Ten Lords a Leaping

         Yes, this is another re-run, something I posted a few years ago, which some of you may not have had the chance to hear, not to mention a good refresher for the rest of us. It's another John Rutter classic, based on a fifteenth century English Poem by John Audelay. In it, Christ is portrayed as a flower, the sweetest and most fragrant flower ever to blossom.

I thought it would be fun, though, to share the original lyrics. They spoke and spelled a little differently in the 1400s. Let me know if you can decipher this without opting to the translation below. You go up points in my estimation if you're able to make it through and understand, roughly, what's being said in each stanza. This is where I am most grateful for my muddling through Spencer's Faerie Queene, and Chaucer's Canterbury tales. 

A couple tips, if you don't know where to start, remember that at this time there was no standardised spelling so people spelled things the way they sounded. Granted, they spoke a little differently back then too...so, there's that, but do let me know how you get on.

There is a floure sprung of a tre,
The rote therof is called Jesse,
A floure of pryce;
Ther is non seche in paradise.

This flour is fayre and fresche of heue;
Hit fadis never, bot ever is new;
The blisful branche this flour on grew
Was Mare myld that bare Jhesu —
A flour of grace,
Agayns al sorow hit is solas.

The sede hereof was Godis sond,
That God himselve sew with his hond;
In Bedlem, in that hole lond,
In medis here herbere ther he hir fond.
This blisful floure
Sprang never bot in Maris boure.

When Gabrael this mayd met,
With "Ave, Maria," he here gret;
Betwene hem two this flour was set,
And kept was, no mon schul wit,
Hent on a day
In Bedlem, hit con spred and spray.

When that floure began to sprede,
And his blossum to bede,
Ryche and pore of evere sede,
Thai marvelt hou this flour myght sprede!
Til kyngys thre
That blesful floure come to se.

Angelis ther cam out of here toure
To loke apon this freschele floure —
Houe fayre he was in his coloure,
And hou sote in his savour —
And to behold
How soche a flour myght spryng in golde.

Of lille, of rose of ryse,
Of prymrol, and of flour-de-lyse
Of al the flours at my devyse,
Thet floure of Jesse yet bers the prys,
As most of hele
To slake oure sorous everedele.

I pray youe, flours of this cuntre,
Whereevere ye go, wereever ye be,
Hold hup the flour of good Jesse,
Fore your freschenes and youre beute,
As fayrist of al,
And ever was and ever schal.

     You all know I love it when something not only tells a story, but paints a picture in metaphor. This is one of the best devices for poetry and I do wish people would write poetry with this in mind nowadays rather than ... well ... you know, rap. 

       Alright, that being said, here is the actual song, and I'll include the translation underneath. There is none better to sing this than the King's Singers; perhaps the group I draw from more than any other for my Christmas carol performances. No sloppy vowels, crisp, clean harmonies, clear enunciation, and a cohesive sound. If you listen to Glad and then the King's Singers, you may understand why I can only listen to so much of Glad before it irritates me. Or, you may not, but this is very much a case in point...it's not just the arrangements, it's how they sing them.

 There is a flower sprung from a tree,
The root thereof is called Jesse,
A flower of great worth;
There is no other such in paradise.

This flower is fair and fresh of hue;
It fades never, but ever is new;
The blessed branch where this flower grew
Was Mary mild who bore Jesu —
A flower of grace,
Against all sorrow it is solace.

The seed thereof was of God's sending,
Which God himself sowed with his hand;
In Bethlehem, in that holy land,
Within her garden he found her there.
This blessed flower
Sprang never but in Mary's bower.

When Gabriel this maiden met,
With "Ave, Maria," he her greeted
Between them two this flower was set,
And was kept, no man should know it,
Until one day
In Bethlehem, it began to spread and spray.

When that flower began to spread,
And his blossom to bud,
Rich and poor of every seed, [i.e. kind]
They marvelled how this flower might spread,
Until kings three
That blessed flower came to see.

Angels there came out of their tower
To look upon this fresh flower —
How fair he was in his colour,
And how sweet in his savour —
And to behold
How such a flower might spring amid the cold.

Of lily, of rose on branch,
Of primrose, and of fleur-de-lys,
Of all the flowers I can think of,
That flower of Jesse yet bears the prize,
As the best remedy
To ease our sorrows in every part.

I pray you, flowers of this country,
Wherever ye go, wherever ye be,
Hold up the flower of good Jesse,
Above your freshness and your beauty,
As fairest of all,
Which ever was and ever shall be.

         Let us all value Christ and hold him up above ourselves wherever we go. The last stanza is technically speaking to women, but I think it can safely be applied to all mankind. He is the fairest of ten thousand, the bright and morning star. Let us worship Him this Christmas above all else.

       Until Tomorrow,

                 ~ Christianna