A Lytell Geste of Robyn Hode

Three complete editions of this highly popular poem are known, all without date. The earliest, (perhaps not later than 1520,) is by Wynken de Worde, and has this title: Here beginneth a mery geste of Robyn Hode and his meyne, and of the proude sheryfe of Notyngham. A second is by William Copland, and is apparently made from the former. A third was printed from Copland's, for Edward White, and though without date is entered in the Stationers' Registers in 1594. Portions have been preserved of two other editions, earlier than any of these three. Ritson had in his hands a few leaves of an "old 4to. black-letter impression," by Wynken de Worde, "probably in 1489." The Gest of Robyn Hode was also printed at Edinburgh, in 1508, by Chepman and Myllar, who in the same year issued a considerable number of poetical tracts. A volume of these, containing a large fragment of the piece in question, was most fortunately recovered towards the end of the last century, and has been reprinted in fac simile by the Messrs. Laing, Edinburgh, 1827.

The Lytell Geste is obviously to be regarded as an heroic poem, constructed, partly or entirely, out of previously existing unconnected "rhymes of Robin Hood." The earlier ballads employed for this purpose have not been handed down to us in their primitive form. Whatever this may have been, they were probably very freely treated by the rhapsodist that strung them together, who has indeed retold the ancient stories with such skill as might well cause the ruder originals to be forgotten. Nevertheless, the third fit of our little epic is indisputably of common derivation with the last part of the older ballad of Robin Hood and the Potter, and other portions of this tale occur separately in ballads, which, though modern in their structure, may have had a source independent of the Lytell Geste.

It will be observed that each fit of this piece does not constitute a complete story. Mr. Hunter has correctly enough indicated the division into ballads as follows: The first ballad is comprised in the first two fits, and may be called Robin Hood and the Knight; the second ballad is the third fit, and may be called Little John and the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire; in the fourth fit we have the ballad of Robin Hood and the Monks of St. Mary; in the fifth and sixth, Robin Hood, the Sheriff of Nottingham, and the Knight; the seventh and part of the eighth contain the ballad of Robin Hood and the King; and the remaining stanzas of the eighth the Death of Robin Hood.

Concerning the imagined historical foundation of the Lytell Geste, see the general remarks on Robin Hood prefixed to this volume.

Lithe and lysten, gentylmen,
That be of frebore blode;
I shall you tell of a good yemàn,
His name was Robyn Hode.

Robyn was a proude outlawe,
Whyles he walked on grounde;
So curteyse an outlawe as he was one
Was never none yfounde.

Robyn stode in Bernysdale,
And lened hym to a tre,
And by hym stode Lytell Johan,
A good yeman was he;

And also dyde good Scathelock,
And Much the millers sone;
There was no ynche of his body,
But it was worthe a grome.

Than bespake hym Lytell Johan
All unto Robyn Hode,
"Mayster, yf ye wolde dyne betyme,
It wolde do you moch good."

Then bespake good Robyn,
"To dyne I have no lest,
Tyll I have some bolde baròn,
Or some unketh gest,

"[Or els some byshop or abbot]
That may paye for the best;
Or some knyght or some squyere
That dwelleth here by west."

A good maner than had Robyn,
In londe where that he were,
Every daye or he woulde dyne
Thre messes wolde he here:

The one in the worshyp of the fader,
The other of the holy goost,
The thyrde was of our dere lady,
That he loved of all other moste.

Robyn loved our dere lady;
For doute of dedely synne,
Wolde he never do company harme
That ony woman was ynne.

"Mayster," than sayd Lytell Johan,
"And we our borde shall sprede,
Tell us whether we shall gone,
And what lyfe we shall lede;

"Where we shall take, where we shall leve,
Where we shall abide behynde,
Where we shall robbe, where we shall reve,
Where we shall bete and bynde."

"Therof no fors," said Robyn,
"We shall do well ynough;
But loke ye do no housbonde harme
That tylleth with his plough;

"No more ye shall no good yemàn,
That walketh by grene wode shawe,
Ne no knyght, ne no squyèr,
That wolde be a good felawe.

"These byshoppes, and thyse archebysshoppes,
Ye shall them bete and bynde;
The hye sheryfe of Notynghame,
Hym holde in your mynde."

"This worde shall be holde," sayd Lytyll Johan,
"And this lesson shall we lere;
It is ferre dayes, god sende us a gest,
That we were at our dynere."

"Take thy good bowe in thy hande," said Robyn,
"Let Moche wende with the,
And so shall Wyllyam Scathelocke,
And no man abyde with me:

"And walke up to the Sayles,
And so to Watlynge-strete,
And wayte after some unketh gest,
Up-chaunce ye mowe them mete.

"Be he erle or ony baròn,
Abbot or ony knyght,
Brynge hym to lodge to me,
Hys dyner shall be dyght."

They wente unto the Sayles,
These yemen all thre,
They loked est, they loked west,
They myght no man see.

But as they loked in Barnysdale,
By a derne strete,
Then came there a knyght rydynge,
Full sone they gan hym mete.

All dreri then was his semblaunte,
And lytell was hys pryde,
Hys one fote in the sterope stode,
That other waved besyde.

Hys hode hangynge over hys eyen two,
He rode in symple aray;
A soryer man than he was one
Rode never in somers-day.

Lytell Johan was curteyse,
And set hym on his kne:
"Welcome be ye, gentyll knyght,
Welcome are you to me.

"Welcome be thou to grene wood,
Hende knyght and fre;
My mayster hath abyden you fastynge,
Syr, all these oures thre."

"Who is your mayster?" sayd the knyght.
Johan sayde, "Robyn Hode."
"He is a good yeman," sayd the knyght,
"Of hym I have herde moch good.

"I graunte," he sayd, "with you to wende,
My brethren, all in-fere;
My purpose was to have deyned to day
At Blythe or Dankastere."

Forthe than went this gentyll knyght,
With a carefull chere;
The teres out of his eyen ran,
And fell downe by his lere.

They brought hym unto the lodge dore;
When Robyn gan hym se,
Full curteysly dyde of his hode,
And set hym on his kne.

"Welcome, syr knyght," then said Robyn,
"Welcome thou arte to me,
I haue abyde you fastynge, syr,
All these houres thre."

Then answered the gentyll knyght,
With wordes fayre and fre,
"God the save, good Robyn,
And all thy fayre meynè."

They washed togyder and wyped bothe,
And set tyll theyr dynere;
Brede and wyne they had ynough,
And nombles of the dere.

Swannes and fesauntes they had full good,
And foules of the revere;
There fayled never so lytell a byrde,
That ever was bred on brere.

"Do gladly, syr knyght," sayd Robyn;
"Gramercy, syr," sayd he,
"Such a dyner had I not
Of all these wekes thre.

"If I come agayne, Robyn,
Here by this countrè,
As good a dyner I shall the make,
As thou hast made to me."

"Gramercy, knyght," sayd Robyn;
"My dyner whan I have,
I was never so gredy, by dere worthy god,
My dyner for to crave.

"But pay or ye wende," sayd Robyn,
"Me thynketh it is good ryght;
It was never the maner, by dere worthy god,
A yeman to pay for a knyght."

"I have nought in my cofers," sayd the knyght,
"That I may profer for shame;"
"Lytell Johan, go loke," sayd Robyn,
"Ne let not for no blame.

"Tell me trouth," sayd Robyn,
"So god have parte of the;"
"I have no more but ten shillings," sayd the knyght,
"So god have parte of me."

"Yf thou have no more," sayd Robyn,
"I wyll not one peny;
And yf thou have nede of ony more,
More shall I len the.

"Go now forth, Lytell Johan,
The trouthe tell thou me;
Yf there be no more but ten shillings,
Not one peny that I se."

Lytell Johan spred downe his mantell,
Full fayre upon the grounde,
And there he found in the knyghtes cofer
But even halfe a pounde.

Lytyll Johan let it lye full styll,
And went to his mayster full lowe:
"What tydynge, Johan?" sayd Robyn:
"Syr, the knyght is trewe inough."

"Fyll of the best wyne," sayd Robyn,
"The knyght shall begynne;
Moch wonder thynketh me
Thy clothynge is so thynne.

"Tell me one worde," sayd Robyn,
"And counsell shall it be;
I trowe thou were made a knyght of forse,
Or elles of yemanry;

"Or elles thou hast ben a sory housband,
And leved in stroke and stryfe;
An okerer, or elles a lechoure," sayd Robyn,
"With wronge hast thou lede thy lyfe."

"I am none of them," sayd the knyght,
"By god that made me;
An hondreth wynter here before,
Myne aunsetters knyghtes have be.

"But ofte it hath befal, Robyn,
A man hath be dysgrate;
But god that syteth in heven above
May amend his state.

"Within two or thre yere, Robyn," he sayd,
"My neyghbores well it kende,
Foure hondreth pounde of good money
Full wel than myghte I spende.

"Now have I no good," sayd the knyght,
"But my chyldren and my wyfe;
God hath shapen such an ende,
Tyll god may amende my lyfe."

"In what maner," sayd Robyn,
"Hast thou lore thy richès?"
"For my grete foly," he sayd,
"And for my kindenesse.

"I had a sone, for soth, Robyn,
That sholde have ben my eyre,
When he was twenty wynter olde,
In felde wolde juste full feyre.

"He slewe a knyght of Lancastshyre,
And a squyre bolde;
For to save hym in his ryght,
My goodes beth sette and solde.

"My londes beth set to wedde, Robyn,
Untyll a certayne daye,
To a ryche abbot here besyde,
Of Saynt Mary abbay."

"What is the somme?" sayd Robyn,
"Trouthe than tell thou me;"
"Syr," he sayd, "foure hondred pounde,
The abbot tolde it to me."

"Now, and thou lese thy londe," sayd Robyn,
"What shall fall of the?"
"Hastely I wyll me buske," sayd the knyght,
"Over the salte see,

"And se where Cryst was quycke and deed
On the mounte of Caluarè:
Fare well, frende, and have good daye,
It may noo better be."

Teeres fell out of his eyen two,
He wolde haue gone his waye:
"Farewell, frendes, and have good day,
I ne have more to pay."

"Where be thy friendes?" sayd Robyn:
"Syr, never one wyll me know;
Whyle I was ryche inow at home,
Grete bost then wolde they blowe.

"And now they renne awaye fro me,
As bestes on a rowe;
They take no more heed of me
Then they me never sawe."

For ruthe then wepte Lytell Johan,
Scathelocke and Much in fere:
"Fyll of the best wyne," sayd Robyn,
"For here is a symple chere.

"Hast thou ony frendes," sayd Robyn,
"Thy borowes that wyll be?"
"I have none," then sayd the knyght,
"But god that dyed on a tree."

"Do waye thy japes," sayd Robyn,
"Therof will I right none;
Wenest thou I wyll have god to borowe,
Peter, Poule, or Johan?

"Nay, by hym that me made,
And shope both sonne and mone;
Fynde a better borowe," sayd Robyn,
"Or mony getest thou none."

"I have none other," sayd the knyght,
"The sothe for to say,
But yf it be our dere lady,
She fayled me never or this day."

"By dere worthy god," sayd Robyn,
"To seche all England thorowe,
Yet founde I never to my pay
A moch better borowe.

"Come now forthe, Lytell Johan,
And goo to my tresourè,
And brynge me foure hondred pounde,
And loke that it well tolde be."

Forthe then wente Lytell Johan,
And Scathelocke went before,
He tolde out foure houndred pounde,
By eyghtene score.

"Is this well tolde?" said lytell Much.
Johan sayd, "What greveth the?
It is almes to helpe a gentyll knyght
That is fall in povertè."

"Mayster," than said Lytell Johan,
"His clothynge is full thynne;
Ye must gyve the knyght a lyveray
To lappe his body ther in.

"For ye have scarlet and grene, mayster,
And many a ryche aray;
There is no marchaunt in mery Englònde,
So ryche, I dare well saye."

"Take hym thre yerdes of every coloure,
And loke that well mete it be:"
Lytell Johan toke none other mesure
But his bowe tre.

And of every handfull that he met
He lept ouer fotes thre:
"What devilkyns draper," sayd litell Much,
"Thynkyst thou to be?"

Scathelocke stoode full styll and lough,
And sayd, "By god allmyght,
Johan may gyve hym the better mesure;
By god, it cost him but lyght."

"Mayster," sayd Lytell Johan,
All unto Robyn Hode,
"Ye must gyve that knight an hors,
To lede home al this good."

"Take hym a gray courser," sayd Robyn,
"And a sadell newe;
He is our ladyes messengere,
God lene that he be true."

"And a good palfraye," sayd lytell Moch,
"To mayntayne hym in his ryght:"
"And a payre of botes," sayd Scathelocke,
"For he is a gentyll knyght."

"What shalt thou gyve him, Lytel Johan?" sayd Robyn.
"Syr, a payre of gylte spores clene,
To pray for all this company:
God brynge hym out of tene!"

"Whan shall my daye be," sayd the knyght,
"Syr, and your wyll be?"
"This daye twelve moneth," sayd Robyn,
"Under this grene wode tre."

"It were grete shame," sayd Robyn,
"A knyght alone to ryde,
Without squyer, yeman, or page,
To walke by hys syde.

"I shall the lene Lytyll Johan my man,
For he shall be thy knave;
In a yemans steed he may the stonde,
Yf thou grete nede have."

Barnsdale is a tract of country, four or five miles broad, in the West Riding of Yorkshire. It was, we are told, woodland until recent inclosures, and is spoken of by Leland as a "woody and famous forest" in the reign of Henry the Eighth. From the depths of this retreat to Doncaster the distance is less than ten miles, and to Nottingham, in a straight line, about fifty. A little to the north of Barnsdale is Pontefract, and a little to the northwest is Wakefield, and beyond this the Priory of Kirklees. Mr. Hunter, whom we follow here, has shown by contemporary evidence that Barnsdale was infested by robbers in the days of the Edwards. "In the last year of the reign of King Edward the First, the bishops of St. Andrew's and Glasgow, and the Abbot of Scone were conveyed, at the King's charge, from Scotland to Winchester. In this journey they had a guard, sometimes of eight archers, sometimes of twelve; but when they had got as far south as Daventry, they had no archers at all in attendance, and proceeded without a guard, in three days from thence to Winchester. But when they passed from Pontefract to Tickhill, the guard had been increased to the number of twenty archers, and the reason given in the account of the expenses of their journey, for this addition to the cost of the conveyance, is given in the two words, propter Barnsdale."

. lust, Ritson.

, . "The Sayles," is a place no longer known, but it is certain that there was formerly a place of the name in Barnsdale or near it. "It was a very small tenancy of the manor of Pontefract, being not more than the tenth of a knight's fee" (Hunter). Watling Street stands here for the great North Road, probably a Roman highway, which crosses Barnsdale.

. all his. PCC.

, so R. (ed. 1489): all three, W. C. (de Worde & Copland).

, this, R. that, W. C.

, ere, R.

, to pay, R. pay, W. C.

, Robyn, R. Robyn Hoode, W. C.

. "This stanza is remarkable for containing a reference to one of the old grievances of the people of England. In the reign of Henry the Third, and his son, and grandson, the compelling persons, some of them of no great estate, to take upon them the honour of knighthood, or pay a large sum to be excused, was felt as a heavy oppression."—Hunter.

, two yere, R.

, knowe, OCC.

, it may amende, OCC.

, lancasesshyre, R.

, not W. C.

, by W. C.

. So R. knowe me, W. C. The fragment of de Worde's older ed. ends with v. 239.

, also, PCC. for 'in fere.'

. Wyme, PCC.

. I.e. by so many score to the hundred. It is certainly a very hyperbolical expression, but he measures the cloth in the same way.—Ritson.

, helpe, W. wrappe, C.

. leue, W. lende, C

The Seconde Fytte.

Nowe is the knyght went on his way,
This game hym thought full good;
When he loked on Bernysdale,
He blyssed Robyn Hode;

And whan he thought on Bernysdale,
On Scathelock, Much, and Johan,
He blyssed them for the best company
That ever he in come.

Then spake that gentyll knyght,
To Lytel Johan gan he saye,
"To-morrowe I must to Yorke toune,
To Saynt Mary abbay;

"And to the abbot of that place
Foure hondred pounde I must pay;
And but I be there upon this nyght
My londe is lost for ay."

The abbot sayd to his covent,
There he stode on grounde,
"This day twelfe moneth came there a knyght
And borowed foure hondred pounde.

"[He borowed foure hondred pounde,]
Upon all his londe fre,
But he come this ylke day
Dysheryte shall he be."

"It is full erely," sayd the pryoure,
"The day is not yet ferre gone;
I had lever to pay an hondred pounde,
And lay it downe anone.

"The knight is ferre beyonde the see,
In Englonde is his ryght,
And suffreth honger and colde,
And many a sory nyght.

"It were grete pytè," said the pryoure,
"So to have his londe;
And ye be so lyght of your conseyence,
Ye do to him moch wronge."

"Thou art euer in my berde," sayd the abbot,
"By god and saynt Rycharde;"
With that cam in a fat-heded monke,
The heygh selerer.

"He is dede or hanged," sayd the monke,
"By god that bought me dere,
And we shall have to spende in this place
Foure hondred pounde by yere."

The abbot and the hy selerer,
Sterte forthe full bolde,
The high justyce of Englonde
The abbot there dyde holde.

The hye justyce and many mo
Had take into their honde
Holy all the knyghtes det,
To put that knyght to wronge.

They demed the knyght wonder sore,
The abbot and hys meynè:
"But he come this ylke day
Dysheryte shall he be."

"He wyll not come yet," sayd the justyce,
"I dare well undertake;"
But in sorowe tyme for them all
The knyght came to the gate.

Than bespake that gentyll knyght
Untyll hys meynè,
"Now put on your symple wedes
That ye brought fro the see."

[They put on their symple wedes,]
And came to the gates anone;
The porter was redy hymselfe,
And welcomed them everychone.

"Welcome, syr knyght," sayd the portèr,
"My lorde to mete is he,
And so is many a gentyll man,
For the love of the."

The porter swore a full grete othe,
"By god that made me,
Here be the best coresed hors,
That ever yet sawe I me.

"Lede them into the stable," he sayd,
"That eased might they be:"
"They shall not come therin," sayd the knyght,
"By god that dyed on a tre."

Lordes were to mete isette
In that abbotes hall;
The knyght went forth and kneled downe,
And salued them grete and small.

"Do gladly, syr abbot," sayd the knyght,
"I am come to holde my day:"
The fyrst word the abbot spake,
"Hast thou brought my pay?"

"Not one peny," sayd the knyght,
"By god that maked me;"
"Thou art a shrewed dettour," sayd the abbot;
"Syr justyce, drynke to me.

"What doost thou here," sayd the abbot,
"But thou haddest brought thy pay?"
"For god," than sayd the knyght,
"To pray of a lenger daye."

"Thy daye is broke," sayd the justyce,
"Londe getest thou none:"
"Now, good syr justyce, be my frende,
And fende me of my fone."

"I am holde with the abbot," sayd the justyce,
"Bothe with cloth and fee:"
"Now, good syr sheryf, be my frende:"
"Nay for god," sayd he.

"Now, good syr abbot, be my frende,
For thy curteysè,
And holde my londes in thy honde
Tyll I have made the gree;

"And I wyll be thy true servaunte,
And trewely serve the,
Tyl ye have foure hondred pounde
Of money good and free."

The abbot sware a full grete othe,
"By god that dyed on a tree,
Get the londe where thou may,
For thou getest none of me."

"By dere worthy god," then sayd the knyght,
"That all this worlde wrought,
But I have my londe agayne
Full dere it shall be bought.

"God, that was of a mayden borne,
Lene us well to spede!
For it is good to assay a frende
Or that a man have nede."

The abbot lothely on him gan loke,
And vylaynesly hym gan call;
"Out," he sayd, "thou false knyght,
Spede the out of my hall!"

"Thou lyest," then sayd the gentyll knyght,
"Abbot in thy hal;
False knyght was I never,
By god that made us all."

Up then stode that gentyll knyght,
To the abbot sayd he,
"To suffre a knyght to knele so longe
Thou canst no curteysye.

"In joustes and in tournement
Full ferre than have I be,
And put myselfe as ferre in prees
As ony that ever I se."

"What wyll ye gyve more," said the justyce,
"And the knyght shall make a releyse?
And elles dare I safly swere
Ye holde never your londe in pees."

"An hondred pounde," sayd the abbot;
The justyce said, "Gyve him two;"
"Nay, be god," said the knyght,
"Yet gete ye it not soo.

"Though ye wolde gyve a thousande more,
Yet were ye never the nere;
Shall there never be myn eyre,
Abbot, justyse, ne frere."

He sterte hym to a borde anone,
Tyll a table rounde,
And there he shoke out of a bagge
Even foure hondred pounde.

"Have here thy golde, syr abbot," sayd the knyght,
"Which that thou lentest me;
Haddest thou ben curteys at my comynge,
Rewarde sholdest thou have be."

The abbot sat styll, and ete no more,
For all his ryall chere;
He caste his hede on his sholdèr,
And fast began to stare.

"Take me my golde agayne," sayd the abbot,
"Syr justyce, that I toke the;"
"Not a peny," sayd the justyce,
"By god, that dyed on a tree."

"Syr abbot, and ye men of lawe,
Now have I holde my daye,
Now shall I have my londe agayne,
For ought that you can saye."

The knyght stert out of the dore,
Awaye was all his care,
And on he put his good clothynge,
The other he lefte there.

He wente hym forthe full mery syngynge,
As men have tolde in tale,
His lady met hym at the gate,
At home in Uterysdale.

"Welcome, my lorde," sayd his lady;
"Syr, lost is all your good?"
"Be mery, dame," sayd the knyght,
"And praye for Robyn Hode,

"That ever his soule be in blysse;
He holpe me out of my tene;
Ne had not be his kyndenesse,
Beggers had we ben.

"The abbot and I acordyd ben,
He is served of his pay,
The good yeman lent it me,
As I came by the way."

This knyght than dwelled fayre at home,
The soth for to say,
Tyll he had got foure hondreth pounde,
All redy for too paye.

He purveyed hym an hondred bowes,
The strenges welle [y-]dyght,
An hondred shefe of arowes good,
The hedes burnyshed full bryght.

And every arowe an elle longe,
With pecocke well ydyght,
Inocked all with whyte sylvèr,
It was a semly syght.

He purveyed hym an hondreth men,
Well harneysed in that stede,
And hymselfe in that same sete,
And clothed in whyte and rede.

He bare a launsgay in his honde,
And a man ledde his male,
And reden with a lyght songe
Unto Bernysdale.

As he went at brydge ther was a wrastelyng,
And there taryed was he,
And there was all the best yemèn,
Of all the west countree.

A full fayre game there was upset;
A whyte bull up ipyght,
A grete courser with sadle and brydil,
With golde burneyshed full bryght;

A payre of gloves, a rede golde rynge,
A pype of wyne, in good fay;
What man bereth him best, i-wys,
The pryce shall bere away.

There was a yeman in that place,
And best worthy was he,
And for he was ferre and frend bestad,
Islayne he sholde have be.

The knyght had reuth of this yemàn,
In place where that he stode,
He said that yoman sholde have no harme,
For love of Robyn Hode.

The knyght presed into the place,
An hondred folowed hym fre,
With bowes bent, and arowes sharpe,
For to shende that company.

They sholdred all, and made hym rome,
To wete what he wolde say;
He toke the yeman by the honde,
And gave hym all the playe.

He gave hym fyve marke for his wyne,
There it laye on the molde,
And bad it sholde be sette a broche,
Drynke who so wolde.

Thus longe taryed this gentyll knyght,
Tyll that playe was done,
So longe abode Robyn fastynge,
Thre houres after the none.

, Ritson, this way.

, hym, sic Ch. & M.

. The prior, in an abbey, was the officer immediately under the abbot; in priories and conventual cathedrals he was the superior.—Ritson.

101, 2. I.e., the Chief Justice had been retained for the abbot by robe and fee. A writer in Notes and Queries, (vol. vi. p. 479,) quotes statutes of Edward I. and Edward III. against maintenance, in which the abuse of robes and fees is mentioned, and cites the following clause from the oath required to be taken by justices: "And that ye will take no fee so long as ye shall be justices, nor robes, of any man great or small, except of the king himself."

, leue, W. Lende us, C.

, loke (for call), W. C.

, grete, W. get, C.

, thou. PCC.

. This is a place unknown. There is a forest in Lancashire, observes Ritson, of the name of Wierysdale, but it appears subsequently that the knight's castle was in Nottinghamshire.

, sute, C.

, I up pyght, W. up ypyght, C.

, fere, W. in fere, C.

The Thyrde Fytte.

Lyth and lysten, gentyll men,
All that now be here,
Of Lytell Johan, that was the knyghtes man,
Good myrthe ye shall here.

It was upon a mery day,
That yonge men wolde go shete,
Lytell Johan fet his bowe anone,
And sayd he wolde them mete.

Thre tymes Lytell Johan shot about,
And always cleft the wande;
The proude sheryf of Notyngham
By the markes gan stande.

The sheryf swore a full grete othe,
By hym that dyed on a tre,
This man is the best archere
That yet sawe I me.

"Say me now, wyght yonge man,
What is now thy name?
In what countre were thou born,
And where is thy wonnynge wane?"

"In Holdernesse I was bore,
I-wys all of my dame;
Men call me Reynolde Grenelefe,
Whan I am at hame."

"Say me, Reynaud Grenelefe,
Wolte thou dwell with me?
And every yere I wyll the gyve
Twenty marke to thy fee."

"I have a mayster," sayd Lytell Johan,
"A curteys knight is he;
May ye gete leve of hym,
The better may it bee."

The sheryfe gate Lytell Johan
Twelve monethes of the knyght;
Therfore he gave him ryght anone
A good hors and a wyght.

Now is Lytel Johan the sheryffes man,
God gyve us well to spede,
But alway thought Lytell Johan
To quyte hym well his mede.

"Now so god me helpe," sayd Lytel Johan,
"And be my trewe lewtè,
I shall be the worste servaunte to hym
That ever yet had he."

It befell upon a Wednesday,
The sheryfe on hontynge was gone,
And Lytel Johan lay in his bed,
And was foryete at home.

Therfore he was fastynge
Tyl it was past the none;
"Good syr stuard, I pray the,
Geve me to dyne," sayd Lytel Johan.

"It is to long for Grenelefe,
Fastynge so long to be;
Therfore I pray the, stuarde,
My dyner gyve thou me."

"Shalt thou never ete ne drynke," said the stuarde,
"Tyll my lord be come to towne;"
"I make myn avowe to god," sayd Lytell Johan,
"I had lever to cracke thy crowne."

The butler was full uncurteys,
There he stode on flore;
He sterte to the buttery,
And shet fast the dore.

Lytell Johan gave the buteler such a rap,
His backe yede nygh on two;
Tho he lyved an hundreth wynter,
The wors he sholde go.

He sporned the dore with his fote,
It went up wel and fyne,
And there he made a large lyveray
Both of ale and wyne.

"Syth ye wyl not dyne," sayd Lytel Johan,
"I shall gyve you to drynke,
And though ye lyve an hondred wynter,
On Lytell Johan ye shall thynk."

Lytell Johan ete, and Lytell [Johan] dronke,
The whyle that he wolde;
The sheryfe had in hys kechyn a coke,
A stoute man and a bolde.

"I make myn avowe to god," sayd the coke,
"Thou arte a shrewde hynde,
In an householde to dwel,
For to ask thus to dyne."

And there he lent Lytel Johan
Good strokes thre;
"I make myn avowe," said Lytell Johan,
"These strokes lyketh well me.

"Thou arte a bolde man and an hardy
And so thynketh me;
And or I passe fro this place,
Asayed better shalt thou be."

Lytell Johan drewe a good swerde,
The coke toke another in honde;
They thought nothynge for to fle,
But styfly for to stonde.

There they fought sore togyder,
Two myle way and more;
Myght neyther other harme done,
The mountenaunce of an houre.

"I make myn avowe to god," sayd Lytell Johan,
"And be my trewe lewtè,
Thou art one of the best swerdemen,
That ever yet sawe I me.

"Coowdest thou shote as well in a bowe,
To grene wood thou sholdest with me,
And two tymes in the yere thy clothynge
Ichaunged sholde be;

"And every yere of Robyn Hode
Twenty marke to thy fee:"
"Put up thy swerde," sayd the coke,
"And felowes wyll we be."

Then he fette to Lytell Johan
The numbles of a doo,
Good brede and full good wyne;
They ete and dranke therto.

And whan they had dronken well,
Ther trouthes togyder they plyght,
That they wolde be with Robyn
That ylke same day at nyght.

They dyde them to the tresure-hous,
As fast as they myght gone;
The lockes, that were of good stele,
They brake them everychone.

They toke away the sylver vessell,
And all that they myght get,
Peces, masars, and spones
Wolde they non forgete.

Also they toke the good pence,
Thre hondred pounde and three,
And dyde them strayt to Robyn Hode,
Under the grene wode tre.

"God the save, my dere maystèr,
And Cryst the save and se;"
And than sayd Robyn to Lytell Johan,
"Welcome myght thou be;

"And also be that fayre yemàn
Thou bryngest there with the.
What tydynges fro Notyngham?
Lytell Johan, tell thou me."

"Well the greteth the proude sheryfe,
And sende the here by me
His coke and his sylver vessell,
And thre hondred pounde and thre."

"I make myn avow to god," sayd Robyn,
"And to the trenytè,
It was never by his good wyll
This good is come to me."

Lytell Johan hym there bethought
On a shrewed wyle;
Fyve myle in the forest he ran,
Hym happed at his wyll.

Than he met the proud sheryf,
Huntynge with hounde and horne;
Lytell Johan coud his curteysye,
And kneled hym beforne.

"God the save, my dere maystèr,
And Cryst the save and se;"
"Raynolde Grenelefe," sayd the sheryfe,
"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 se a ryght fayre hart,
His coloure is of grene;
Seven score of dere upon an herde
Be with hym all bedene.

"His tynde are so sharp, maystèr,
Of sexty and well mo,
That I durst not shote for drede
Lest they wolde me sloo."

"I make myn avowe to god," sayd the sheryf,
"That syght wolde I fayn se;"
"Buske you thyderwarde, my dere maystèr,
Anone, and wende with me."

The sheryfe rode, and Lytell Johan
Of fote he was full smarte;
And when they came afore Robyn,
"Lo, here is the mayster harte!"

Styll stode the proud sheryf,
A sory man was he:
"Wo worthe the, Raynolde Grenelefe!
Thou hast now betrayed me."

"I make myn avowe to god," sayd Lytell Johan,
"Mayster, ye be to blame,
I was mysserved of my dynere,
When I was with you at hame."

Soone he was to super sette,
And served with sylver whyte;
And whan the sheryf se his vessell,
For sorowe he myght not ete.

"Make good chere," sayd Robyn Hode,
"Sheryfe, for charytè,
And for the love of Lytell Johan,
Thy lyfe is graunted to the."

When they had supped well,
The day was all agone,
Robyn commaunded Lytell Johan
To drawe of his hosen and his shone,

His kyrtell and his cote-a-pye,
That was furred well fyne,
And take him a grene mantèll,
To lappe his body therin.

Robyn commaunded his wyght young men,
Under the grene wood tre,
They shall lay in that same sorte,
That the sheryf myght them se.

All nyght laye that proud sheryf
In his breche and in his sherte;
No wonder—it was in grene wode,—
Tho his sydes do smerte.

"Make glad chere," sayd Robyn Hode,
"Sheryfe, for charytè,
For this is our order i-wys,
Under the grene wood tre."

"This is harder order," sayd the sheryfe,
"Than ony anker or frere;
For al the golde in mery Englonde,
I wolde not longe dwell here."

"All these twelve monethes," sayd Robyn,
"Thou shalte dwell with me;
I shall the teche, proud sheryfe,
An outlawe for to be."

"Or I here another nyght lye," sayd the sheryfe,
"Robyn, nowe I pray the,
Smyte of my hede rather to-morne,
And I forgyve it the.

"Lete me go," then sayd the sheryf,
"For saynt Charytè,
And I wyll be the best frende
That ever yet had ye."

"Thou shalte swere me an othe," sayd Robyn,
"On my bryght bronde,
Thou shalt never awayte me scathe,
By water ne by londe;

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

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

, shote, W.

, he sleste, W.

, thou wast, C. wast thou, Wh.

, wane, Ch. & M. wan, R.

. He, Ritson. Ge. W. f. God.

, Ch. & M. open.

, hyed, C.

, whyle, W.

, syght, W. sightes, C.

, wo the worth, W.

, ye, Ch. & M. the, R.

, have, R. hathe, Ch. & M.

The Fourth Fytte.

The sheryf dwelled in Notynghame,
He was fayne that he was gone,
And Robyn and his mery men
Went to wode anone.

"Go we to dyner," sayd Lytell Johan;
Robyn Hode sayd, "Nay;
For I drede our lady be wroth with me,
For she sent me not my pay."

"Have no dout, mayster," sayd Lytell Johan,
"Yet is not the sonne at rest;
For I dare saye, and saufly swere,
The knyght is trewe and trust."

"Take thy bowe in thy hande," sayd Robyn,
"Let Moche wende with the,
And so shall Wyllyam Scathelock,
And no man abyde with me.

"And walk up into the Sayles,
And to Watlynge-strete,
And wayte after some unketh gest;
Up-chaunce ye may them mete.

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

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 he 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,
That these monkes have brought our pay.

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

"The monke hath fifty two men,
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 yon 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 Lytell 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 forèst,
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 fyfty two wyght yonge men
There abode not one,
Saf a lytell page, and a grome,
To lede the somers with 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 said Lytell Johan:
"Thereof no force," sayd Robyn,
"For curteysy can he none.

"How many men," sayd Robyn,
"Had this monke, Johan?"
"Fifty 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 washe and wype,
And syt at his denere,
Robyn Hode and Lytel Johan
They served him bothe in fere.

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

"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 ibroughte,
I pray the let me se;
And I shall helpe the eftsones,
Yf thou have nede of 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;
Therefore I can 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,
"I-wys thou shalte it forgone;
For of thy spendynge sylver, monk,
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 hundreth 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,
Our lady hath doubled your cost."

"I make myn avowe to god," sayd Robyn,
"Monke, what tolde I the?
Our lady is the trewest womàn
That ever yet founde I me.

"By dere worthy god," said Robyn,
"To seche all England thorowe,
Yet founde I never to my pay
A moche better borowe.

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

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

The monke was going 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 yemen I knowe none,
To seke a monkes male."

"How much is in yonder other cofer?" said 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 his mery meynè.

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

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

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

"And welcome be thou, gentyl 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, I have be so longe;
I came by a wrastelynge,
And there I dyd holpe a pore yemàn,
With wronge was put behynde."

"Nay, for god," sayd Robyn,
"Syr knyght, that thanke I the;
What man that helpeth a good yemàn,
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 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, gentill knyght,
Under my trystell tree.

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

"Come now forth, Lytell Johan,
And go to my treasurè,
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 four hundred 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 sytteth in heven hye,
Graunte us well to fare.

, such, W.

, you, W. Make you yonder preste, C.

, yemen, C.

, Lytell Johan. O. CC.

, them bothe, O. CC.

, to, W.

, nade, W. not in C.

. Eyght pounde, W.

, to, W.

, corser, W. courser, C.

, gayne, W.

But take not a grefe, sayd the knyght,
That I have be so longe. O. CC.

. I twyse, W.

, thi trusty, C.

, this care, W.

, syt, W.

The Fyfth Fytte.

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

Lyth and lysten, gentilmen,
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 daye,
And he that shoteth altherbest
The game shall bere away.

He that shoteth altherbest
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 heade and the feders of ryche rede golde,
In Englond is none lyke.

This then 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 ibent,
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 shoted 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 proude sheryfe,
All by the but he stode.

Thryes Robyn shot about,
And alway he slist the wand,
And so dyde good Gylberte
With the whyte hande.

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

Whan they had shot aboute,
These archours fayre and good,
Evermore was the best,
Forsoth, Robyn Hode.

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

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

"And wo be thou, thou proud 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 lewtè."

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

The outlaws 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 pytè.

"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 dede 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 Englond,
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 him 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 castèll,
A lytell within the wode,
Double-dyched it was about,
And walled, by the rode.

And there dwelled that gentyll knyght,
Syr Richard 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 me;

"And moche [I] thanke the of thy comfort,
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 bridge,
And let no man com in;
And arme you well, and make you redy,
And to the walle ye wynne.

"For one thyng, Robyn, I the behote,
I swere by saynt Quyntyn,
These twelve dayes thou wonest with me,
To suppe, ete, and dyne."

Bordes were layed, and clothes spred,
Reddely and anone;
Robyn Hode and his mery men
To mete gan they gone.

. And that shoteth al ther best, W. And they that shote al of the best, C.

, al theyre, W. al of the, C.

, they slist, W. he clefte, C.

, belyve, C.

. That I after eate no bread, C.

The Syxte Fytte.

Lythe and lysten, gentylmen,
And herken unto your songe,
How the proude sheryfe of Notyngham,
And men of armes stronge,

Full faste came to the hye sheryfe,
The countre up to rout,
And they beset the knyghts castèll,
The walles all about.

The proude sheryfe loude gan crye,
And sayd, "Thou traytour knyght,
Thou kepeste here the kynges enemye,
Agayne the lawes and ryght."

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

"Wende forthe, syrs, on your waye,
And doth do more to me,
Tyll ye wytte our kynges wyll,
What he woll say to the."

The sheref thus had his answere,
With out ony leasynge;
Forthe he yode to London toune,
All for to tel our kynge.

There he tolde hym of that knyght,
And eke of Robyn Hode,
And also of the bolde archeres,
That noble were and good.

"He wolde avowe that he had done,
To mayntayne the outlawes stronge,
He wolde be lorde, and set you at nought,
In all the north londe."

"I woll be at Notyngham," sayd the kynge,
"Within this fourtynyght,
And take I wyll Robyn Hode,
And so I wyll that knyght.

"Go home, thou proud sheryf,
And do as I bydde the,
And ordayne good archeres inowe
Of all the wyde countree."

The sheryf had his leve itake,
And went hym on his way;
And Robyn Hode to grene wode [went]
Upon a certayn day.

And Lytell Johan was hole of the arowe,
That shote was in his kne,
And dyde hym strayte to Robyn Hode,
Under the grene wode tre.

Robyn Hode walked in the foreste,
Under the leves grene;
The proud sheryfe of Notyngham,
Therfore he had grete tene.

The sheryf there fayled of Robyn Hode,
He myght not have his pray;
Then he awayted that gentyll knyght,
Bothe by nyght and by daye.

Ever he awayted that gentyll knyght,
Syr Rychard at the Lee;
As he went on haukynge by the ryver syde
And let his haukes flee,

Toke he there this gentyll knyght,
With men of armes stronge,
And lad hym home to Notyngham warde,
Ibonde both fote and honde.

The sheryf swore a full grete othe,
By hym that dyed on rode,
He had lever than an hondrede pounde,
That he had Robyn Hode.

Then the lady, the knyghtes wyfe,
A fayre lady and fre,
She set her on a gode palfrày,
To grene wode anon rode she.

When she came to the forèst,
Under the grene wode tre,
Founde she there Robyn Hode,
And all his fayre meynè.

"God the save, good Robyn Hode,
And all thy company;
For our dere ladyes love,
A bone graunte thou me.

"Let thou never my wedded lorde
Shamfully slayne to be;
He is fast ibounde to Notyngham warde,
For the love of the."

Anone then sayd good Robyn,
To that lady fre,
"What man hath your lorde itake?"
"The proude shirife," than sayd she.

["The proude sheryfe hath hym itake]
Forsoth as I the say;
He is not yet thre myles
Passed on his waye."

Up then sterte good Robyn,
As a man that had be wode;
"Buske you, my mery young men,
For hym that dyed on a rode.

"And he that this sorowe forsaketh,
By hym that dyed on a tre,
And by him that al thinges maketh,
No lenger shall dwell with me."

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

"I make myn avowe to god," sayd Robyn,
"The sheryf wolde I fayn se,
And yf I may hym take,
Iquyt than shall he bee."

And whan they came to Notyngham,
They walked in the strete,
And with the proud sheryf, i-wys,
Sone gan they mete.

"Abyde, thou proud sheryf," he sayd,
"Abyde and speake with me,
Of some tydynges of our kynge,
I wolde fayne here of the.

"This seven yere, by dere worthy god,
Ne yede I so fast on fote;
I make myn avowe to god, thou proude sheryfe,
That is not for thy good."

Robyn bent a good bowe,
An arrowe he drewe at his wyll,
He hyt so the proud sheryf,
Upon the ground he lay full styll.

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

"Lye thou there, thou proude sheryf,
Evyll mote thou thryve;
There myght no man to the trust,
The whyles thou were alyve."

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 bade 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."

, thou, W.

, the bydde, OCC.

, honde and fote, W. foote and hande, C.

, on a tre, R. rode, Ch. & M.

. God the good Robyn, W.

, lady, W.

. Late.

. Shamly I slayne be, W.

. Forsoth as I the say, W.

, your waye, W. You may them over take, C.

Shall he never in grene wode be,
Nor longer dwell with me. W.

, sherif, Ch. & M. knyght, R.

, it, W.

. At, W. That, C. boote for good, Wh.

, hoode, W. bande, C.]

The Seventh Fytte.

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

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

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

All the passe 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 trynytè,
"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 chartèr,
And sele it with my honde,
To have and holde for ever-more,
In all mery Englonde."

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

"There is no man in this countrè
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 alway went good Robyn
By halke and eke by hyll,
And alway slewe the kynges dere,
And welt them at his wyll.

Than bespake a proude fostere,
That stode by our kynges kne,
"If ye wyll se good Robyn,
Ye must do after me.

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

"And I wyll be your ledes 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 in-to 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 somèrs
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,
Other shyft have not we.

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

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 would geve it to 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 tarpe,
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 kynge.
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 kneeled on theyr kne,
Full fayre before Robyn:
The kynge sayd hymselfe 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 red wyne,
And therto the fyne ale browne.

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

"Now shalte thou se what life 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,
There to gan they gange;
By fifty 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,
I-wys right all bare:"
And all that fell in Robyns lote,
He smote them wonder sare.

Twyse Robyn shot aboute,
And ever he cleved the wande,
And so dyde good Gylberte
With the Whyte Hand.

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

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,
Stand 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 order," sayd our kynge,
"Robyn, by thy leve,
For to smyte no good yemàn,
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 shote;"
Thus our kynge and Robyn Hode
Togeder than they met.

Robyn behelde our comly kynge
Wystly in the face,
So dyde syr Richarde at the Le,
And kneled downe in that place;

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

"Mercy," then Robyn sayd to our kynge,
Under his 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,
"Thy peticion I graunt the,
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."

, and yf, W.

. Not in Cumberland, as Ritson states, but, says Hunter, a part of the forest of Knaresborough, in Yorkshire.

, your, OCC.

, blyth, Ritson.

. Under the grene wode tre, W.

. I vouche it halfe on the, W.

, seale, C.

, and browne, W.

. A wys, W. For that shall be his fyne, C.

, good whyte, W. lilly white, C.

. Your, Ritson.

. And therto sent I me, W.

The Eighth Fytte.

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

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

"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 cote then,
A grene garment he dyde on,
And every knyght did so, i-wys,
They clothed them full soone.

Whan they were clothed in Lyncolne grene,
They kest 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 i-wys,
On lyve he leveth not 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 commanded 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
Evermore 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,
Wyth hym all for to gone.

Robyn sawe yonge men shote,
Full fayre 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 commytted 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 Magdalene,
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 full 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 forèst,
That horne coud they knowe

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

And fayre dyde of theyr hodes,
And set them on theyr kne:
"Welcome," they sayd, "our maystèr,
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, i-wys,
Through a wycked womàn,
The pryoresse of Kyrkesly,
That nye was of hys kynne;

For the love of a knyght,
Syr Roger of Donkestèr,
That was her owne speciall,
Full evyll mote they fare.

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,
"Tomorow I muste to Kyrkesley,
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 dyed on the rode!
For he was a good outlawe,
And dyde pore men moch god.

, good, OCC.

11, 12. "This alludes to the usual issue of winter robes from the king's wardrobe to the officers of his household." Hunter.

, had, Ritson.

. Another had full sone, W.

. Lefte never one, W.

, lughe, W.

, ferre, W.

, commended for, C.

. The little convent of Kirklees lay between Wakefield and Halifax. Hunter.

, donkesley, W.

, the, OCC.