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I sing of a maiden That is makeles; King of all kings To her son she ches. He came al so still There his mother was, As dew in April That falleth on the grass. He came al so still To his mother's bour, As dew in April That falleth on the flour. He came al so still There his mother lay, As dew in April That falleth on the spray. Mother and maiden Was never none but she; Well may such a lady Goddes mother be. |