  The current tradition in Derbyshire concerning Little John is that he was born at Hathersage, in that county; that he was a man of immense stature, and of wonderful strength and prowess; that he was withal of mild and gentle temperament, of affectionate disposition, and faithful in his attachments; that after the death of Robin Hood at Kirklees, which he took deeply to heart, he was so dispirited that he sank under the loss, and having by great exertion succeeded in reaching the place of his birth, (Hathersage,) he was welcomed by his friends and old associates, who begged him to tarry with them for the rest of his life; that he had just strength enough left to point out the place in the churchyard where he wished to be buried, and to give them instructions for his burial; that he told them in three days he should die, and desired that his bow and cap should be hung up in the church; that on the third day he died, in a small cottage still standing, where, it is said, his length was so great when dead and "laid out," that his feet came outside the door; that he was buried where he had directed, his cap and bow being hung in the chancel of the church; that the people drave his last arrow into the ground near his grave, and that it took root and grew up into a tree. It is asserted that until within the last sixty or seventy years, his cap—a green cloth one—still hung high in the chancel, but was then taken away by some people from In reference to this tradition it will no doubt be interesting to give the accompanying fac-simile of the writing of Elias Ashmole, copied from his MSS. at Oxford, (who was born in 1617,) and who there says—
The above sentence in handwriting The following ballad, founded on a part of this tradition, was written by Mr. William Haines, and appeared in "The Reliquary," vol. II., page 11. Several other ballads relating to When Robin Hood, by guile betrayed, In Kirklees' cloister died, Silent his merry men dispersed, And never more allied. Some passed unknown, or pardon got, And peaceful callings sought, Beyond the seas while others fled, And 'gainst the Paynim fought. And Little John, as lonely through Their vacant haunts he strode, Repented sadness in his soul Had e'er of old abode. As there beneath an oak his limbs Repose long failing found, A shape thrice warned him in a dream, To shun St. Michael's ground. Affrighted, from the sward he starts— Deep shone the guardian night! The moon the woods bowed motionless With plenitude of light. St. Michael's road, presaging nought, Leal John yestreen had ta'en; But now another way he chose, Northward, compelling soon his steps, Across the Tweed he hied; Thence sea and land to traverse far, A long and cheerless tide. For aye his heart in greenwood was, Wherever he might be; Till pleasing rose resolve once more The forests fair to see. Yet bootless he retraced deject Each loved resort at last; The birds were mute, the leafless wold Held drearily the blast. And as again John wandered wide, A fog so dense did fall, He could not see nor hill nor tree; It clos'd him like a wall. That dismal night he roamed lost, Exhausted, sick, and cold: The morn was long ere it was light, And long the vapour rolled. On every side came mighty stones About a barren moor; No roof nor pale might be descried, As spread that waste forlore. At length 'mid wreathing fog-smoke swam The sun's blanch'd disc on high; Mantled the ashy mists around; When, singing blithe as he approached, A shepherd boy met John: "Pray tell to me," the outlaw cried, "What ground I here am on?" "St. Michael's, gallant yeomen, this," The boy made prompt reply; "From yonder, Hathersage church-spire, May'st plainly now espy." "There hast thou knelled," said Little John, "The solemn bell for me; But Christ thee save, my bonny lad; Aye lucky shalt thou be!" He had not many steps advanced, When in the vale appeared The Church, and eke the village sweet, His foot had vainly feared. Descending, welcome straight he finds The ruddy hearth before: Cried young and old, "Among us dwell, And weary roam no more!" Said Little John, "No, never hence Shall I fare forth again; But that abode is yet to found, Wherein I must remain." He led them to the churchyard frore, And digg'd therein a grave: "Three days," said he, "and neighbours, this Without a coffin or a shroud Inter me, I you pray, And o'er my corse, as now yclad, The greensward lightly lay." The morn ensued, as John foretold, He never rose to greet; His bread upon the board was brought, Beside it stayed his seat. They laid him in the grave which he With his own hands had made, And overspread the fragrant sod, As he had wished and said. His bow was in the chancel hung; His last good bolt they drave Down to the nocke, its measured length, Westward fro' the grave. And root and bud this shaft put forth, When Spring returned anon; It grew a tree, and threw a shade Where slept staunch Little John. |
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