  IIn somer, when the shawes And leves be large and long, Hit is full mery in feyre foreste To here the foulys song: IITo se the dere draw to the dale, And leve the hillÈs hee, And shadow hem in the levË’s grene, Under the grene-wode tre. IIIHit befel on Whitsontide, Erly in a May mornyng, The Son up feyre can shyne, And the briddis mery can syng. IV‘This is a mery mornyng,’ seid Litull John, ‘Be Hym that dyed on tre; A more mery man then I am one Lyves not in CristiantË. V‘Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,’ Litull John can sey, ‘And thynk hit is a full fayre tyme In a mornyng of May.’ VI‘Ye, on thyng greves me,’ seid Robyn, ‘And does my hert mych woo; That I may not no solem day To mas nor matyns goo. VII‘Hit is a fourtnet and more,’ seid he, ‘Syn I my Savyour see; To day wil I to Notyngham,’ seid Robyn, ‘With the myght of mylde Marye.’ VIIIThan spake Moche, the mylner son,— Ever more wel hym betyde! ‘Take twelve of thi wyght yemÈn Well weppynd, be thi side. Such on wolde thi selfe slon That twelve dar not abyde.’ IX‘Of all my mery men,’ seid Robyn, ‘Be my feith I wil non have, But Litull John shall beyre my bow, Til that me list to drawe.’ X‘Thou shall beyre thin own,’ seid Litull John, ‘Maister, and I wyl beyre myne, And we well shete a peny ‘Under the grene-wode lyne XI‘I wil not shete a peny,’ seyd Robyn Hode, ‘In feith, Litull John, with the, But ever for on as thou shetis,’ seide Robyn, ‘In feith I holde XIIThus shet thei forth, these yemen two, Bothe at buske Til Litull John wan of his maister Five shillings to hose and shone. XIIIA ferly As they went bi the wey; Litull John seid he had won five shillings, And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay. XIVWith that Robyn Hode lyed And smote hym with his hande; Litull John waxÈd wroth therwith, And pull’d out his bright bronde. XV‘Were thou not my maister,’ seid Litull John, ‘Thou shuldis be hit ful sore; Get the a man wher thou wilt, For thou getis me no more.’ XVIThen Robyn goes to Notyngham, Hym selfe mornyng allone, And Litull John to mery Scherwode, The pathes he knew ilkone XVIIWhan Robyn came to Notyngham, Sertenly withouten layn He prayed to God and myld Mary To bryng hym out save agayn. XVIIIHe gos in to Seynt Mary chirch, And kneled down before the rode; Alle that e’er were the church within Beheld wel Robyn Hode. XIXBeside hym stod a gret-hedid munke, I pray to God woo he be! Fful sone he knew gode Robyn, As sone as he hym se. XXOut at the durre he ran, Fful sone and anon; Alle the yatis He made to be sparred XXI‘Rise up,’ he seid, ‘thou prowde Schereff, Buske Quyte the whan thou may. LXXVIII‘I have done the a gode turne,’ seid Litull John, ‘Fforsothe as I yow say; I have brought the under grene-wode lyne; Ffare wel, and have gode day.’ LXXIX‘Nay, be my trouth,’ seid Robyn Hode, ‘So shall hit never be; I make the maister,’ seid Robyn Hode, ‘Off alle my men and me.’ LXXX‘Nay, be my trouth,’ seid Litull John, ‘So shalle hit never be; But lat me be a felow,’ seid Litull John, ‘No noder kepe I be LXXXIThus John gate Robyn Hode out of prison, Sertan withoutyn layn; Whan his men saw hym hol and sounde, Fforsothe they were full fayne. LXXXIIThey fillÈd in wyne, and made hem glad, Under the levys smale, And yete That gode was with ale. LXXXIIIThan wordÈ came to oure Kyng How Robyn Hode was gon, And how the Scheref of Notyngham Durst never loke hym upon. LXXXIVThen bespake oure cumly Kyng, In an angur hye: ‘Litull John hase begyled the Schereff, In faith so hase he me. LXXXV‘Litull John has begyled us bothe And that full wel I se; Or ellis the Schereff of Notyngham Hye hongut shulde he be. LXXXVI‘I made hem yemen of the crowne, And gaf hem fee with my hond; I gaf hem grith ‘Thorowout all mery Inglond. LXXXVII‘I gaf theym grith,’ then seid oure Kyng; ‘I say, so mot I the, Fforsothe soch a yeman as he is on In all Inglond ar not thre. LXXXVIII‘He is trew to his maister,’ seid our Kyng; ‘I sey, be swete Seynt John, He lovys better Robyn Hode Then he dose us ychon. LXXXIX‘Robyn Hode is ever bond to hym, Bothe in strete and stalle; Speke no more of this mater,’ seid oure Kyng, ‘But John has begyled us alle.’ XCThus endys the talkyng of the munke And Robyn Hode i-wysse; God, that is ever a crowned kyng, Bryng us all to his blisse! |
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