I

IWhen shaws[926]beene sheene[927], and shradds[928]full fayre,And leves both large and longe,Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrèstTo heare the small birds’ songe.IIThe woodweele[929]sang, and wold not cease,[Sitting upon the spraye,Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,In the grenewood where he lay.III‘Now by my faye,’ sayd jollye Robìn,‘A sweaven[930]I had this night;I dreamt me of two wight[931]yemen,That fast with me can fight.]IV‘Methought they did mee beate and binde,And tooke my bow mee fro;If I be Robin alive in this lande,I’ll be wroken[932]on them towe.’V‘Sweavens are swift, Master,’ quoth John,‘As the wind that blowes ore a hill;For if itt be never so loude this night,To-morrow itt may be still.’VI‘Buske[933]yee, bowne[934]yee, my merry men all,And John shall goe with mee,For I’le goe seeke yond wight yemen,In grenewood where they bee.’VIIThey cast on them their gownes of grene,[And tooke theyr bowes each one;And all away to the grene forrèst]A shooting forth are gone;VIIIUntil they came to the merry grenewood,Where they had gladdest bee,There were they ware of a wight yemàn,His body lean’d to a tree.IXA sword and a dagger he wore by his side,Of manye a man the bane;And he was clad in his capull-hyde[935]Topp and tayll and mayne.X‘Stand you still, Master,’ quoth Little John,‘Under this trusty tree,And I will go to yond wight yeomanTo know his meaning trulye.’XI‘A! John, by me thou settest noe store,And that’s a farley[936]finde.How offt send I my men beffore,And tarry my selfe behinde?XII‘It is noe cunning a knave to ken,An a man but heare him speake;An itt were not for bursting of my bowe,John, I wold thy head breake.’XIIIAs often wordes they breeden bale,So they parted Robin and John:And John is gone to Barnèsdale;The gates[937]he knoweth eche one.XIVBut when he came to Barnèsdale,Great heavinesse there hee hadd,For he found two of his owne fellòwesWere slaine both in a slade[938].XVAnd Scarlette à-foote he flyinge wasFast over stocke and stone,For the Sheriffe with seven score menFast after him is gone.XVI‘Yet one shoote I’le shoote,’ quoth Little John,‘With Christ his might and mayne;I’le make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,To stopp he shall be fayne.’XVIIThen John bent up his good yewe-boweAnd fettl’d[939]him to shoote:The bow was made of a tender boughe,And fell downe to his foote.XVIII‘Woe worth thee, wicked wood,’ sayd John,‘That ere thou grew on a tree!For now this day thou art my bale,My boote[940]when thou shold bee.’XIXHis shoote it was but loosely shott,Yet it flewe not in vaine,For itt met one of the Sheriff’s men,Good William à Trent was slaine.XXIt had bene better of William à TrentTo have hangèd upon a gallòw,Than to be that day in the grene-woodTo meet Little John’s arrowe.XXIBut as it is said, when men be mettFyve can doe more than three,The Sheriffe hath taken Little John,And bound him fast to a tree.XXII‘Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,And hangèd hye on a hill.’—‘But thou mayst fayle,’ quoth Little John,‘If itt be Christ his will.’XXIIILet us leave talking of Little John,And thinke of Robin Hood,How he is gone to the wight yemàn,Where under the leaves he stood.XXIV‘Good morrowe, good fellowe,’ sayd Robin so fayre,‘Good morrowe, good fellow,’ quoth he:‘Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy handeA good archere thou sholdst bee.’XXV‘I am wilfull[941]of my waye,’ quo’ the yeman,‘And of my morning tyde[942].’‘I’le lead thee through the wood,’ sayd Robin;‘Good fellow, I’le be thy guide.’XXVI‘I seeke an outlàwe,’ the straunger sayd,‘Men call him Robin Hood;Rather I’ld meet with that proud outlàwe,Than fortye pound of go’d.’—XXVII‘If you two met, it wold be seeneWhether were better man:But let us under the levès greneSome other pastime plan.XXVIII‘Let us some other masteryes[943]makeAmong the woods so even,Wee may chance meet with Robin HoodHere att some unsett steven[944].’XXIXThey cutt them downe two summer shroggs[945],That grew both under a breere,And sett them threescore rood in twinne[946]To shoot the prickes[947]y-fere.XXX‘Leade on, good fellowe,’ quoth Robin Hood,‘Leade on, I doe bidd thee.’—‘Nay by my faith, good fellowe,’ hee sayd,‘My leader thou shalt bee.’XXXIThe first good shoot that Robin led,He mist but an inch it fro’:The yeoman he was an archer good,But he cold ne’er shoote soe.XXXIIThe second shoote had the wight yemàn,He shote within the garlànde:But Robin he shott far better than hee,For he clave the good pricke wande.XXXIII‘God’s blessing upon thy heart!’ he sayd;‘Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,Thou wert better than Robin Hood.’XXXIV‘Now tell me thy name, good fellowe,’ sayd he,‘Under the leaves of lyne[948].’—‘Nay by my faith,’ quoth good Robìn,‘Till thou have told me thine.’XXXV‘I dwell by dale and downe,’ quoth hee,‘And Robin to take I’me sworne;And when I am callèd by my right nameI am Guy of good Gisborne.’—XXXVI‘My dwelling is in this wood,’ sayes Robin,‘By thee I set right nought:I am Robin Hood of Barnèsdale,Whom thou so long hast sought.’XXXVIIHe that had neither beene kithe nor kin,Might have seene a full fayre sight,To see how together these yemen wentWith blades both browne and bright:XXXVIIITo see how these yemen together they foughtTwo howres of a summer’s day:Yett neither Sir Guy nor Robin HoodThem fettled to flye away.XXXIXRobin was reachles on[949]a roote,And stumbled at that tyde;And Guy was quick and nimble with-all,And hitt him o’er the left side.XL‘Ah deere Lady!’ sayd Robin Hood,‘That art both mother and may[950],I think it was never man’s destinyeTo dye before his day.’XLIRobin thought on Our Ladye deere,And soone leapt up againe,And strait he came with an aukward[951]stroke,And he Sir Guy hath slayne.XLIIHe took Sir Guy’s head by the hayre,And stickèd itt on his bowes end:‘Thou hast been traytor all thy liffe,Which thing must have an ende.’XLIIIRobin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,And nicked Sir Guy in the face,That he was never on woman born,Cold tell whose head it was.XLIVSaies, ‘Lye there, lye there, good Sir Guy,And with me be not wrothe;If thou have had the worse strokes at my hand,Thou shalt have the better clothe.’XLVRobin did off his gowne of greene,And on Sir Guy did it throwe,And hee put on that capull-hyde[952],That clad him topp to toe.XLVI‘The bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne,Now with me I will beare;For I will away to Barnèsdale,To see how my men doe fare.’XLVIIRobin sett Guy’s horne to his mouth,A loud blast in it he did blow,That beheard the Sheriffe of Nottingham,As he leaned under a lowe[953].XLVIII‘Hearken! hearken!’ sayd the Sheriffe,‘I heare now tydings good,For yonder I heare Sir Guy’s horne blowe,And he hath slaine Robin Hood.XLIX‘Yonder I heare Sir Guy’s horne blowe,Itt blowes soe well in tyde,And yonder comes that wight yemàn,Cladd in his capull-hyde.L‘Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy,Aske what thou wilt of mee.’—‘O I will none of thy gold,’ sayd Robin,‘Nor I will none of thy fee:LI‘But now I have slaine the master,’ he sayes,‘Let me go strike the knave;This is all the rewarde I aske;Nor noe other will I have.’LII‘Thou art a madman,’ said the Sheriffe,‘Thou sholdest have had a knight’s fee:But seeing thy asking hath beene so bad,Well granted it shall be.’LIIIWhen Little John heard his master speake,Well knewe he it was his steven[954]:‘Now shall I be looset,’ quoth Little John,‘With Christ his might in heaven.’LIVRobin hee hyed him to Little John,He thought to loose him belive[955];The Sheriffe and all his companyeFast after him did drive.LV‘Stand abacke! stand abacke!’ sayd Robin Hood;‘Why draw you mee soe neere?Itt was never the use in our countrye,One’s shrift another shold heere.’LVIBut Robin pull’d forth an Irysh kniffe,And losed John hand and foote,And gave him Sir Guy’s bow into his hand,And bade it be his boote.LVIIThen John he took Guy’s bow in his hand,His boltes and arrowes eche one:When the Sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,He fettled him to be gone.LVIIITowards his house in Nottingham towneHe fled full fast away;And soe did all his companye:Not one behind wold stay.LIXBut he cold neither goe soe fast,Nor away soe fast cold runne,But Little John with an arrowe soe broad,Did cleave his herte in twinne.

When shaws[926]beene sheene[927], and shradds[928]full fayre,And leves both large and longe,Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrèstTo heare the small birds’ songe.

The woodweele[929]sang, and wold not cease,[Sitting upon the spraye,Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,In the grenewood where he lay.

‘Now by my faye,’ sayd jollye Robìn,‘A sweaven[930]I had this night;I dreamt me of two wight[931]yemen,That fast with me can fight.]

‘Methought they did mee beate and binde,And tooke my bow mee fro;If I be Robin alive in this lande,I’ll be wroken[932]on them towe.’

‘Sweavens are swift, Master,’ quoth John,‘As the wind that blowes ore a hill;For if itt be never so loude this night,To-morrow itt may be still.’

‘Buske[933]yee, bowne[934]yee, my merry men all,And John shall goe with mee,For I’le goe seeke yond wight yemen,In grenewood where they bee.’

They cast on them their gownes of grene,[And tooke theyr bowes each one;And all away to the grene forrèst]A shooting forth are gone;

Until they came to the merry grenewood,Where they had gladdest bee,There were they ware of a wight yemàn,His body lean’d to a tree.

A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,Of manye a man the bane;And he was clad in his capull-hyde[935]Topp and tayll and mayne.

‘Stand you still, Master,’ quoth Little John,‘Under this trusty tree,And I will go to yond wight yeomanTo know his meaning trulye.’

‘A! John, by me thou settest noe store,And that’s a farley[936]finde.How offt send I my men beffore,And tarry my selfe behinde?

‘It is noe cunning a knave to ken,An a man but heare him speake;An itt were not for bursting of my bowe,John, I wold thy head breake.’

As often wordes they breeden bale,So they parted Robin and John:And John is gone to Barnèsdale;The gates[937]he knoweth eche one.

But when he came to Barnèsdale,Great heavinesse there hee hadd,For he found two of his owne fellòwesWere slaine both in a slade[938].

And Scarlette à-foote he flyinge wasFast over stocke and stone,For the Sheriffe with seven score menFast after him is gone.

‘Yet one shoote I’le shoote,’ quoth Little John,‘With Christ his might and mayne;I’le make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,To stopp he shall be fayne.’

Then John bent up his good yewe-boweAnd fettl’d[939]him to shoote:The bow was made of a tender boughe,And fell downe to his foote.

‘Woe worth thee, wicked wood,’ sayd John,‘That ere thou grew on a tree!For now this day thou art my bale,My boote[940]when thou shold bee.’

His shoote it was but loosely shott,Yet it flewe not in vaine,For itt met one of the Sheriff’s men,Good William à Trent was slaine.

It had bene better of William à TrentTo have hangèd upon a gallòw,Than to be that day in the grene-woodTo meet Little John’s arrowe.

But as it is said, when men be mettFyve can doe more than three,The Sheriffe hath taken Little John,And bound him fast to a tree.

‘Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,And hangèd hye on a hill.’—‘But thou mayst fayle,’ quoth Little John,‘If itt be Christ his will.’

Let us leave talking of Little John,And thinke of Robin Hood,How he is gone to the wight yemàn,Where under the leaves he stood.

‘Good morrowe, good fellowe,’ sayd Robin so fayre,‘Good morrowe, good fellow,’ quoth he:‘Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy handeA good archere thou sholdst bee.’

‘I am wilfull[941]of my waye,’ quo’ the yeman,‘And of my morning tyde[942].’‘I’le lead thee through the wood,’ sayd Robin;‘Good fellow, I’le be thy guide.’

‘I seeke an outlàwe,’ the straunger sayd,‘Men call him Robin Hood;Rather I’ld meet with that proud outlàwe,Than fortye pound of go’d.’—

‘If you two met, it wold be seeneWhether were better man:But let us under the levès greneSome other pastime plan.

‘Let us some other masteryes[943]makeAmong the woods so even,Wee may chance meet with Robin HoodHere att some unsett steven[944].’

They cutt them downe two summer shroggs[945],That grew both under a breere,And sett them threescore rood in twinne[946]To shoot the prickes[947]y-fere.

‘Leade on, good fellowe,’ quoth Robin Hood,‘Leade on, I doe bidd thee.’—‘Nay by my faith, good fellowe,’ hee sayd,‘My leader thou shalt bee.’

The first good shoot that Robin led,He mist but an inch it fro’:The yeoman he was an archer good,But he cold ne’er shoote soe.

The second shoote had the wight yemàn,He shote within the garlànde:But Robin he shott far better than hee,For he clave the good pricke wande.

‘God’s blessing upon thy heart!’ he sayd;‘Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,Thou wert better than Robin Hood.’

‘Now tell me thy name, good fellowe,’ sayd he,‘Under the leaves of lyne[948].’—‘Nay by my faith,’ quoth good Robìn,‘Till thou have told me thine.’

‘I dwell by dale and downe,’ quoth hee,‘And Robin to take I’me sworne;And when I am callèd by my right nameI am Guy of good Gisborne.’—

‘My dwelling is in this wood,’ sayes Robin,‘By thee I set right nought:I am Robin Hood of Barnèsdale,Whom thou so long hast sought.’

He that had neither beene kithe nor kin,Might have seene a full fayre sight,To see how together these yemen wentWith blades both browne and bright:

To see how these yemen together they foughtTwo howres of a summer’s day:Yett neither Sir Guy nor Robin HoodThem fettled to flye away.

Robin was reachles on[949]a roote,And stumbled at that tyde;And Guy was quick and nimble with-all,And hitt him o’er the left side.

‘Ah deere Lady!’ sayd Robin Hood,‘That art both mother and may[950],I think it was never man’s destinyeTo dye before his day.’

Robin thought on Our Ladye deere,And soone leapt up againe,And strait he came with an aukward[951]stroke,And he Sir Guy hath slayne.

He took Sir Guy’s head by the hayre,And stickèd itt on his bowes end:‘Thou hast been traytor all thy liffe,Which thing must have an ende.’

Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,And nicked Sir Guy in the face,That he was never on woman born,Cold tell whose head it was.

Saies, ‘Lye there, lye there, good Sir Guy,And with me be not wrothe;If thou have had the worse strokes at my hand,Thou shalt have the better clothe.’

Robin did off his gowne of greene,And on Sir Guy did it throwe,And hee put on that capull-hyde[952],That clad him topp to toe.

‘The bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne,Now with me I will beare;For I will away to Barnèsdale,To see how my men doe fare.’

Robin sett Guy’s horne to his mouth,A loud blast in it he did blow,That beheard the Sheriffe of Nottingham,As he leaned under a lowe[953].

‘Hearken! hearken!’ sayd the Sheriffe,‘I heare now tydings good,For yonder I heare Sir Guy’s horne blowe,And he hath slaine Robin Hood.

‘Yonder I heare Sir Guy’s horne blowe,Itt blowes soe well in tyde,And yonder comes that wight yemàn,Cladd in his capull-hyde.

‘Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy,Aske what thou wilt of mee.’—‘O I will none of thy gold,’ sayd Robin,‘Nor I will none of thy fee:

‘But now I have slaine the master,’ he sayes,‘Let me go strike the knave;This is all the rewarde I aske;Nor noe other will I have.’

‘Thou art a madman,’ said the Sheriffe,‘Thou sholdest have had a knight’s fee:But seeing thy asking hath beene so bad,Well granted it shall be.’

When Little John heard his master speake,Well knewe he it was his steven[954]:‘Now shall I be looset,’ quoth Little John,‘With Christ his might in heaven.’

Robin hee hyed him to Little John,He thought to loose him belive[955];The Sheriffe and all his companyeFast after him did drive.

‘Stand abacke! stand abacke!’ sayd Robin Hood;‘Why draw you mee soe neere?Itt was never the use in our countrye,One’s shrift another shold heere.’

But Robin pull’d forth an Irysh kniffe,And losed John hand and foote,And gave him Sir Guy’s bow into his hand,And bade it be his boote.

Then John he took Guy’s bow in his hand,His boltes and arrowes eche one:When the Sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,He fettled him to be gone.

Towards his house in Nottingham towneHe fled full fast away;And soe did all his companye:Not one behind wold stay.

But he cold neither goe soe fast,Nor away soe fast cold runne,But Little John with an arrowe soe broad,Did cleave his herte in twinne.

FOOTNOTES:[926]shaws = woods.[927]sheene = bright.[928]shradds = coppices(?).[929]woodweele = woodlark, thrush(?).[930]sweaven = dream.[931]wight = sturdy.[932]wroken = revenged.[933]Buske = dress.[934]bowne = get ready.[935]capull-hyde = horse-hide.[936]farley = wondrous strange.[937]gates = ways, paths.[938]slade = hollow.[939]fettl’d = prepared.[940]boote = help.[941]wilfull = astray.[942]tyde = time of day.[943]masteryes = trials of skill.[944]unsett steven = time not appointed.[945]shroggs = shrubs.[946]threescore rood in twinne = sixty rods apart.[947]prickes = marks.[948]lyne = linden.[949]reachles on = reckless, careless of.[950]may = maid.[951]aukward = back-handed.[952]capull-hyde = horse-hide.[953]lowe = hillock.[954]steven = voice.[955]belive = straightway.

[926]shaws = woods.

[927]sheene = bright.

[928]shradds = coppices(?).

[929]woodweele = woodlark, thrush(?).

[930]sweaven = dream.

[931]wight = sturdy.

[932]wroken = revenged.

[933]Buske = dress.

[934]bowne = get ready.

[935]capull-hyde = horse-hide.

[936]farley = wondrous strange.

[937]gates = ways, paths.

[938]slade = hollow.

[939]fettl’d = prepared.

[940]boote = help.

[941]wilfull = astray.

[942]tyde = time of day.

[943]masteryes = trials of skill.

[944]unsett steven = time not appointed.

[945]shroggs = shrubs.

[946]threescore rood in twinne = sixty rods apart.

[947]prickes = marks.

[948]lyne = linden.

[949]reachles on = reckless, careless of.

[950]may = maid.

[951]aukward = back-handed.

[952]capull-hyde = horse-hide.

[953]lowe = hillock.

[954]steven = voice.

[955]belive = straightway.

IIn somer, when the shawes[956]be sheyne[957],And leves be large and long,Hit is full mery in feyre foresteTo here the foulys song:IITo se the dere draw to the dale,And leve the hillès hee,And shadow hem in the levë’s grene,Under the grene-wode tre.IIIHit befel on Whitsontide,Erly in a May mornyng,The Son up feyre can shyne,And the briddis mery can syng.IV‘This is a mery mornyng,’ seid Litull John,‘Be Hym that dyed on tre;A more mery man then I am oneLyves not in Cristiantë.V‘Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,’Litull John can sey,‘And thynk hit is a full fayre tymeIn a mornyng of May.’VI‘Ye, on thyng greves me,’ seid Robyn,‘And does my hert mych woo;That I may not no solem dayTo mas nor matyns goo.VII‘Hit is a fourtnet and more,’ seid he,‘Syn I my Savyour see;To day wil I to Notyngham,’ seid Robyn,‘With the myght of mylde Marye.’VIIIThan spake Moche, the mylner son,—Ever more wel hym betyde!‘Take twelve of thi wyght yemèn[958],Well weppynd, be thi side.Such on wolde thi selfe slon[959],That twelve dar not abyde.’IX‘Of all my mery men,’ seid Robyn,‘Be my feith I wil non have,But Litull John shall beyre my bow,Til that me list to drawe.’X‘Thou shall beyre thin own,’ seid Litull John,‘Maister, and I wyl beyre myne,And we well shete a peny[960],’ seid Litull John,‘Under the grene-wode lyne[961].’XI‘I wil not shete a peny,’ seyd Robyn Hode,‘In feith, Litull John, with the,But ever for on as thou shetis,’ seide Robyn,‘In feith I holde[962]the thre.’XIIThus shet thei forth, these yemen two,Bothe at buske[963]and brome,Til Litull John wan of his maisterFive shillings to hose and shone.XIIIA ferly[964]strife fel them betwene,As they went bi the wey;Litull John seid he had won five shillings,And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.XIVWith that Robyn Hode lyed[965]Litull John,And smote hym with his hande;Litull John waxèd wroth therwith,And pull’d out his bright bronde.XV‘Were thou not my maister,’ seid Litull John,‘Thou shuldis be hit ful sore;Get the a man wher thou wilt,For thou getis me no more.’XVIThen Robyn goes to Notyngham,Hym selfe mornyng allone,And Litull John to mery Scherwode,The pathes he knew ilkone[966].XVIIWhan Robyn came to Notyngham,Sertenly withouten layn[967],He prayed to God and myld MaryTo bryng hym out save agayn.XVIIIHe gos in to Seynt Mary chirch,And kneled down before the rode;Alle that e’er were the church withinBeheld wel Robyn Hode.XIXBeside hym stod a gret-hedid munke,I pray to God woo he be!Fful sone he knew gode Robyn,As sone as he hym se.XXOut at the durre he ran,Fful sone and anon;Alle the yatis[968]of NotynghamHe made to be sparred[969]euerychon.XXI‘Rise up,’ he seid, ‘thou prowde Schereff,Buske[970]the and make the bowne[971];I have spyèd the Kynggis felon,Fforsothe he is in this town.XXII‘I have spyèd the false felon,As he stondis at his masse;Hit is long of[972]the,’ seide the munke‘And ever he fro us passe.XXIII‘This traytur name is Robyn Hode,Under the grene-wode lynde;He robbyt me onys of a hundred pound,Hit shalle never out of my mynde.’XXIVUp then rose this prowde Shereff,And radly[973]made hym yare[974];Many was the moder sonTo the kyrk with hym can fare.XXVIn at the durres thei throly thrast[975],With stavès ful gode wone[976];‘Alas, alas!’ seid Robyn Hode,‘Now mysse I Litull John.’XXVIBut Robyn toke out a two-hond sworde,That hangit down be his kne;Ther as the Schereff and his men stode thyckust,Thethurwarde wolde he.XXVIIThryes thorowout them he ran then,Forsothe as I yow sey,And woundyt mony a moder son,And twelve he slew that day.XXVIIIHis sworde upon the Schereff hedSertanly he brake in two;‘The smyth that the made,’ seid Robyn,‘I pray to God wyrke hym woo!XXIX‘Ffor now am I weppynlesse,’ seid Robyn,‘Alasse! agayn my wylle;But if[977]I may fle these traytors fro,I wot thei wil me kyll.’XXXRobyn into the churchë ran,Throout hem everilkon ...[Then word is gone to his yemenIn grene-wode wher they wone[978].]XXXISum fel in swonyng as thei were dede,And lay stil as any stone;Non of theym were in her myndeBut only Litull John.XXXII‘Let be your rule[979],’ seid Litull John,‘Ffor his luf that dyed on tre;Ye that shulde be dughty[980]men,Het is gret shame to se.XXXIII‘Oure maister has bene hard bystodeAnd yet scapyd away;Pluk up your hertis, and leve this mone[981],And harkyn what I shal say.XXXIV‘He has seruyd Oure Lady many a day,And yet wil, securly;Therfor I trust in hir specialyNo wyckud deth shal he dye.XXXV‘Therfor be glad,’ seid Litull John,‘And let this mournyng be;And I shal be the munkis gyde[982],With the myght of mylde Mary.’XXXVI[Than spake Moche, the mylner son,]‘We will go but we two.’—‘An I mete hym,’ seid Litull John,[‘I trust to wyrke hym woo.]XXXVII‘Loke that ye kepe wel owre tristil-tre[983],Under the levys smale[984],And spare non of this venyson,That gose in thys vale.’XXXVIIIFforthe then went these yemen two,Litull John and Moche on fere[985],And lokid on Moch’ emys hows[986],—The hye-way lay full nere.XXXIXLitull John stode at a wyndow in the mornyng,And lokid forth at a stage[987];He was war wher the munke came ridyng,And with hym a litul page.XL‘Be my feith,’ seid Litull John to Moch,‘I can the tel tithyngus[988]gode;I se wher the monke cumys rydyng,I know hym be his wyde hode.’XLIThey went in to the way, these yemen bothe,As curtes men and hende[989];Thei spyrred[990]tithyngus at the munke,As they hade bene his frende.XLII‘Ffro whens come ye?’ seid Litull John,‘Tel us tithyngus, I yow pray,Off a false owtlay, callid Robyn Hode,Was takyn yisterday.XLIII‘He robbyt me and my felowes botheOf twenti marke in serten;If that false owtlay be takyn,Ffor sothe we wolde be fayn.’XLIV‘So did he me,’ seid the munke,‘Of a hundred pound and more;I layde furst hande hym apon,Ye may thonke me therfore.’XLV‘I pray God thanke you,’ seid Litull John,‘And we wil when we may;We wil go with you, with your leve,And bryng yow on your way.XLVI‘Ffor Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow,I tell you in certen;If thei wist ye rode this way,In feith ye shulde be slayn.’XLVIIAs thei went talking be the way,The munke and Litull John,John toke the munkis horse be the hede,Fful sone and anon.XLVIIIJohn toke the munkis horse be the hed,Fforsothe as I yow say;So did Much the litull page,Ffor he shulde not scape away.XLIXBe the golett[991]of the hodeJohn pulled the munkè down;John was nothyng of hym agast[992],He lete hym falle on his crown.LLitull John was sore agrevyd,And drew owt his swerde in hye[993];This munkè saw he shulde be ded,Lowd mercy can he crye.LI‘He was my maister,’ seid Litull John,‘That thou hase browght in bale[994];Shalle thou never cum at our Kyng,Ffor to telle hym tale.’LIIJohn smote of the munkis hed,No longer wolde he dwell;So did Moch the litull page,Ffor ferd[995]lest he wolde tell.LIIITher thei beryèd hem bothe,In nouther mosse nor lyng,And Litull John and Much in fereBare the letturs to oure Kyng.LIV[Whan John came unto oure Kyng]He knelid down on his kne:God yow save, my legè lorde,Jhesus yow save and se!LV‘God yow save, my legè Kyng!’To speke John was full bolde;He gaf hym the letturs in his hond,The Kyng did hit unfold.LVIThe Kyng red the letturs anon,And seid, ‘So mot I the[996],Ther was never yoman in mery InglondI longut so sore to se.LVII‘Wher is the munke that these shuld have brought?’Ourè Kyng can say:‘Be my trouth,’ seid Litull John,‘He dyed after[997]the way.’LVIIIThe Kyng gaf Moch and Litull JohnTwenti pound in sertan,And made theim yemen of the crown,And bade theim go agayn.LIXHe gaf John the seel in hand,The Sheref for to bere,To bryng Robyn hym to,And no man do hym dere[998].LXJohn toke his leve at oure Kyng,The sothe as I yow say;The next[999]way to NotynghamTo take, he yede[1000]the way.LXIWhan John came to NotynghamThe yatis were sparred ychon[1001];John callid up the porter,He answerid sone anon.LXII‘What is the cause,’ seid Litull John,‘Thou sparris the yates so fast?’—‘Because of Robyn Hode,’ seid the porter,‘In depe prison is cast.LXIII‘John and Moch and Wyll Scathlok,Ffor sothe as I yow say,Thei slew oure men upon our wallis,And sawten[1002]us every day.’LXIVLitull John spyrred after the Schereff,And sone he hym fonde;He oppyned the Kyngus prive seell,And gaf hym in his honde.LXVWhan the Scheref saw the Kyngus seell,He did of his hode[1003]anon:‘Wher is the munke that bare the letturs?’He seid to Litull John.LXVI‘He is so fayn of hym,’ seid Litull John,‘Fforsothe as I yow say,He has made hym abot of Westmynster,A lorde of that abbay.’LXVIIThe Scheref made John godè chere,And gaf hym wyne of the best;At nyght thei went to her[1004]beddè,And every man to his rest.LXVIIIWhen the Scheref was on slepe,Dronken of wyne and ale,Litull John and Moch forsotheToke the way unto the jale.LXIXLitull John callid up the jayler,And bade hym rise anon;He seyd Robyn Hode had brokyn prison,And out of hit was gon.LXXThe porter rose anon sertan,As sone as he herd John calle;Litull John was redy with a swerd,And bare hym to the walle.LXXI‘Now wil I be porter,’ seid Litull John,‘And take the keyes in honde:’He toke the way to Robyn Hode,And sone he hym unbonde.LXXIIHe gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond,His hed therwith for to kepe,And ther as the walle was lowystAnon down can thei lepe.LXXIIIBe that the cok began to crow,The day began to spryng,The Scheref fond the jaylier ded;The comyn bell[1005]made he ryng.LXXIVHe made a crye thoroout al the town,Wheder he be yoman or knave,That cowthè bryng hym Robyn Hode,His warison[1006]he shuld have.LXXV‘Ffor I dar never,’ said the Scheref,‘Cum before oure Kyng;Ffor if I do, I wot sertenFfor sothe he wil me heng.’LXXVIThe Scheref made to seke Notyngham,Bothe be strete and stye[1007],And Robyn was in mery Scherwode,As light as lef on lynde.LXXVIIThen bespake gode Litull John,To Robyn Hode can he say,‘I have done the a gode turne for an evyll,Quyte the whan thou may.LXXVIII‘I have done the a gode turne,’ seid Litull John,‘Fforsothe as I yow say;I have brought the under grene-wode lyne;Ffare wel, and have gode day.’LXXIX‘Nay, be my trouth,’ seid Robyn Hode,‘So shall hit never be;I make the maister,’ seid Robyn Hode,‘Off alle my men and me.’LXXX‘Nay, be my trouth,’ seid Litull John,‘So shalle hit never be;But lat me be a felow,’ seid Litull John,‘No noder kepe I be[1008].’LXXXIThus John gate Robyn Hode out of prison,Sertan withoutyn layn;Whan his men saw hym hol and sounde,Fforsothe they were full fayne.LXXXIIThey fillèd in wyne, and made hem glad,Under the levys smale,And yete[1009]pastès of venyson,That gode was with ale.LXXXIIIThan wordè came to oure KyngHow Robyn Hode was gon,And how the Scheref of NotynghamDurst never loke hym upon.LXXXIVThen bespake oure cumly Kyng,In an angur hye:‘Litull John hase begyled the Schereff,In faith so hase he me.LXXXV‘Litull John has begyled us botheAnd that full wel I se;Or ellis the Schereff of NotynghamHye hongut shulde he be.LXXXVI‘I made hem yemen of the crowne,And gaf hem fee with my hond;I gaf hem grith[1010],’ seid oure Kyng,‘Thorowout all mery Inglond.LXXXVII‘I gaf theym grith,’ then seid oure Kyng;‘I say, so mot I the,Fforsothe soch a yeman as he is onIn all Inglond ar not thre.LXXXVIII‘He is trew to his maister,’ seid our Kyng;‘I sey, be swete Seynt John,He lovys better Robyn HodeThen he dose us ychon.LXXXIX‘Robyn Hode is ever bond to hym,Bothe in strete and stalle;Speke no more of this mater,’ seid oure Kyng,‘But John has begyled us alle.’XCThus endys the talkyng of the munkeAnd Robyn Hode i-wysse;God, that is ever a crowned kyng,Bryng us all to his blisse!

In somer, when the shawes[956]be sheyne[957],And leves be large and long,Hit is full mery in feyre foresteTo here the foulys song:

To se the dere draw to the dale,And leve the hillès hee,And shadow hem in the levë’s grene,Under the grene-wode tre.

Hit befel on Whitsontide,Erly in a May mornyng,The Son up feyre can shyne,And the briddis mery can syng.

‘This is a mery mornyng,’ seid Litull John,‘Be Hym that dyed on tre;A more mery man then I am oneLyves not in Cristiantë.

‘Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,’Litull John can sey,‘And thynk hit is a full fayre tymeIn a mornyng of May.’

‘Ye, on thyng greves me,’ seid Robyn,‘And does my hert mych woo;That I may not no solem dayTo mas nor matyns goo.

‘Hit is a fourtnet and more,’ seid he,‘Syn I my Savyour see;To day wil I to Notyngham,’ seid Robyn,‘With the myght of mylde Marye.’

Than spake Moche, the mylner son,—Ever more wel hym betyde!‘Take twelve of thi wyght yemèn[958],Well weppynd, be thi side.Such on wolde thi selfe slon[959],That twelve dar not abyde.’

‘Of all my mery men,’ seid Robyn,‘Be my feith I wil non have,But Litull John shall beyre my bow,Til that me list to drawe.’

‘Thou shall beyre thin own,’ seid Litull John,‘Maister, and I wyl beyre myne,And we well shete a peny[960],’ seid Litull John,‘Under the grene-wode lyne[961].’

‘I wil not shete a peny,’ seyd Robyn Hode,‘In feith, Litull John, with the,But ever for on as thou shetis,’ seide Robyn,‘In feith I holde[962]the thre.’

Thus shet thei forth, these yemen two,Bothe at buske[963]and brome,Til Litull John wan of his maisterFive shillings to hose and shone.

A ferly[964]strife fel them betwene,As they went bi the wey;Litull John seid he had won five shillings,And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.

With that Robyn Hode lyed[965]Litull John,And smote hym with his hande;Litull John waxèd wroth therwith,And pull’d out his bright bronde.

‘Were thou not my maister,’ seid Litull John,‘Thou shuldis be hit ful sore;Get the a man wher thou wilt,For thou getis me no more.’

Then Robyn goes to Notyngham,Hym selfe mornyng allone,And Litull John to mery Scherwode,The pathes he knew ilkone[966].

Whan Robyn came to Notyngham,Sertenly withouten layn[967],He prayed to God and myld MaryTo bryng hym out save agayn.

He gos in to Seynt Mary chirch,And kneled down before the rode;Alle that e’er were the church withinBeheld wel Robyn Hode.

Beside hym stod a gret-hedid munke,I pray to God woo he be!Fful sone he knew gode Robyn,As sone as he hym se.

Out at the durre he ran,Fful sone and anon;Alle the yatis[968]of NotynghamHe made to be sparred[969]euerychon.

‘Rise up,’ he seid, ‘thou prowde Schereff,Buske[970]the and make the bowne[971];I have spyèd the Kynggis felon,Fforsothe he is in this town.

‘I have spyèd the false felon,As he stondis at his masse;Hit is long of[972]the,’ seide the munke‘And ever he fro us passe.

‘This traytur name is Robyn Hode,Under the grene-wode lynde;He robbyt me onys of a hundred pound,Hit shalle never out of my mynde.’

Up then rose this prowde Shereff,And radly[973]made hym yare[974];Many was the moder sonTo the kyrk with hym can fare.

In at the durres thei throly thrast[975],With stavès ful gode wone[976];‘Alas, alas!’ seid Robyn Hode,‘Now mysse I Litull John.’

But Robyn toke out a two-hond sworde,That hangit down be his kne;Ther as the Schereff and his men stode thyckust,Thethurwarde wolde he.

Thryes thorowout them he ran then,Forsothe as I yow sey,And woundyt mony a moder son,And twelve he slew that day.

His sworde upon the Schereff hedSertanly he brake in two;‘The smyth that the made,’ seid Robyn,‘I pray to God wyrke hym woo!

‘Ffor now am I weppynlesse,’ seid Robyn,‘Alasse! agayn my wylle;But if[977]I may fle these traytors fro,I wot thei wil me kyll.’

Robyn into the churchë ran,Throout hem everilkon ...[Then word is gone to his yemenIn grene-wode wher they wone[978].]

Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede,And lay stil as any stone;Non of theym were in her myndeBut only Litull John.

‘Let be your rule[979],’ seid Litull John,‘Ffor his luf that dyed on tre;Ye that shulde be dughty[980]men,Het is gret shame to se.

‘Oure maister has bene hard bystodeAnd yet scapyd away;Pluk up your hertis, and leve this mone[981],And harkyn what I shal say.

‘He has seruyd Oure Lady many a day,And yet wil, securly;Therfor I trust in hir specialyNo wyckud deth shal he dye.

‘Therfor be glad,’ seid Litull John,‘And let this mournyng be;And I shal be the munkis gyde[982],With the myght of mylde Mary.’

[Than spake Moche, the mylner son,]‘We will go but we two.’—‘An I mete hym,’ seid Litull John,[‘I trust to wyrke hym woo.]

‘Loke that ye kepe wel owre tristil-tre[983],Under the levys smale[984],And spare non of this venyson,That gose in thys vale.’

Fforthe then went these yemen two,Litull John and Moche on fere[985],And lokid on Moch’ emys hows[986],—The hye-way lay full nere.

Litull John stode at a wyndow in the mornyng,And lokid forth at a stage[987];He was war wher the munke came ridyng,And with hym a litul page.

‘Be my feith,’ seid Litull John to Moch,‘I can the tel tithyngus[988]gode;I se wher the monke cumys rydyng,I know hym be his wyde hode.’

They went in to the way, these yemen bothe,As curtes men and hende[989];Thei spyrred[990]tithyngus at the munke,As they hade bene his frende.

‘Ffro whens come ye?’ seid Litull John,‘Tel us tithyngus, I yow pray,Off a false owtlay, callid Robyn Hode,Was takyn yisterday.

‘He robbyt me and my felowes botheOf twenti marke in serten;If that false owtlay be takyn,Ffor sothe we wolde be fayn.’

‘So did he me,’ seid the munke,‘Of a hundred pound and more;I layde furst hande hym apon,Ye may thonke me therfore.’

‘I pray God thanke you,’ seid Litull John,‘And we wil when we may;We wil go with you, with your leve,And bryng yow on your way.

‘Ffor Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow,I tell you in certen;If thei wist ye rode this way,In feith ye shulde be slayn.’

As thei went talking be the way,The munke and Litull John,John toke the munkis horse be the hede,Fful sone and anon.

John toke the munkis horse be the hed,Fforsothe as I yow say;So did Much the litull page,Ffor he shulde not scape away.

Be the golett[991]of the hodeJohn pulled the munkè down;John was nothyng of hym agast[992],He lete hym falle on his crown.

Litull John was sore agrevyd,And drew owt his swerde in hye[993];This munkè saw he shulde be ded,Lowd mercy can he crye.

‘He was my maister,’ seid Litull John,‘That thou hase browght in bale[994];Shalle thou never cum at our Kyng,Ffor to telle hym tale.’

John smote of the munkis hed,No longer wolde he dwell;So did Moch the litull page,Ffor ferd[995]lest he wolde tell.

Ther thei beryèd hem bothe,In nouther mosse nor lyng,And Litull John and Much in fereBare the letturs to oure Kyng.

[Whan John came unto oure Kyng]He knelid down on his kne:God yow save, my legè lorde,Jhesus yow save and se!

‘God yow save, my legè Kyng!’To speke John was full bolde;He gaf hym the letturs in his hond,The Kyng did hit unfold.

The Kyng red the letturs anon,And seid, ‘So mot I the[996],Ther was never yoman in mery InglondI longut so sore to se.

‘Wher is the munke that these shuld have brought?’Ourè Kyng can say:‘Be my trouth,’ seid Litull John,‘He dyed after[997]the way.’

The Kyng gaf Moch and Litull JohnTwenti pound in sertan,And made theim yemen of the crown,And bade theim go agayn.

He gaf John the seel in hand,The Sheref for to bere,To bryng Robyn hym to,And no man do hym dere[998].

John toke his leve at oure Kyng,The sothe as I yow say;The next[999]way to NotynghamTo take, he yede[1000]the way.

Whan John came to NotynghamThe yatis were sparred ychon[1001];John callid up the porter,He answerid sone anon.

‘What is the cause,’ seid Litull John,‘Thou sparris the yates so fast?’—‘Because of Robyn Hode,’ seid the porter,‘In depe prison is cast.

‘John and Moch and Wyll Scathlok,Ffor sothe as I yow say,Thei slew oure men upon our wallis,And sawten[1002]us every day.’

Litull John spyrred after the Schereff,And sone he hym fonde;He oppyned the Kyngus prive seell,And gaf hym in his honde.

Whan the Scheref saw the Kyngus seell,He did of his hode[1003]anon:‘Wher is the munke that bare the letturs?’He seid to Litull John.

‘He is so fayn of hym,’ seid Litull John,‘Fforsothe as I yow say,He has made hym abot of Westmynster,A lorde of that abbay.’

The Scheref made John godè chere,And gaf hym wyne of the best;At nyght thei went to her[1004]beddè,And every man to his rest.

When the Scheref was on slepe,Dronken of wyne and ale,Litull John and Moch forsotheToke the way unto the jale.

Litull John callid up the jayler,And bade hym rise anon;He seyd Robyn Hode had brokyn prison,And out of hit was gon.

The porter rose anon sertan,As sone as he herd John calle;Litull John was redy with a swerd,And bare hym to the walle.

‘Now wil I be porter,’ seid Litull John,‘And take the keyes in honde:’He toke the way to Robyn Hode,And sone he hym unbonde.

He gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond,His hed therwith for to kepe,And ther as the walle was lowystAnon down can thei lepe.

Be that the cok began to crow,The day began to spryng,The Scheref fond the jaylier ded;The comyn bell[1005]made he ryng.

He made a crye thoroout al the town,Wheder he be yoman or knave,That cowthè bryng hym Robyn Hode,His warison[1006]he shuld have.

‘Ffor I dar never,’ said the Scheref,‘Cum before oure Kyng;Ffor if I do, I wot sertenFfor sothe he wil me heng.’

The Scheref made to seke Notyngham,Bothe be strete and stye[1007],And Robyn was in mery Scherwode,As light as lef on lynde.

Then bespake gode Litull John,To Robyn Hode can he say,‘I have done the a gode turne for an evyll,Quyte the whan thou may.

‘I have done the a gode turne,’ seid Litull John,‘Fforsothe as I yow say;I have brought the under grene-wode lyne;Ffare wel, and have gode day.’

‘Nay, be my trouth,’ seid Robyn Hode,‘So shall hit never be;I make the maister,’ seid Robyn Hode,‘Off alle my men and me.’

‘Nay, be my trouth,’ seid Litull John,‘So shalle hit never be;But lat me be a felow,’ seid Litull John,‘No noder kepe I be[1008].’

Thus John gate Robyn Hode out of prison,Sertan withoutyn layn;Whan his men saw hym hol and sounde,Fforsothe they were full fayne.

They fillèd in wyne, and made hem glad,Under the levys smale,And yete[1009]pastès of venyson,That gode was with ale.

Than wordè came to oure KyngHow Robyn Hode was gon,And how the Scheref of NotynghamDurst never loke hym upon.

Then bespake oure cumly Kyng,In an angur hye:‘Litull John hase begyled the Schereff,In faith so hase he me.

‘Litull John has begyled us botheAnd that full wel I se;Or ellis the Schereff of NotynghamHye hongut shulde he be.

‘I made hem yemen of the crowne,And gaf hem fee with my hond;I gaf hem grith[1010],’ seid oure Kyng,‘Thorowout all mery Inglond.

‘I gaf theym grith,’ then seid oure Kyng;‘I say, so mot I the,Fforsothe soch a yeman as he is onIn all Inglond ar not thre.

‘He is trew to his maister,’ seid our Kyng;‘I sey, be swete Seynt John,He lovys better Robyn HodeThen he dose us ychon.

‘Robyn Hode is ever bond to hym,Bothe in strete and stalle;Speke no more of this mater,’ seid oure Kyng,‘But John has begyled us alle.’

Thus endys the talkyng of the munkeAnd Robyn Hode i-wysse;God, that is ever a crowned kyng,Bryng us all to his blisse!

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