4:49 |
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| 14. |
| 1:57 |
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| 15. |
| 4:54 |
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Blow, northerne wind
Send thou me my sweting Blow, northerne wind Blow, blow, blow! Ichot a burde in bowre bright That sully semly is on sight Menskful maiden of might Fair and fre to fonde In all this wurhliche won A burde of blod and of bon Never yet I nuste non Lussomore in lode Hire lure lumes light Ase a launterne anight Hire be blikieth so bright So fair he is and fine Swetly swire he hath to holde With armes, shuldre ase mon wolde And fingres faire for to folde God wolde she were mine To Love I putte pleintes mo How Siking me hath siwed so And eke Thoght me thrat to slo With maistry yef he mighte And Sorewe sore in balful bende The he wolde for this hende Me lede to my lives ende Unlahfulliche in lighte |
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