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Through the myst,
There I sawe,
Her blacke robe
Lapynge at the shor.
Schale and shene,
Wrought by time,
Stille unwav‘ryng,
Stedy in Her ryme.

...and at daune She'l fynde Her kyng.

Lady Lawe,
Laine so depe.
Maye our gifts fall
softly to Her keep.
Ur and Ise,
Lagu ryse,
For an erthely kyng
'Neath Godly eyes.

...and at daune She'll fynde Her...

Sword in sheathe,
Brand in Oake.
Where our Nied burns,
There, Her fyre is woke.

...and at daune She'l fynde Her kyng.
Do we owe kyng, erthe, or kyn?
Or to Her do we all (sing)?

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