'Tis merry, 'tis merry in gay greenwood,
When the little birds are singing,
When the buck is belling in the fern,
And the hare from the thicket springing!

'Tis merry to hear the waters clear,
As they splash in the pebbly fall;
And the ouzel whistling to his mate,
As he lights on the stones so small.

But small pleasaunce took Little John
In all he heard and saw;
Till he reached the cave of a hermit old
Who wonned within the shaw.

"Ora pro nobis!" quoth Little John—
His Latin was somewhat rude—
"Now, holy father, hast thou seen
A frere within the wood?

"By his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nose,
I guess you may know him well;
And he wears on his head a hat so red,
And a monstrous scallop-shell."

"I have served Saint Pancras," the hermit said,
"In this cell for thirty year,
Yet never saw I, in the forest bounds,
The face of such a frere!

"An' if ye find him, master mine,
E'en take an old man's advice,
An' raddle him well, till he roar again,
Lest ye fail to meet him twice!"

"Trust me for that!" quoth Little John—
"Trust me for that!" quoth he, with a laugh;
"There never was man of woman born,
That asked twice for the taste of my quarter-
staff!"

Then Little John, he strutted on,
Till he came to an open bound,
And he was aware of a Red Friar,
Was sitting upon the ground.

His shoulders they were broad and strong,
And large was he of limb;
Few yeomen in the north countrie
Would care to mell with him.

He heard the rustling of the boughs,
As Little John drew near;
But never a single word he spoke,
Of welcome or of cheer:
Less stir he made than a pedlar would
For a small gnat in his ear!

I like not his looks! thought Little John,
Nor his staff of the oaken tree.
Now may our Lady be my help,
Else beaten I well may be!

"What dost thou here, thou strong Friar,
In Sherwood's merry round,
Without the leave of Little John,
To range with hawk and hound?"

"Small thought have I," quoth the Red Friar,
"Of any leave, I trow;
That Little John is an outlawed thief,
And so, I ween, art thou!

"Know, I am Prior of Copmanshurst,
And Bishop of London town,
And I bring a rope from our father the Pope,
To put the outlaws down."

Then out spoke Little John in wrath,
"I tell thee, burly frere,
The Pope may do as he likes at home,
But he sends no Bishops here!

"Up, and away, Red Friar!" he said,
"Up, and away, right speedilie;
An it were not for that cowl of thine,
Avenged on thy body I would be!"

"Nay, heed not that," said the Red Friar,
"And let my cowl no hindrance be;
I warrant that I can give as good
As ever I think to take from thee!"

Little John he raised his quarter-staff,
And so did the burly priest,
And they fought beneath the greenwood tree
A stricken hour at least.

But Little John was weak of fence,
And his strength began to fail;
Whilst the Friar's blows came thundering down,
Like the strokes of a threshing-flail.

"Now hold thy hand, thou stalwart Friar,
Now rest beneath the thorn,
Until I gather breath enow,
For a blast at my bugle-horn!"

"I'll hold my hand," the Friar said,
"Since that is your propine,
But, an you sound your bugle-horn,
I'll even blow on mine!"

Little John he wound a blast so shrill
'That it rang o'er rock and linn,
And Charlie Wood, and his merry men all,
Came lightly bounding in.

The Friar he wound a blast so strong
That it shook both bush and tree,
And to his side came witless Will,
And Jem of Netherbee;
With all the worst of Robin's band,
And many a Rapparee!

Little John he wist not what to do,
When he saw the others come;
So he twisted his quarter-staff between
His fingers and his thumb.

"There's some mistake, good Friar!" he said,
"There's some mistake 'twixt thee and me
I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst,
But not beneath the greenwood tree.

"And if you will take some other name,
You shall have ample leave to bide;
With pasture also for your Bulls,
And power to range the forest wide."

"There's no mistake!" the Friar said;
"I'll call myself just what I please.
My doctrine is that chalk is chalk,
And cheese is nothing else than cheese."

"So be it, then!" quoth Little John;
"But surely you will not object,
If I and all my merry men
Should treat you with reserved respect?

"We can't call you Prior of Copmanshurst,
Nor Bishop of London town,
Nor on the grass, as you chance to pass,
Can we very well kneel down.

"But you'll send the Pope my compliments,
And say, as a further hint,
That, within the Sherwood bounds, you saw
Little John, who is the son-in-law
Of his friend, old Mat-o'-the-Mint!"

So ends this geste of Little John—
God save our noble Queen!
But, Lordlings, say—Is Sherwood now
What Sherwood once hath been?