A TALE OF ROBIN HOOD

The First Song

Attend and listen, gentlemen,
That be of freeborn blood;
I shall you tell of a good yeoman,
His name was Robin Hood.

Robin was a wise outlaw,
While he walked on Earth:
So courteous an outlaw as he was one
Was never found.

Robin stood in Barnsdale,
And leaned against a tree;
And by him stood Little John -
A good yeoman was he,

And also did good Scarlett,
And Much, the miller's son; 
There was not an inch of his body
That was not worthy of a man.

Then spoke Little John
To Robin Hood:
"Master, if you would dine soon
It would do you much good."

Than spoke good Robin to him:
"To dine have I no desire, 
Until we should have some bold baron,
Or some other unknown man as our guest.

Here shall come a lord or sire
That may pay for the best,
Or some knight or squire,
That dwells here to the west."

Robin had a good manner;
In the land where he was,
Every day before he would dine,
Three masses he would hear:

One in the worship of the Father, 
And another of the Holy Ghost, 
The third of Our dear Lady (Virgin Mary),
That he loved the most.

Robin loved Our dear Lady:
For fear of deadly sin, 
He would never do any company harm
That had any woman in it.

"Master," then said Little John,
"Before we shall our table spread, 
Tell us whither that we shall go,
And what life that we shall lead.

"Where we shall take, where we shall leave,
Where we shall abide;
Where we shall rob, where we shall reave,
Where we shall beat and bind."

"That is of no matter," then said Robin;
"We shall do well enough;
But look that you do no farmer harm,
That tills with his plough.

"Neither shall you harm a good yeoman
That walks by the greenwood thicket;
Neither knight nor squire
That would be a good fellow.

"But these bishops and these archbishops,
You shall them beat and bind;
The high sheriff of Nottingham -
hold him in your mind."

"These words shall be held," said Little John,
"And this lesson we shall learn; 
It is far on in the day - God send us a guest,
That we could go to our dinner!"

"Take your good bow in your hand," said Robin;
"Let Much go with you:
And so shall William Scarlett;
Let no man stay with me.

"And walk up to the highway,
And also to Ermine Street,
And wait for some unknown guest,
Upon the chance you may meet them.

"He may be an earl, or any baron, 
Abbott, or any knight.
Bring him to lodge with me;
His dinner shall be prepared."

They went up to the highway,
These yeoman all three;
They looked east, they looked west;
They saw no man come.

But as they looked into Barnsdale,
By a secret street, 
There came a knight riding;
Soon they did meet him.

His semblance was all dreary,
And he had little pride;
His one foot stood in the stirrup,
That other wavered beside it.

His hood hung over his two eyes;
He rode in simple array. 
A sorrier man than he was
never rode, on a summer's day.

Little John was full courteous,
And went down on his knee:
"You are welcome, gentle knight,
Welcome you are to me.

"You are welcomed to the greenwood,
Courteous and noble knight;
My master fasted waiting for you,
Sir, all these three hours."

"Who is your master?" said the knight;
John said, "Robin Hood."
"He is good yeoman," said the knight;
"I have heard good things of him.

"I grant it," he said, "that I will go with you,
My bretherin, all in company;
My purpose was to have dined today
At Blyth or Doncaster."

This gentle knight then went forth,
With a careful cheer;
The tears ran out of his eyes,
And fell down by his face.

They brought him to the lodge door;
When Robin began to see him,
Full courteously he took off his hood
And went down on his knee.

"Welcome, sir knight," then said Robin,
"Welcome you are to me;
I have waited for you fasting, sir, 
All these three hours."

The gentle knight then answered,
With words fair and noble;
"God save you, good Robin,
And all your fair men."

They washed together and wiped their hands,
And went to their dinner;
Bread and wine they had enough of,
And sweetbreads of the deer.

Swanns and pheasants they had enough of,
And fowls of the river;
There lacked not even so little a bird
As was ever born on a branch.

"Eat gladly, sir knight," said Robin;
"Grant mercy, sir," he said; 
"Such a dinner I have not had
For all of these three weeks.

"If I return again, Robin,
Here by this country,
For you a dinner as good as this I shall make
As you have made for me."

"Grant mercy, knight," said Robin;
"My dinner, when you give it to me;
I have never been so greedy, by worthy God,
in craving my dinner.

"But pay before you go," said Robin;
"I think it would be right good;
It was never the manner, by worthy God,
For a yeoman to pay for a knight."

"I have nothing in my coffers," said the knight,
"That I may offer, to my shame."
"Little John, go look," said Robin,
"Let nothing delay you.

"Tell me the truth," then said Robin,
"So God may protect you."
"I have no more than ten shillings," said the knight,
"So God may protect me."

"If you have no more," said Robin,
"I will not take one penny;
And if you have need of any more,
More I shall lend you.
   
"Go forth now, Little John,
Tell the truth to me:
If there are no more than ten shillings,
No penny of it shall I see."

Little John spread the knight's mantle
Full fair upon the ground,
And there he found in the knight's coffers
Not even half a pound.

Little John let it lie alone,
And went to his master bending low;
"What tidings John?" said Robin;
"Sir, the knight is true enough."

"Full of the best wine," said Robin,
"The knight shall be;
I think I wonder much
Why your clothing is so thin."

"Tell me one word," said Robin,
"And it shall be counsel;
I think you were made a knight by force,
Or else by yeomanry.

"Or else you have been a sorry husband,
And lived in conflict and strife;
An usurer, or else a lecherer," said Robin,
"With wrongs you have led your life."

"I am none of those," said the knight,
"By the God that made me;
And a hundred winters here before
My ancestors have been knights.

"But often it has befallen, Robin,
That a man has been disgraced;
But God that sits in heaven above
May amend his state.

"Within these two years, Robin," he said,
"My neighbors knew it well;
Four hundred pounds of good money
Full well then I might have spent.

"Now I have no posessions," said the knight,
"God has shaped such an fate, 
But my children and my wife,
Till God may amend it."

"In what manner," than said Robin,
"Have you lost your riches?"
"For my great folly," he said,
"And for my kindness.

"I had a son, in truth, Robin,
That should have been my heir;
When he was twenty winters old
In fields he would joust full fair.

"He slew a knight of Lancaster,
And a squire bold;
To save him in his right
My goods were set and sold.

"My lands pledged as security, Robin,
Until a certain day,
To a rich abbot close by here
Of Saint Mary's Abbey."

"What is the sum?" said Robin;
"The truth then tell to me."
"Sir," he said, "four hundred pounds;
The abbott told it to me."

"Now that you have lost your land," said Robin,
"What would become of you?"
"Hastily I would hurry," said the knight,
"Over the salty sea,

"And see where Christ lived and died,
On the mount of Calvary;
Farewell, friend, and have a good day;
It may be no better."

Tears fell out of his two eyes;
He would have gone his way.
"Farewell, friend, and have a good day;
I do not have any more money to pay."

"Where are your friends?" said Robin.
"Sir, not one will know me:
While I was rich enough at home,
Great boasts they would blow.

"And now they run away from me,
Like beasts in a row;
They take no more heed of me 
Than if they had never seen me."

For pity then Little John wept,
Scarlett and Much together; 
"Fill up with the best wine," said Robin,
"For here is a simple cheer.

"Have you any any friend," said Robin,
"That would be your security?"
"I have none," then said the knight,
"But God that died on the tree."

"Do away with your japes," then said Robin,
"Of those I would have none;
Think you I would take God for security,
or Peter, Paul, or John?"

"No, by him that made me,
And shaped both sun and moon,
Find better security," said Robin,
"Or you will get no money."

"I have no other," said the knight,
"The truth to say,
But if it were Our dear Lady; 
She has failed me never, nor this day."

"By dear worthy God," said Robin,
"Search all England through,
Yet I have never found, to my pay,
A much better security.

"Come now forth, Little John.
And go to my treasure,
And bring me four hundred pounds,
And look well that it is counted."

Forth then went Little John,
And Scarlett went before him;
He counted out four hundred pounds
By eighteen and two score.

"Is this counted well?" said little Much;
John said, "What grieves you?
It is alms to help a gentle knight,
That has fallen into poverty.

"Master," then said Little John,
"His clothing is very thin;
You must give the knight a suit of clothes,
To wrap his body in.

"For you have cloth of scarlet and green, master,
And many a rich array;
There is no merchant in merry England
So rich, I dare well say."

"Take him three yards of every color,
And look that it is well measured."
Little John used no other measure
But his bow-stave.

And at every handful that he measured 
He added three feet.
"What devil's draper," said little Much,
"Do you think that you are?"

Scarlett stood full still and laughed,
And said, "By God Almighty,
John may give him good measure,
For it costs him but little."

"Master," then said Little John
To gentle Robin Hood,
"You must give the knight a horse
To take home these goods."

"Give him a gray courser," said Robin,
"And a new saddle; 
He is Our Lady's messanger;
God grant that he be true."

"And give him a good saddle horse," said little Much, 
"To maintain him in his right."
"And a pair of boots," said Scarlett,
"For he is a gentle knight."

"What shall you give him, Little John?" said Robin;
"Sir, a pair of clean shining spurs,
To pray, for all this company,
That God brings him out of sorrow."

"When shall I repay you," said the knight,
"Sir, and what is your will?"
"This day in twelve months," said Robin,
"Under this greenwood tree.

"It is a great shame," said Robin,
"For a knight to ride alone,
Without squire, yeoman, or page,
To walk by his side.

"I shall lend you Little John, my man,
For he shall be your knave; 
In a yeoman's place he may serve you,
If you have great need."



The Second Song

Now the knight has gone on his way:
He thought this game was full good;
When he looked on Barnsdale
He blessed Robin Hood.

And when he thought on Barnsdale,
On Scarlett, Much, and John,
He blessed them for the best company
Into which he'd ever come.

Then spoke that gentle knight,
To Little John he began to say,
"Tomorrow I must go to York town,
To Saint Mary Abbey.

And to the abbott of that place
Four hundred pounds I must pay;
And unless I am there upon this night
My land is lost forever."

The abbot said to his convent,
Where he stood on the ground,
"This day twelve months ago there came a knight
And borrowed four hundred pounds.

He borrowed four hundred pounds,
Upon all his free land;
But unless he comes this same day
Disinherited he shall be."

"It is very early," sayd the prior, 
"The day is not yet far gone;
I would rather pay an hundred pounds, 
And soon go to sleep.

"The knight is far beyond the sea,
Fighting for England's right,
And suffers hunger and cold,
And many a sorry night.

"It would be a great pity," said the prior,
"So to have his land;
And you are so light of your conscience,
You do to him much wrong."

"You are always in my beard," said the abbot,
"By God and Saint Richard."
With that, in came a fat-headed monk,
The high cellarmaster.

"He is dead or hanged," said the monk,
"By God that bought me so dearly,
And we shall have to spend in this place
Foure hundred pounds by the end of this year."

The abbot and the high cellarmaster
Leaped forth full bold,
The justice of England
The abbot there did control.

The high justice and many more
Had taken into their hands
Wholly all the knight's debt,
To put that knight to wrong.

They deemed the knight wonderfully sore,
The abbot and his men:
"But unless he comes this very day
Disinherited he shall be."

"He will not come yet," said the justice,
"I dare well undertake."
But as a disappointment for them all
The knight came to the gate.

Then spoke that gentle knight
To his men:
"Now put on your simple clothes
That you brought from the sea."

They put on their simple clothes,
They soon came to the gates;
The porter was ready himself,
And welcomed them everyone. 

"Welcome, sir knight," said the porter;
"My lord is at dinner,
And so is many a gentle man,
For the love of you."

The porter swore a full great oath,
"By God that made me,
Here are the best-bodied horses
That I have ever seen.

"Lead them in to the stable," he said,
"That eased they might be."
"They shall not come therein," said the knight,
"By God that died on a tree."

Lordes were seated at dinner
In that abbot's hall;
The knight went forth and kneeled down,
And saluted them great and small.

"Do gladly, sir abbot," said the knight,
"I am come to hold my day."
The first word the abbot spoke was,
"Have you brought my pay?"

"Not one penny," said the knight,
"By God that made me."
"You are a cursed detour" said the abbot;
"Sir justice, drink to me.

"Why are you here," said the abbot,
"Without having brought your pay?"
"For God," then said the knight,
"To pray for a longer day."

"Your day has broken," said the justice,
"Your land you will not get."
"Now, good sir justice, be my friend,
And defend me from my foe!"

"I am retained by the abbot," said the justice,
"Both with cloth and fee."
"Now, good sir sheriff, be my friend!"
"No, for God," said he.

"Now, good sir abbot, be my friend,
For your courtesy,
And hold my lands in your hands
Until I have paid the debt!

"And I will be your true servant,
And truly serve you,
Until you have four hundred pounds
Of money good and free."

The abbot swore a full great oath,
"By God that died on a tree,
Get land where you may,
For you will get none from me."

"By dear worthy God," then said the knight,
"That all this world wrought,
But I will have my land again,
And full dearly it shall be bought.

"God, that was of a maiden born,
Grant us well to succeed! 
For it is good for one to assay a friend
Before that man has need."

The abbot lothely looked on him,
And viley began to call; 
"Out," he said, "you false knight,
Speed you out of my hall!"

"You lie," then said the gentle knight,
"Abbot, in your hall;
False knight I never was,
By God that made us all."

Up then stood that gentle knight,
And to the abbot he said,
"To suffer a knight to kneel so long,
You can have no courtesy.

"In jousts and in tournement
I have gone very far,
And put myself as far into danger 
As any that I've ever seen."

"What more will you give," said the justice to the abbot,
"So the knight shall make a release? 
Else, dare I safely swear
You'll never hold your land in peace."

"A hundred pounds," said the abbot;
The justice said, "Give him two."
"No, by God," said the knight,
"You will not get it so."

"Even if you gave me a thousand more,
You would never be the nearer;
Abbot, justice, nor friar 
Shall ever be my heir."

He went to a close-by table,
To a table round,
And there shook out of a bag
An even four hundred pounds.

"Have here your gold, sir abbot," said the knight,
"Which you have lent to me;
Had you been courteous at my coming,
Rewarded you should have been."  

The abbot sat still, and ate no more,
For all his royal fare;
He cast his head on his shoulder,
And fixedly began to stare.

"Give me my gold again," said the abbot,
"Sir justice, that I gave you."
"Not a penny," said the justice,
"By God that died on a tree."

"Sir abbot and you men of law,
Now have I held my day;
Now shall I have my land again,
For all that you can say."

The knight started out of the door,
Away was all his care,
And he put on his good clothing;
The other he left there.

He went forth singing very merrily,
As men have told in tale;
His lady met him at the gate,
At home in Verysdale.   

"Welcome, my lord," said his lady;
"Sir, have you lost all your goods?"
"Be merry, dame," said the knight,
"And pray for Robin Hood,

"That ever his soul be in blessing:
He helped me out of trouble;
If it had not been for his kindness,
Beggers we would have been.

"The abbot and I are in accordence,
He is served of his pay;
The good yeoman lent it to me,
As I came by the way."

This knight then dwelled fair at home,
The truth for to say.
Until he had gotten four hundred pounds,
All ready for him to pay.

He provided Robin a hundred bows,
The strings well fitted,
And a hundred shafts of good arrows,
The heads burnished full bright; 

And every arrow an ell long,
With peacock feathers well fitted,
All grooved with white silver;
It was a seemly sight.

He provided Robin a hundred men,
Well harnessed in their steeds,
And he himself was in that same set,
Clothed in white and red.

He bore a light lance in his hand,
And a man carried his trunk, 
And rode with a light song
Down to Barnsdale.

But at Wentbridge there was a wrestling,               
And there he was delayed, 
And there were all the best yeomen
Of all the west country.

A full fair game was set up there,
A white bull was the prize, 
A great courser, with saddle and bridle,
With gold burnished full bright.

A pair of gloves, a red-gold ring,
A cask of wine, in truth;
The man that bared himself best, indeed
Could bear the prize away.

There was a yeoman in that place,
And best of the worthy was he,
And because he was a stranger and far from home,
Slain he would have been.

The knight had pity on this yeoman, 
In the place where he stood;
He said that the yeoman should have no harm,
For love of Robin Hood.

The knight pressed into that place,
And a hundred followed him together,
With bows bent and arrows sharp,
For to destroy that company.

They gathered all and made room for him,
To hear what he would say; 
He took the yeoman by the hand,
And gave him all the winnings. 

He gave him five marks for his wine,
There it lay on the ground, 
And bade it should be set abroach, 
For whosoever wanted to drink it.

Thus this gentle knight tarried long,
Till that game was done;
So Robin waiting long, fasting,
Three hours after the noon.



The Third Song

Abide and listen, gentlemen
All that now are here;
Of Little John, who was the knight's man,
Good mirth you shall hear.

It was upon a merry day
That young men would go shoot;
Little John fetched his bow at once,
And said he would meet them.

Three times Little John shot about,
And always he split the wand;
The proud sheriff of Nottingham
Stood by the marks.

The sheriff swore a full great oath:
"By him that died on a tree,
This man is the best archer
That ever yet I have seen.

"Tell me now, strong young man,
What is your name?
In what country were you born,
And where is your dwelling place?"

"In Holdernes, sir, I was born,
Indeed, all of my mother;
Men call me Reynold Greenleaf
When I am at home."

"Tell me, Reynold Greenleaf,
Would you dwell with me?
And every year I would give to you
Twenty marks for your fee."

"I have a master," sayde Little John,
"A courteous knight is he;
If you would get leave of him,
The better it would be."

The sheriff got Little John
Twelve months as a knight;
Therefore he gave him right at once
A good and strong horse.

Now Little John is the sheriff's man
God grant us to succeed! 
But always Little John thought
To pay him well his mead (just desserts).

"Now, so God help me," said Little John,
"And by my true fidelity, 
I shall be the worst servant to him
That he has ever had."

It fell upon a Wednesday
The sheriff was gone hunting,
And Little John lay in his bed,
And was left at home.

Therefore he was fasting
Till it was past the noon;
"God sir steward, I pray to you,
Give me my dinner," said Little John.

"It is longe for Grenelefe
Fastinge thus for to be;
Therfor I pray the, sir stuarde,
Mi dyner gif thou me."

"Shalt thou never ete ne drynke," saide the stuarde,
"Tyll my lorde be come to towne."
"I make myn avowe to God," saide Litell John,
"I had lever to crake thy crowne."

The boteler was full uncurteys,
There he stode on flore;
He start to the botery
And shet fast the dore.

Lytell Johnn gave the boteler suche a tap
His backe were nere in two;
Through he lived an hundred ier,
The wors shuld he go.

He sporned the dore with his fote;
It went open wel and fyne;
And there he made large lyveray,
Bothe of ale and of wyne.

"Sith ye wol nat dyne," sayde Litell John,
"I shall gyve you to drinke;
And though ye lyve an hundred wynter,
On Lytel Johnn ye shall thinke."

Litell John ete, and Litel John drank,
The while that he wolde;
The sherife had in his kechyn a coke,
A stoute man and a bolde.

"I make myn avowe to God," saide the coke,
"Thou arte a shrewde hynde
In ani hous for to dwel,
For to aske thus to dyne."

And there he lent Litell John
God strokis thre;
"I make myn avowe to God," sayde Lytell John,
"These strokis lyked well me.

"Thou arte a bolde man and hardy,
And so thinketh me;
And or I pas fro this place
Assayed better shalt thou be."

Lytell Johnn drew a ful gode sworde,
The coke toke another in hande;
They thought no thynge for to fle,
But stifly for to stande. 

There they faught sore togedere
Two myle way and well more;
Myght neyther other harme done,
The mountnaunce of an owre.

"I make myn avowe to God," sayde Litell Johnn,
"And by my true lewte, 
Thou art one of the best sworde-men
That ever yit sawe I me.

"Cowdest thou shote as well in a bowe, 
To grene wode thou shuldest with me,
And two times in the yere thy clothinge
Chaunged shulde be;
     
"And every yere of Robyn Hode
Twenty merke to thy fe."
"Put up thy swerde," saide the coke,
"And felowes woll we be."

Thanne he fet to Lytell Johnn,
The nowmbles of a do,
Gode brede, and full gode wyne;
They ete and drank theretoo.

And when they had dronkyn well,
Theyre trouthes togeder they plight
That they wolde be with Robyn
That ylke same nyght.

They dyd them to the tresoure hows,
As fast as they myght gone;
The lokkes, that were of full gode stele,
They brake them everichone.

They toke away the silver vessell,
And all that thei might get;
Pecis, masars, ne sponis,
Wolde thei not forget.

Also they toke the gode pens,
Three hundred pounde and more,
And did them streyte to Robyn Hode,
Under the grene wode hore.

"God the save, my dere mayster,
And Criste the save and se!"
And thanne sayde Robyn to Litell Johnn,
"Welcome myght thou be."

"Also be that fayre yeman
Thou bryngest there with the;
What tydynges fro Notyngham?
Lytill Johnn, tell thou me."

"Well the gretith the proude sheryf,
And sende the here by me
His coke and his silver vessell,
And thre hundred pounde and thre."

"I make myne avowe to God," sayde Robyn,
"And to the Trenyte,
It was never by his gode wyll 
This gode is come to me."

Lytyll Johnn there hym bethought
On a shrewde wyle;
Fyve myle in the forest he ran;
Hym happed all his wyll.

Than he met the proude sheref,
Huntynge with houndes and horne;
Lytell Johnn coude of curtesye,
And knelyd hym beforne.

"God the save, my dere mayster,
And Criste the save and se!"
"Reynolde Grenelefe," sayde the shyref,
"Where hast thou nowe be?"

"I have be in this forest;
A fayre syght can I se;
It was one of the fayrest syghtes
That ever yet sawe I me.

"Yonder I sawe a ryght fayre harte, 
His coloure is of grene;
Seven score of dere upon a herde
Be with hym all bydene.

"Their tyndes are so sharpe, maister,
Of sexty, and well mo,
That I durst not shote for drede,
Lest they wolde me slo."

"I make myn avowe to God," sayde the shyref,
"That syght wolde I fayne se."
"Buske you thyderwarde, mi dere mayster,
Anone, and wende with me."

The sherif rode, and Litell Johnn
Of fote he was full smerte,
And whane they came before Robyn,
"Lo, sir, here is the mayster-herte."

Still stode the proude sherief,
A sory man was he;
"Wo the worthe, Raynolde Grenelefe,
Thou hast betrayed nowe me."

"I make myn avowe to God," sayde Litell Johnn,
"Mayster, ye be to blame;
I was mysserved of my dynere 
Whan I was with you at home."

Sone he was to souper sette,
And served well with silver white,
And whan the sherif sawe his vessell,
For sorowe he myght nat ete.

"Make glad chere," sayde Robyn Hode,
"Sherif, for charite,
And for the love of Litill Johnn
Thy lyfe I graunt to the."

Whan they had souped well,
The day was al gone;
Robyn commaunded Litell Johnn
To drawe of his hosen and his shone;

His kirtell, and his cote of pie,
That was fured well and fine,
And toke hym a grene mantel,
To lap his body therin. 

Robyn commaundyd his wight yonge men,
Under the grene wode tree,
They shulde lye in that same sute, 
That the sherif myght them see.

All nyght lay the proude sherif
In his breche and in his schert;
No wonder it was, in grene wode,
Though his sydes gan to smerte.

"Make glade chere," sayde Robyn Hode,
"Sheref, for charite;
For this is our ordre iwys,
Under the grene wode tree."

"This is harder order," sayde the sherief,
"Than any ankir or frere; 
For all the golde in mery Englonde
I wolde nat longe dwell her."

"All this twelve monthes," sayde Robyn,
"Thou shalt dwell with me;
I shall the teche, proude sherif,
An outlawe for to be."

"Or I be here another nyght," sayde the sherif,
"Robyn, nowe pray I the,
Smythe of mijn hede rather to-morowe, 
And I forgyve it the.

"Lat me go," than sayde the sherif,
"For saynte charite,
And I woll be thy best frende
That ever yet had ye."

"Thou shalt swere me an othe," sayde Robyn, 
"On my bright bronde; 
Shalt thou never awayte me scathe, 
By water ne by lande."

"And if thou fynde any of my men,
By nyght or day,
Upon thyn othe thou shalt swere
To helpe them that thou may."

Now hathe the sherif sworne his othe,
And home he began to gone;
He was as full of grene wode
As ever was hepe of stone.

The Fourth Fytte

The sherif dwelled in Notingham
He was fayne he was agone;
And Robyn and his mery men
Went to wode anone.

"Go we to dyner," sayde Littell Johnn,
Robyn Hode sayde, "Nay;
For I drede Our Lady be wroth with me,
For she sent me nat my pay."

"Have no doute, maister," sayde Litell Johnn,
"Yet is nat the sonne at rest;
For I dare say, and savely swere,
The knight is true and truste."

"Take thy bowe in thy hande," sayde Robyn,
"Late Much wende with the,
And so shal Wyllyam Scarlok,
And no man abyde with me.

"And walke up under the Sayles,
And to Watlynge-strete,
And wayte after such unketh gest;
Up-chaunce ye may them mete.

"Whether he be messengere,
Or a man that myrthes can,
Of my good he shall have some,
Yf he be a pore man."

Forth then stert Lytel Johan,
Half in tray and tene;
And gyrde hym with a full good swerde,
Under a mantel of grene.

They went up to the Sayles,
These yemen all thre;
They loked est, they loked west,
They myght no man se.

But as they loked in Bernysdale,
By the hye waye,
Than were they ware of two blacke monkes,
Eche on a good palferay.

Then bespake Lytell Johan,
To Much he gan say,
"I dare lay my lyfe to wedde,
The monkes have brought our pay.

"Make glad chere," sayd Lytell Johan,
"And drese our bowes of ewe,
And loke your hertes be seker and sad,
Your strynges trusty and trewe.

"The monke hath two and fifty
And seven somers full stronge;
There rydeth no bysshop in this londe
So ryally, I understond.

"Brethern," sayd Lytell Johan,
"Here are no more but we thre;
But we brynge them to dyner,
Our mayster dare we not se.

"Bende your bowes," sayd Lytell Johan,
"Make all you prese to stonde 
The formost monke; his lyfe and his deth
Is closed in my honde.

"Abyde, chorle monke," sayd Lytell Johan,
"No ferther that thou gone;
Yf thou doost, by dere worthy God,
Thy deth is in my honde.

"And evyll thryfte on thy hede," sayd Litell Johan,
"Ryght under thy hattes bonde;
For thou hast made our mayster wroth, 
He is fastynge so longe."

"Who is your mayster?" sayd the monke;
Lytell Johan sayd, "Robyn Hode."
"He is a stronge thefe," sayd the monke,
"Of hym herd I never good."

>"Thou lyest," than sayd Lytell Johan,
"And that shall rewe the;
He is a yeman of the forest,
To dyne he hath bode the."

Much was redy with a bolte,
Redly and anone, 
He set the monke to-fore the brest,
To the grounde that he can gone.

Of two and fyfty wyght yonge yemen
There abode not one,
Saf a lytell page and a grome,
To lede the somers with Lytel Johan.

They brought the monke to the lodge dore,
Whether he were loth or lefe,
For to speke with Robyn Hode,
Maugre in theyr tethe.

Robyn dyde adowne his hode,
The monke whan that he se;
The monke was not so curteyse,
His hode then let he be.

"He is a chorle, mayster, by dere worthy God,"
Than sayd Lytell Johan:
d>"Thereof no force," sayd Robyn,
"For curteysy can he none.

"How many men," sayd Robyn,
"Had this monke, Johan?"
"Fyfty and two whan that we met,
But many of them be gone."

"Let blowe a horne," sayd Robyn,
"That felaushyp may us knowe."
Seven score of wyght yemen
Came pryckynge on a rowe.

And everych of them a good mantell
Of scarlet and of raye;
All they came to good Robyn,
To wyte what he wolde say.

They made the monke to wasshe and wype,
And syt at his denere,
Robyn Hode and Lytell Johan
They served him both in-fere.

"Do gladly, monke," sayd Robyn.
"Gramercy, syr," sayd he.
"Where is your abbay, whan ye are at home,
And who is your avowé?"

"Saynt Mary abbay," sayd the monke,
"Though I be symple here."
"In what offyce?" sayd Robyn,
"Syr, the hye selerer."

"Ye be the more welcome," sayd Robyn,
"So ever mote I the; 
Fyll of the best wyne," sayd Robyn,
"This monke shall drynke to me."

"But I have grete mervayle," sayd Robyn,
"Of all this longe day;
I drede Our Lady be wroth with me,
She sent me not my pay."

"Have no doute, mayster," sayd Lytell Johan,
"Ye have no nede, I saye;
This monke it hath brought, I dare well swere,
For he is of her abbay."

"And she was a borowe," sayd Robyn,
"Betwene a knyght and me,
Of a lytell money that I hym lent,
Under the grene wode tree.

"And yf thou hast that sylver ibrought,
I pray the let me se;
And I shall helpe the eftsones,
Yf thou have nede to me."

The monke swore a full grete othe,
With a sory chere, 
"Of the borowehode thou spekest to me,
Herde I never ere."

"I make myn avowe to God," sayd Robyn,
"Monke, thou art to blame;
For God is holde a ryghtwys man,
And so is his dame.

"Thou toldest with thyn owne tonge,
Thou may not say nay,
How thou arte her servaunt,
And servest her every day.

"And thou art made her messengere,
My money for to pay;
Therfore I cun the more thanke
Thou arte come at thy day.

"What is in your cofers?" sayd Robyn,
"Trewe than tell thou me."
"Syr," he sayd, "twenty marke,
Al so mote I the."

"Yf there be no more," sayd Robyn,
"I wyll not one peny;
Yf thou hast myster of ony more,
Syr, more I shall lende to the."

"And yf I fynde more," sayd Robyn,
"Iwys thou shalte it for gone; 
For of thy spendynge sylver, monke,
Thereof wyll I ryght none.

"Go nowe forthe, Lytell Johan,
And the trouth tell thou me;
If there be no more but twenty marke,
No peny that I se."

Lytell Johan spred his mantell downe,
As he had done before,
And he tolde out of the monkes male
Eyght hundred pounde and more.

Lytell Johan let it lye full styll,
And went to his mayster in hast;
"Syr," he sayd, "the monke is trewe ynowe,
Out Lady hath doubled your cast."

"I make myn avowe to God," sayd Robyn,
"Monke, what tolde I the?
Our Lady is the trewest woman
That ever yet founde I me.

"By dere worthy God," sayd Robyn,
"To seche all Englond thorowe,
Yet founde I never to my pay
A moche better borowe.

"Fyll of the best wyne, and do hym drynke," sayd Robyn,
"And grete well thy lady hende,
And yf she have nede to Robyn Hode,
A frende she shall hym fynde.

"And yf she nedeth ony more sylver,
 Come thou agayne to me,
And, by this token she hath me sent,
She shall have such thre."

The monke was goynge to London ward,
There to holde grete mote,
The knyght that rode so hye on hors,
To brynge hym under fote.

"Whether be ye away?" sayd Robyn:
"Syr, to maners in this londe,
 Too reken with our reves,
 That have done moch wronge.

"Come now forth, Lytell Johan,
And harken to my tale;
A better yeman I knowe none,
To seke a monkes male.

"How moch is in yonder other corser?" sayd Robyn, 
"The soth must we see."
"By Our Lady," than sayd the monke,
"That were no curteysye,

"To bydde a man to dyner,
 And syth hym bete and bynde."
"It is our olde maner," sayd Robyn,
"To leve but lytell behynde."

The monke toke the hors with spore, 
 No lenger wolde he abyde:
"Aske to drynke," than sayd Robyn,
"Or that ye forther ryde."

"Nay, for God," than sayd the monke,
"Me reweth I cam so nere;
For better chepe I myght have dyned
In Blythe or in Dankestere."

"Grete well your abbot," sayd Robyn,
"And your pryour, I you pray,
And byd hym send me such a monke,
To dyner every day."

Now lete we that monke be styll,
And speke we of that knyght:
Yet he came to holde his day,
Whyle that it was lyght.

He dyde him streyt to Bernysdale, 
Under the grene wode tre,
And he founde there Robyn Hode,
And all the mery meyne.

The knyght lyght doune of his good palfray; 
Robyn whan he gan see,
So curteysly he dyde adoune his hode,
And set hym on his knee.

"God the save, Robyn Hode,
And all this company."
"Welcome be thou, gentyll knyght,
And ryght welcome to me."

Than bespake hym Robyn Hode,
To that knyght so fre:
"What nede dryueth the to grene wode?,
I praye the, syr knyght, tell me.

"And welcome be thou, gentyll knyght,
Why hast thou be so longe?"
"For the abbot and the hye justyce
Wolde have had my londe."

"Hast thou thy londe agayne?" sayd Robyn;
"Treuth than tell thou me."
"Ye, for God," sayd the knyght,
"And that thanke I God and the."

"But take not a grefe, that I have be so longe;
I came by a wrastelynge,
And there I holpe a pore yeman,
With wronge was put behynde."

"Nay, for God," sayd Robyn,
"Syr knyght, that thanke I the;
What man that helpeth a good yeman,
His frende than wyll I be."

"Have here foure hondred pounde," than sayd the knyght,
"The whiche ye lent to me;
And here is also twenty marke
For your curteysy."

"Nay, for God," than sayd Robyn,
"Thou broke it well for ay; 
For Our Lady, by her selerer,
Hath sent to me my pay.

"And yf I toke it i-twyse,
A shame it were to me;
But trewely, gentyll knyght,
Welcom arte thou to me."

Whan Robyn had tolde his tale,
He leugh and had good chere:
"By my trouthe," then sayd the knyght,
"Your money is redy here."

"Broke it well," sayd Robyn,
"Thou gentyll knyght so fre;
And welcome be thou, gentyll knyght,
Under my trystell-tre.

"But what shall these bowes do?" sayd Robyn,
And these arowes ifedred fre?"
"By God," than sayd the knyght,
"A pore present to the."

"Come now forth, Lytell Johan,
And go to my treasuré,
And brynge me there foure hondred pounde;
The monke over-tolde it me.

"Have here foure hondred pounde,
Thou gentyll knyght and trewe,
And bye hors and harnes good,
And gylte thy spores all newe.

"And yf thou fayle ony spendynge,
Com to Robyn Hode,
And by my trouth thou shalt none fayle,
The whyles I have any good.

"And broke well thy foure hondred pound,
Whiche I lent to the,
And make thy selfe no more so bare,
By the counsell of me."

Thus than holpe hym good Robyn,
The knyght all of his care:
God, that syt in heven hye,
Graunte us well to fare!

The Fyfth Fytte

Now hath the knyght his leve i-take,
And wente hym on his way;
Robyn Hode and his mery men
Dwelled styll full many a day.

Lyth and lysten, gentil men,
And herken what I shall say,
How the proud sheryfe of Notyngham
Dyde crye a full fayre play,

That all the best archers of the north
Sholde come upon a day,
And that shoteth allther best 
The game shall bere away.

He that shoteth allther best,
Furthest, fayre and lowe,
At a payre of fynly buttes, 
Under the grene wode shawe,

A ryght good arowe he shall have,
The shaft of sylver whyte,
The hede and the feders of ryche rede golde,
In Englond is none lyke.

This than herde good Robyn,
Under his trystell-tre:
"Make you redy, ye wyght yonge men;
That shotynge wyll I se.

"Buske you, my mery yonge men,
Ye shall go with me;
And I wyll wete the shryves fayth,
Trewe and yf he be."

Whan they had theyr bowes i-bent,
Theyr takles fedred fre,
Seven score of wyght yonge men
Stode by Robyns kne.

Whan they cam to Notyngham,
The buttes were fayre and longe;
Many was the bolde archere
That shot with bowes stronge.

"There shall but syx shote with me;
The other shal kepe my hede,
And stande with good bowes bent,
That I be not desceyved."

The fourth outlawe his bowe gan bende,
And that was Robyn Hode,
And that behelde the proud sheryfe,
All by the but he stode.

Thryes Robyn shot a bout,
And alway he slist the wand, 
And so dyde good Gylberte
Wyth the Whyte Hande.

Lytell Johan and good Scatheloke
Were archers good and fre;
Lytell Much and good Reynolde,   
The worste wolde they not be.

What they had shot a boute,
These archours fayre and good,
Evermore then was the best,
For soth, Robyn Hode.

Hym was delyvered the good arowe,
For best worthy was he;
He toke the yeft so curteysly,
To grene wode wolde he.

They cryed out on Robyn Hode,
And grete hornes gan they blowe:
"Wo worth the, treason!" sayd Robyn,
"Full evyl thou art to knowe.

"And wo be thou! thou proude sheryf,
Thus gladdynge thy gest;
Other wyse thou behote me
In yonder wylde forest.

"But had I the in grene wode,
Under my trystell-tre,
Thou sholdest leve me a better wedde 
Than thy trewe lewte."

Full many a bowe there was bent,
And arowes let they glyde;
Many a kyrtell there was rent,
And hurt many a syde.

The outlawes shot was so stronge
That no man myght them dryve,
And the proud sheryfes men,
They fled away full blyve.

Robyn sawe the busshement to-broke,
In grene wode he wolde have be;
Many an arowe there was shot
Amonge that company.

Lytell Johan was hurte full sore,
With an arowe in his kne,
That he myght neyther go nor ryde;
It was full grete pyte.

"Mayster," then sayd Lytell Johan,
"If ever thou lovest me,
And for that ylke lordes love
That dyed upon a tre.

"And for the medes of my servyce,
That I have served the,
Lete never the proude sheryf
Alyve now fynde me.

"But take out thy browne swerde,
And smyte all of my hede,
And gyve me woundes depe and wyde;
No lyfe on me be lefte."

"I wolde not that," sayd Robyn,
"Johan, that thou were slawe,
For all the golde in mery Englonde,
Though it lay now on a rawe."

"God forbede," sayd Lytell Much,
"That dyed on a tre,
That thou sholdest, Lytell Johan,
Parte our company."

Up he toke hym on his backe,
And bare hym well a myle;
Many a tyme he layd hym downe,
And shot another whyle.

Then was there a fayre castell,
A lytell within the wode;
Double-dyched it was about,
And walled, by the rode.
 
And there dwelled that gentyll knyght,
Syr Rychard at the Lee,
That Robyn had lent his good,
Under the grene wode tree.

In he toke good Robyn,
And all his company:
"Welcome be thou, Robyn Hode,
Welcome arte thou to me,

"And moche I thanke the of thy confort,
And of thy curteysye,
And of thy grete kyndenesse,
Under the grene wode tre.

"I love no man in all this worlde
So much as I do the;
For all the proud sheryf of Notyngham,
Ryght here shalt thou be.

"Shyt the gates, and drawe the brydge,
And let no man come in,
And arme you well, and make you redy,
And to the walles ye wynne.

"For one thynge, Robyn, I the behote;
I swere by Saynt Quyntyne,
These forty dayes thou wonnest with me,
To soupe, ete, and dyne."

Bordes were layde, and clothes were spredde,
Redely and anone;
Robyn Hode and his mery men
To mete can they gone.

The Sixth Fytte

Lythe and lysten, gentylmen,
And herkyn to your songe;
Howe the proude shyref of Notyngham,
And men of armys stronge,

Full fast cam to the hye shyref,
The contre up to route,
And they besette the knyghtes castell,
The walles all aboute.

The proude shyref loude gan crye,
And sayde, "Thou traytour knight,
Thou kepest here the kynges enemys,
Agaynst the lawe and right."

"Syr, I wyll avowe that I have done,
The dedys that here be dyght,
Upon all the landes that I have,
As I am a trewe knyght.

"Wende furth, sirs, on your way,
And do no more to me
Tyll ye wyt oure kynges wille,
What he wyll say to the."

The shyref thus had his answere,
Without any lesynge;
Furth he yede to London towne,
All for to tel our kinge.

Ther he telde him of that knight,
And eke of Robyn Hode,
And also of the bolde archars,
That were soo noble and gode.

"He wyll avowe that he hath done,
To mayntene the outlawes stronge;
He wyll be lorde, and set you at nought,
In all the northe londe."

"I wyl be at Notyngham," saide our kynge,
"Within this fourteenyght,
And take I wyll Robyn Hode,
And so I wyll that knight.

"Go nowe home, shyref," sayde our kynge,
"And do as I byd the;
And ordeyn gode archers ynowe,
Of all the wyde contre."

The shyref had his leve i-take,
And went hym on his way,
And Robyn Hode to grene wode,
Upon a certen day.

And Lytel John was hole of the arowe
That shot was in his kne,
And dyd hym streyght to Robyn Hode,
Under the grene wode tree.

Robyn Hode walked in the forest,
Under the levys grene;
The proude shyref of Notyngham
Thereof he had grete tene.

The shyref there fayled of Robyn Hode,
He myght not have his pray;
Than he awayted this gentyll knight,
Bothe by nyght and day.

Ever he wayted the gentyll knyght,
Syr Richarde at the Lee,
As he went on haukynge by the ryver-syde,
And lete haukes flee.

Toke he there this gentyll knight,
With men of armys stronge,
And led hym to Notyngham warde,
Bounde bothe fote and hande.

The sheref sware a full grete othe,
Bi hym that dyed on rode,
He had lever than an hundred pound
That he had Robyn Hode.

This harde the knyghtes wyfe,
A fayr lady and a free;
She set hir on a gode palfrey,
To grene wode anone rode she.

Whanne she cam in the forest,
Under the grene wode tree,
Fonde she there Robyn Hode,
And al his fayre mené.

"God the save, gode Robyn,
And all thy company;
For Our dere Ladyes sake,
A bone graunte thou me.

"Late never my wedded lorde
Shamefully slayne be;
He is fast bowne to Notingham warde,
For the love of the."

Anone than saide goode Robyn
To that lady so fre,
"What man hath your lorde take?"
"The proude shirife," than sayd she.

"The shirife hatt hym take," she sayd, 
"For soth as I the say;
He is nat yet thre myles
Passed on his way."

Up than sterte gode Robyn,
As man that had ben wode;
"Buske you, my mery men,
For hym that dyed on rode.

"And he that this sorowe forsaketh,
By hym that dyed on tre,
Shall he never in grene wode
No lenger dwel with me."

Sone there were gode bowes bent,
Mo than seven score;
Hedge ne dyche spared they none
That was them before.

"I make myn avowe to God," sayde Robyn,
"The sherif wolde I fayne see;
And if I may hym take,
I-quyte shall it be."

And whan they came to Notingham,
They walked in the strete;
And with the proude sherif iwys
Sone can they mete.

"Abyde, thou proude sherif," he sayde,
"Abyde, and speke with me;
Of some tidinges of oure kinge
I wolde fayne here of the.

"This seven yere, by dere worthy God,
Ne yede I this fast on fote;
I make myn avowe to God, thou proude sherif,
It is nat for thy gode."

Robyn bent a full goode bowe,
An arrowe he drowe at wyll;
He hit so the proude sherife
Upon the grounde he lay full still.

And or he myght up aryse,
On his fete to stonde,
He smote of the sherifs hede
With his bright bronde.

"Lye thou there, thou proude sherife,
Evyll mote thou cheve! 
There myght no man to the truste
The whyles thou were a lyve."

His men drewe out theyr bryght swerdes,
That were so sharpe and kene,
And layde on the sheryves men,
And dryved them downe bydene.

Robyn stert to that knyght,
And cut a two his bonde,
And toke hym in his hand a bowe,
And bad hym by hym stonde.

"Leve thy hors the behynde,
And lerne for to renne;
Thou shalt with me to grene wode,
Through myre, mosse, and fenne.
          
"Thou shalt with me to grene wode,
Without ony leasynge, 
Tyll that I have gete us grace
Of Edwarde, our comly kynge."

The Seventh Fytte

The kynge came to Notynghame,
With knyghtes in grete araye,
For to take that gentyll knyght
And Robyn Hode, and yf he may.

He asked men of that countre
After Robyn Hode,
And after that gentyll knyght,
That was so bolde and stout.

Whan they had tolde hym the case
Our kyng understode ther tale,
And seased in his honde
The knyghtes londes all.

All the compasse of Lancasshyre
He went both ferre and nere,
Tyll he came to Plomton Parke;
He faylyd many of his dere.

There our kynge was wont to se
Herdes many one,
He coud unneth fynde one dere,
That bare ony good horne.

The kynge was wonder wroth withall,
And swore by the Trynyte,
"I wolde I had Robyn Hode,
With eyen I myght hym se.

"And he that wolde smyte of the knyghtes hede,
And brynge it to me,
He shall have the knyghtes londes,
Syr Rycharde at the Le.

"I gyve it hym with my charter,
And sele it my honde,
To have and holde for ever more,
In al mery Englonde."

Than bespake a fayre olde knyght,
That was treue in his fay:
"A, my leege lorde the kynge,
One worde I shall you say.

"There is no man in this countre
May have the knyghtes londes,
Whyle Robyn Hode may ryde or gone,
And bere a bowe in his hondes,

"That he ne shall lese his hede,
That is the best ball in his hode:   
Give it no man, my lorde the kynge,
That ye wyll any good."

Half a yere dwelled our comly kynge
In Notyngham, and well more;
Coude he not here of Robyn Hode,
In what countre that he were.

But alwey went good Robyn
By halke and eke by hyll,
And alway slewe the kynges dere,
And welt them at his wyll.

Than be spake a proude fostere,
That stode by our kynges kne:
"Yf ye wyll se good Robyn,
Ye must do after me.

"Take fyve of the best knyghtes
That be in your lede,
And walke downe by yon abbay,
And gete you monkes wede.

"And I wyll be your bedes-man,
And lede you the way,
And or ye come to Notyngham.
Myn hede then dare I lay,

"That ye shall mete with good Robyn,
On lyve yf that he be;
Or ye come to Notyngham,
With eyen ye shall hym se."

Full hastly our kynge was dyght,
So were his knyghtes fyve,
Everych of them in monkes wede,
And hasted them thyder blyve.

Our kynge was grete above his cole, 
A brode hat on his crowne,
Ryght as he were abbot-lyke,
They rode up into the towne.

Styf botes our kynge had on,
Forsoth as I you say;
He rode syngynge to grene wode,
The covent was clothed in graye.

His male-hors and his grete somers
Folowed our kynge behynde,
Tyll they came to grene wode,
A myle under the lynde.

There they met with good Robyn,
Stondynge on the waye,
And so dyde many a bolde archere,
For soth as I you say.

Robyn toke the kynges hors,
Hastely in that stede,
And sayd, "Syr abbot, by your leve,
A whyle ye must abyde.

"We be yemen of this foreste,
Under the grene wode tre;
We lyve by our kynges dere,
Under the grene wode tre.

"And ye have chyrches and rentes both,
And gold full grete plente;
Gyve us some of your spendynge,
For saynt charyte."

Than bespake our cumly kynge,
Anone than sayd he:
"I brought no more to grene wode
But forty pounde with me.

"I have layne at Notyngham
This fourtynyght with our kynge,
And spent I have full moche good,
On many a grete lordynge.

"And I have but forty pounde,
No more than have I me;
But yf I had an hondred pounde,
I vouch it halfe on the."

Robyn toke the forty pounde,
And departed it in two partye;
Halfendell he gave his mery men,
And bad them mery to be.

Full curteysly Robyn gan say;
"Syr, have this for your spendyng;
We shall mete another day."
"Gramercy," than sayd our kynge.

"But well the greteth Edwarde, our kynge,
And sent to the his seale,
And byddeth the com to Notyngham,
Both to mete and mele."

He toke out the brode targe,
And sone he lete hym se;
Robyn coud his courteysy,
And set hym on his kne.

"I love no man in all the worlde
So well as I do my knyge;
Welcome is my lordes seale;
And, monke, for thy tydynge,

"Syr abbot, for thy tydynges,
To day thou shalt dyne with me,
For the love of my kynge,
Under my trystell-tre."

Forth he lad our comly kynge,
Full fayre by the honde;
Many a dere there was slayne,
And full fast dyghtande.

Robyn toke a full grete horne,
And loude he gan blowe;  
Seven score of wyght yonge men
Came redy on a rowe.

All they kneled on theyr kne,
Full fayre before Robyn;
The kynge sayd hym selfe untyll,
And swore by Saynt Austyn,

"Here is a wonder semely syght;
Me thynketh, by Goddes pyne,
His men are more at his byddynge
Then my men be at myn."

Full hastly was theyr dyner idyght,
And therto gan they gone;
They served our kynge with al theyr myght,
Both Robyn and Lytell Johan.

Anone before our kynge was set
The fatte venyson,
The good whyte brede, the good rede wyne,
And therto the fyne ale and browne.

"Make good chere," said Robyn,
"Abbot, for charyte;
And for this ylke tydynge,
Blyssed mote thou be.

"Now shalte thou se what lyfe we lede,
Or thou hens wende;
Than thou may enfourme our kynge,
Whan ye togyder lende."

Up they sterte all in hast,
Theyr bowes were smartly bent;
Our kynge was never so sore agast,
He wende to have be shente.

Two yerdes there were up set,
Thereto gan they gange; 
By fyfty pase, our kynge sayd,
The merkes were to longe.

On every syde a rose-garlonde,
They shot under the lyne;
"Who so fayleth of the rose-garlonde," sayd Robyn,
"His takyll he shall tyne,

"And yelde it to his mayster,
Be it never so fyne;
 For no man wyll I spare,
 So drynke I ale or wyne:

"And bere a buffet on his hede,
Iwys ryght all bare."
And all that fell in Robyns lote,
He smote them wonder sare.

Twyse Robyn shot a boute,
And ever he cleved the wande,
And so dyde good Gylberte
With the Whyte Hande.

Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke,
For nothynge wolde they spare;
When they fayled of the garlonde,
Robyn smote them full sore.

At the last shot that Robyn shot,
For all his frendes fare,
Yet he fayled of the garlonde,
Thre fyngers and mare.

Than bespake good Gylberte,
And thus he gan say:
"Mayster," he sayd, "your takyll is lost,
Stande forth and take your pay."

"If it be so," sayd Robyn,
"That may no better be,
Syr abbot, I delyver the myn arowe,
I pray the, syr, serve thou me."

"It falleth not for myn ordre," sayd our kynge,
"Robyn, by thy leve,
 For to smyte no good yeman,
For doute I sholde hym greve."

"Smyte on boldely," sayd Robyn,
"I give the large leve."
 Anone our kynge, with that worde,
 He folde up his sleve,

And sych a buffet he gave Robyn,
To grounde he yede full nere:
"I make myn avowe to God," sayd Robyn,
"Thou arte a stalworthe frere.

"There is pith in thyn arme," sayd Robyn,
"I trowe thou canst well shete."
Thus our kynge and Robyn Hode
Togeder gan they mete.

Robyn behelde our comly kynge
Wystly in the face,
So dyde Syr Rycharde at the Le,
And kneled downe in that place.

And so dyde all the wylde outlawes,
Whan they see them knele:
"My lorde the kynge of Englonde,
Now I knowe you well."

"Mercy then, Robyn," sayd our kynge,
"Under your trystyll-tre,
Of thy goodnesse and thy grace,
For my men and me!"

"Yes, for God," sayd Robyn,
"And also God me save,
I aske mercy, my lorde the kynge,
And for my men I crave."

"Yes, for God," than sayd our kynge,
"And therto sent I me,
With that thou leve the grene wode,
And all thy company;

"And come home, syr, to my courte,
And there dwell with me."
"I make myn avowe to God," sayd Robyn,
"And ryght so shall it be.

"I wyll come to your courte,
Your servyse for to se,
And brynge with me of my men
Seven score and thre.

"But me lyke well your servyse,
"I come agayne full soone,
And shote at the donne dere,
As I am wonte to done."

The Eighth Fytte

"Haste thou ony grene cloth," sayd our kynge,
"That thou wylte sell nowe to me?"
"Ye, for God," sayd Robyn,
"Thyrty yerdes and thre."

"Robyn," sayd our kynge,
"Now pray I the,
Sell me some of that cloth,
To me and my meyne."

"Yes, for God," then sayd Robyn,
"Or elles I were a fole:
Another day ye wyll me clothe,
I trowe, ayenst the Yole."

The kynge kest of his cole then,
A grene garment he dyde on,
And every knyght had so, iwys,
Another hode full sone.

Whan they were clothed in Lyncolne grene,
They keste away theyr graye;
"Now we shall to Notyngham,"
All thus our kynge gan say.

Theyr bowes bente, and forth they went,
Shotynge all in fere,
Towarde the towne of Notyngham,
Outlawes as they were.

Our kynge and Robyn rode togyder,
For soth as I you say,
And they shote plucke buffet,
As they went by the way.

And many a buffet our kynge wan
Of Robyn Hode that day,
And nothynge spared good Robyn
Our kynge in his pay.

"So God me helpe," sayd our kynge,
"Thy game is nought to lere;
I sholde not get a shote of the,
Though I shote all this yere."

All the people of Notyngham
They stode and behelde;
They sawe nothynge but mantels of grene
That covered all the felde.

Than every man to other gan say,
"I drede our kynge be slone:
Come Robyn Hode to the towne, iwys
On lyve he lefte never one."

Full hastly they began to fle,
Both yemen and knaves,
And olde wyves that myght evyll goo,
They hypped on theyr staves.

The kynge loughe full fast,
And commaunded theym agayne;
When they se our comly kynge,
I wys they were full fayne.

They ete and dranke and made them glad,
And sange with notes hye;
Than bespake our comly kynge
To Syr Rycharde at the Lee.

He gave hym there his londe agayne,
A good man he bad hym be;
Robyn thanked our comly kynge,
And set hym on his kne.

Had Robyn dwelled in the kynges courte
But twelve monethes and thre,
That he had spent an hondred pounde,
And all his mennes fe.

In every place where Robyn came
Ever more he layde downe,
Both for knyghtes and for squyres,
To gete hym grete renowne.

By than the yere was all agone
He had no man but twayne,
Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke,
With hym all for to gone.

Robyn sawe yonge men shote
Full ferre upon a day;
"Alas!" than sayd good Robyn,
"My welthe is went away. 

"Somtyme I was an archere good,
A styffe and eke a stronge; 
I was comted the best archere 
That was in mery Englonde.

"Alas!" then sayd good Robyn,
"Alas and well a woo!
Yf I dwele lenger with the kynge,
Sorowe wyll me sloo."

Forth than went Robyn Hode
Tyll he came to our kynge:
"My lorde the kynge of Englonde,
Graunte me myn askynge.

"I made a chapell in Bernysdale,
That semely is to se,
It is of Mary Magdaleyne,
And thereto wolde I be.

"I myght never in this seven nyght
No tyme to slepe ne wynke,
Nother all these seven dayes 
Nother ete ne drynke.

"Me longeth sore to Bernysdale,
I may not be therfro;
Barefote and wolwarde I have hyght
Thyder for to go." 

"Yf it be so," than sayd our kynge,
"It may no better be,
Seven nyght I gyve the leve,
No lengre, to dwell fro me."

"Gramercy, lorde," then sayd Robyn,
And set hym on his kne;
He toke his leve courteysly,
To grene wode then went he.

Whan he came to grene wode,
In a mery mornynge,
There he herde the notes small
Of byrdes mery syngynge.

"It is ferre gone," sayd Robyn,
"That I was last here;
Me lyste a lytell for to shote 
At the donne dere."

Robyn slewe a full grete harte;
His horne than gan he blow,
That all the outlawes of that forest
That horne coud they knowe,

And gadred them togyder,
In a lytell throwe. 
Seven score of wyght yonge men
Came redy on a rowe.

And fayre dyde of theyr hodes,
And set them on theyr kne;
"Welcome," they sayd, "our mayster,
Under this grene wode tre."

Robyn dwelled in grene wode,
Twenty yere and two;
For all drede of Edwarde our kynge,
Agayne wolde he not goo.

Yet he was begyled, iwys,
Through a wycked woman,
The pryoresse of Kyrkely,
That nye was of hys kynne.

For the love of a knyght,
Syr Roger of Donkesly,
That was her owne speciall;
Full evyll mote they the!

They toke togyder theyr counsell
Robyn Hode for to sle,
And how they myght best do that dede,
His banis for to be.

Than bespake good Robyn,
In place where as he stode,
"To morow I muste to Kyrkely,
Craftely to be leten blode."

Syr Roger of Donkestere,
By the pryoresse he lay,
And there they betrayed good Robyn Hode,
Through theyr false playe.

Cryst have mercy on his soule,
That dyded on the rode!
For he was a good outlawe,
And dyde pore men moch god.