An adult lullaby (XIV cent.)
Lollay, lollay little child, why wepestou so sore?
Nedes mostou wepe - it was iyarked thee yore
Ever to lib in sorow, and sich and mourne evere,
As thine eldren did er this, whil hi alives were.
Lollay, lollay. little child, child, lollay, lullow,
Into uncuth world icommen so ertou.
Bestes, and thos foules, the fisses in the flode,
And euch shef alives, imaked of bone and blode,
Whan he commeth to the world, hi doth hamsilf sum gode,
All bot the wech brol that is of Adam blode.
Lollay, lollay little child, to car ertou bemette;
Thou nost noght this worldes wild before thee is isette.
Child, if betideth that thou shalt thrive and thee,
Thench thou wer ifoftred up thy moder kne:
Ever hab mund in thy hert of thos thinges thre,
Whan thou commest, what thou aer, and what shall com of thee.
Lollay, lollay, little child, child, lollay, lollay,
With sorow thou com into this world, with sorow shalt wend away.
Ne tristou to this world: it is thy ful fo.
The ich he maketh pouer, the pore rich also.
It turneth woe to wel, and ek wel to wo.
Ne trist no man to this world whil it turneth so,
Lollay, lollay, little child, the fote is in the whele:
Thou nost whoder turne, to wo other wele.
Child, thou ert a pilgrim in wikedness ibor:
Thou wandrest in this fals world - thou lok thee befor!
Deth shall come with a blast, ute of a well dom horre,
Adames kin dun to cast, himsilf hath ido befor.
Lollay, lollay, little child, so wo thee worp Adam,
In the lond of paradis, throgh wikedness od Satan.
Child, thou nert a pilgrim bot an uncuthe guest:
Thy dawes beth itold, thy jurneys beth icest.
Whoder thou shalt wend, north other est,
Deth thee shall betide with bitter bale in brest.
Lollay, lollay, little child, this wo Adan thee wroght,
Whan he of the apple ete and Eve it him betoght.
(Lollay, lollay little child, why do you cry so hard? You must needs cry - it was ordained for you of old to live for ever in sorrow and to sigh and mourn for ever, as your elders did before this, while they were alive. Lollay, lollay, little child, child, lollay, lullow, you have come into an alien world.
Beasts and birds, the fish in the river, and every living creature, made of blood and bone, when they come into the world do themselves some good, and except the wretched child descended from Adam. Lollay, lollay, little child, you are destined for trouble; you do not know the wilderness of this world is set before you.
Child, if it happens that you thrive and prosper, think you were brought up upon your mother's knee: always remember in your heart those three things, whence you have come, what you are and what shall become of you. Lollay, lollay, little child, child, lollay, lollay, with sorrow you came into this world, and with sorrow shall go away.
Put no trust in this world: it is your deadly enemy. It makes the rich poor and the poor rich as well. It turns pain to prosperity and also prosperity into pain. Let no man trust in this world while it turns so. Lollay, lollay, little child, your foot is on Fortune's wheel, and you do not know which way it will turn, to pain or prosperity.
Child, you are a pilgrim born in sin: you wander in this treacherous world - look ahead! Death is bound to come out of a very dark door (?) with a gust to cast down the kin of Adam as he has done before (?). Lollay, lollay, little child, so Adam wove suffering for you in the land of paradise through Satan's wickedness.
Child, you are not a pilgrim, but an alien guest: your days are numbered, your travel planned. Which ever way you go, north or east, Death shall happen to you with bitter misery in your breast. Lollay, lollay, little child, this suffering Adam made for you when he ate the apple and Eve gave it to him.)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9NqbAtdTRo
W. H. Auden
Lullaby
The din of work is subdued,
another day has westered
and mantling darkness arrived.
Peace! Peace! Devoid your portrait
of its vexations and rest.
Your daily round is done with,
you've gotten the garbage out,
answered some tiresome letters
and paid a bill by return,
all
frettolosamente.
Now you have licence to lie,
naked, curled like a shrimplet,
jacent in bed, and enjoy
its cosy micro-climate:
Sing, Big Baby, sing lullay.
The old Greeks got it all wrong:
Narcissus is an oldie,
tamed by time, released at last
from lust for other bodies,
rational and reconciled.
For many years you envied
the hirsute, the he-man type.
No longer: now you fondle
your almost feminine flesh
with mettled satisfaction,
imaging that you are
sinless and all-sufficient,
snug in the den of yourself,
Madonna and
Bambino:
Sing, Big Baby, sing lullay.
Let your last thinks all be thanks:
praise your parents wh gave you
A Super-Ego of strenght
that saves you so much bother,
digit friends and dear them all,
then pay fair attribution
to your age, to having been
born when you were. In boyhood
you were permitted to meet
beautiful old contraptions,
soon to be banished from earth,
saddle-tank loks, beam-engines
and over-shot waterwheels.
Yes, love, you have been lucky:
Sing, Big Baby, sing lullay.
Now for oblivion: let
the belly-mind take over
down below the diaphragm,
the domain of the Mothers,
They who guard the Sacred Gates,
without whose wordless warnings
soon the verbalising I
becomes a vicious despot,
lewd, incapable of love,
disdainful, status-hungry.
Should dreams haunt you, heed them not,
for all, both sweet and horrid,
are jokes in dubious taste,
to jejune to have truck with.
Sleep, Big Baby, sleep you fill.
