When Wat to Bethlehem come was,
He swat:  he had gone faster than a pace. 
He found Jesu in a simple place,
Between an oxe and an asse;
Ut Hoy! 
For in his pipe he made so much joy.

Jesu!  I offer to thee here my pipe,
My skirt, my tar-box, and my scrip;
Home to my fellows now will I skippe,
And also look unto my shepe,
Ut Hoy! 
For in his pipe he made so much joy.

Now Farewell, myne own Herdsman Watt;
Yea, for God, Lady, and even so I had;
Lull well Jesu in thy lappe,
And farewell, Joseph, with thy gown and cap;
Ut Hoy! 
For in his pipe he made so much joy.

Now may I well both hop and sing,
For I have been at Christ’s bearing;
Home to my fellows now will I fling,
Christ of Heaven to his bliss us bring. 
Ut Hoy! 
For in his pipe he made so much joy.

Hilles was perhaps himself a poet, or so I gather from the phrase, “Quoth Richard Hilles,” with which more than one piece of great merit terminates.  He would scarcely have added his own name to the composition of another person.  Elizabeth, queen of Henry vii., died in childbirth in February, 1502-3.

The following “Lamentation,” if not written by Hilles himself, was written in his life-time:—­

THE LAMENTATION OF QUEEN ELIZABETH

Ye that put your trust and confidence
In worldly riches and frail prosperity,
That so live here as ye should never hence;
Remember death, and look here upon me;
Insample I think there may no better be: 
Yourself wot well that in my realm was I
Your Queen but late; Lo, here I lie. 
Was I not born of worthy lineage: 
Was not my mother Queen, my father King;
Was I not a king’s fere in marriage;
Had I not plenty of every pleasant thing? 
Merciful God! this is a strange reckoning;
Riches, honour, wealth, and ancestry,
Hath me forsaken; Lo, here I lie.

If worship might have kept me I had not go;
If wealth might have me served I needed not so;
If money might have held I lacked none. 
But oh, good God, what vaileth all this year! 
When death cometh, thy mighty messenger
Obey we must, there is no remedy;
He hath me summoned—­lo, here I lie.

Yet was I lately promised otherwise
This year to live in wealth and in delice,
Lo, whereto cometh the blandishing promise? 
Oh, false astrology diminatrice
Of Goddes secrets, making thee so wise! 
How true is for this year the prophecy;
The year yet lasteth, and lo, here I lie.

Oh, brittle wealth—­aye full of bitterness,
Thy singular pleasure aye doubled is with pain. 
Account my sorrow first, and my distress
Sundry wise, and reckon thee again
The joy that I have had, I dare not feign,
For all my honour, endured yet have I
More woe than wealth; Lo, here I lie.

Where are our castles now, and our towers,
Goodly Richmond, soon art thou gone from me;
At Westminster, that goodly work of yours,
Mine own dear lord, now shall I never see. 
Almighty God, vouchsafe to grant that ye,
Ye and your children, well may edify,
My place builded is; Lo, here I lie.