the shepherds if they visit the cottage seeking their lost property: she
will pretend that she is in child-bed and that the sheep is the new-born
infant. So it is wrapped up and laid in a cradle, and Mak sings a
lullaby. The shepherds do suspect Mak, and come to search his house; his
wife upbraids them and keeps them from the cradle. They depart, but
suddenly an idea comes to one of them:--

"_The First Shepherd._ Gaf ye the chyld any thyng?
_The Second._ I trow not oone farthyng.
_The Third._ Fast agane will I flyng,
Abyde ye me there. [_He goes back._]
Mak, take it to no grefe, if I com to thi barne."

Mak tries to put him off, but the shepherd will have his way:--

"Gyf me lefe hym to kys, and lyft up the clowtt.
What the devill is this? he has a long snowte."

So the secret is out. Mak's wife gives a desperate explanation:--

"He was takyn with an elfe,
I saw it myself.
When the clok stroke twelf
Was he forshapyn."

|136| Naturally this avails nothing, and her husband is given a good
tossing by the shepherds until they are tired out and lie down to rest.
Then comes the "Gloria in excelsis" and the call of the angel:--

"Ryse, hyrd men heynd! for now is he borne
That shall take fro the feynd that Adam had lorne:
That warloo[59] to sheynd,[60] this nyght is he borne,
God is made youre freynd: now at this morne
He behestys,
At Bedlem go se,
Ther lygys that fre[61]
In a cryb fulle poorely,
Betwyx two bestys."

The shepherds wonder at the song, and one of them tries to imitate it;
then they go even unto Bethlehem, and there follows the quaintest and
most delightful of Christmas carols:--

"_Primus Pastor._

Hail, comly and clene,
Hail, yong child!
Hail, maker, as I meene,
Of a maden so milde!
Thou has wared,[62] I weene,
The warlo[63] so wilde;
The fals giler of teen,[64]
Now goes he begilde.
Lo! he merys,[65]
Lo! he laghes, my sweting.
A welfare meting!
I have holden my heting.[66]
Have a bob of cherys!

_Secundus Pastor._

Hail, sufferan Savioure,
For thou has us soght!
Hail, frely[67] foyde[68] and floure,
That all thing has wroght! |137|
Hail, full of favoure,
That made all of noght!
Hail, I kneel and I cowre.
A bird have I broght
To my barne.
Hail, litel tin