Blow, northerne wind 
Send thou me my sweting 
Blow, northerne wind 
Blow, blow, blow! 
Ichot a burde in bowre bright 
That sully semly is on sight 
Menskful maiden of might 
Fair and fre to fonde 
In all this wurhliche won 
A burde of blod and of bon 
Never yet I nuste non 
Lussomore in lode 
Hire lure lumes light 
Ase a launterne anight 
Hire be blikieth so bright 
So fair he is and fine 
Swetly swire he hath to holde 
With armes, shuldre ase mon wolde 
And fingres faire for to folde 
God wolde she were mine 
To Love I putte pleintes mo 
How Siking me hath siwed so 
And eke Thoght me thrat to slo 
With maistry yef he mighte 
And Sorewe sore in balful bende 
The he wolde for this hende 
Me lede to my lives ende 
Unlahfulliche in lighte