is printed by Copland at the end of his edition of the “Mery Geste,” &c., inserted in the present volume. It seems to be composed, certainly with little improvement, partly from the ballad of “Robin Hood and the Curtall Frier” (see before, p. 209), or rather, perhaps, some still older piece on the same subject, and partly from the ancient poem of “Robin Hood and the Potter” (see p. 81). The whole title runs—“Here beginnethe the playe of Robyn Hoode, very proper to be played in Maye games.” It has here received a few corrections from White’s edition, 1634. This strange and whimsical performance is taken from a very rare and curious publication, intitled “Deuteromelia: or the second part of musicks melodie, or melodius musicke. Of pleasant roundelaies; K. H. mirth, or freemens songs. And such delightfull catches. London: printed for Thomas Adams dwelling in Paules church-yard at the signe of the white lion, 1609.” 4to. Freemen’s songs is supposed to be a corruption of Three men’s songs, from their being generally for three voices. K. H. is King Henry’s. See “Ancient Songs,” ed. 1829, vol. i. p. lxxix., and vol. ii. p. 54, &c. In the collection of old printed ballads made by Anthony a Wood is an inaccurate copy of this ancient and singular production, in his own handwriting: “This song,” says he, “was esteemed an old song before the rebellion broke out in 1641.” It thereby appears that the first line of every stanza was “to be sung thrice.” Beside the music here given, there are three parts of “Another way,” which it was not thought necessary to insert. {354} By Lands-dale hey ho, by mery Lands-dale there dwelt a jolly miller, And a very good old man was hee, was he, hey ho He had, he had and a sonne a, He had, he had and a sonne.] {355} [Listen] from “Pammelia. Musicks miscellanie. Or, mixed varietie of pleasant roundelayes, and delightfull catches, of 3. 4 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. parts in one. None so ordinarie as musicall, none so musical as not to all very pleasing and acceptable. London Printed by William Barley, for R. B. and H. W. and are to be sold at the Spread Eagle at the great north dore of Paules, 1609,” 4to, a work equally scarce and curious with that before cited. This, however, is only the tenor part; but the words of the other parts are very trifling, and relate to different subjects. It is called “A round of three country-dances in one.” [Listen] These stanzas are supplied by “A musicall dreame, or the fourth booke of ayres, &c. Composed by Robert Iones. London, Imprinted by the assignees of William Barley, and are to be solde in Powles church-yeard, at the signe of the Crowne, 1609,” fo. The music, a composition of little merit or curiosity for the present age, was not transcribed. In Sherwood livde stout Robin Hood, An archer great, none greater: His bow and shafts were sure and good, Yet Cupids were much beter. Robin could shoot at many a hart and misse, Cupid at first could hit a hart of his. Hey jolly Robin, hoe jolly Robin, hey jolly Robin Hood, Love finds out me, as well as thee, to follow me, to follow me to the green wood. A noble thiefe was Robin Hoode, Wise was he could deceive him; Yet Marrian, in his bravest mood, Could of his heart bereave him. No greater thief lies hidden under skies Then beauty closely lodgde in womens eyes. Hey jolly Robin. {359} An out-law was this Robin Hood, His life free and unruly; Yet to faire Marrian bound he stood, And loves debt payed her duely. Whom curbe of stricktest law could not hold in Love with obeyednes and a winke could winne. Hey jolly Robin. Now wend we home, stout Robin Hood, Leave we the woods behind us; Love-passions must not be withstood, Love every where will find us. I livde in fielde and towne, and so did he, I got me to the woods, Love followed me. Hey jolly Robin. This old ballad, referred to in p. 158 of the present volume, is given from a black letter copy in a private collection, compared with and very much corrected by “An antidote against melancholy: made up in pills, compounded of witty ballads, jovial songs, and merry catches, 1661.” The running title of the volume is “Pills to purge melancholy,” which was afterward borrowed by Durfey. {360} There is a different, but probably much more modern, ballad upon this popular subject, in the same measure, intitled “Arthur o’ Bradley,” and beginning, “All in the merry month of May.” In Jonson’s “Bartholomew Fair,” Moon-calf addresses Justice Overdo by this name: “O lord! do you not know him, mistress? ’tis mad Arthur of Bradley that makes the orations. Brave master, old Arthur of Bradley, how do you do? welcome to the fair, when shall we hear you again to handle your matters with your back against a booth, ha? I ha’ been one o’ your little disciples, i’ my days!” In “The Honest Whore,” by Decker, 1604, Bellafront, on the Duke’s assurance that Matthio shall make her amends and marry her, replies, “Shall he? O brave Arthur of Bradley then!” See you not Pierce the piper, His cheeks as big as a miter, A piping among the swains, That dance on yonder plains? Where Tib and Tom do trip it, And youths to the hornpipe nip it, With every one his carriage, To go to yonder marriage; Not one would stay behind, But go with Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, oh, &c. Arthur had got him a lass, A bonnier never was; {361} The chief youths of the parish Came dancing of the morris; With country lasses trounsing, And lusty lads bounsing, Jumping with mickle pride, And each his wench by his side; They all were fine and gay, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, oh, &c. And when that Arthur was married, And his bride home had carried, The youngsters they did wait To help to carry up meat; Francis carried the furmety, Michael carried the mince-pye, Bartholomew the beef and the mustard, And Christopher carried the custard; Thus every one in his array, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, oh, &c. And when that dinner was ended, The maidens they were befriended, For out steps Dick the draper, And he bid, Strike up, scraper! It’s best to be dancing a little, And then to the tavern to tipple: He call’d for a hornpipe, {362} That went fine on the bagpipe; Then forward, piper, and play, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine, &c. Richard he did lead it, And Margery did tread it, Francis followed them, And after courteous Jane; Thus every one after another, As if they had been sister and brother; That ’twas great joy to see How well they did agree; And then they all did say, Hay for Arthur of Bradley! Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, oh, &c. Then Miles in his motley breeches, And he the piper beseeches To play him Haw-thorn buds, That he and his wench might trudge: But Lawrence liked not that, No more did lusty Kate; For she cry’d, Can’st thou not hit it, To see how fine Thomas can trip it, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, &c. When all the swains did see This mirth and merry glee, There was never a man did flinch, {363} But each one kist his wench; But Giles was greedy of gain, For he would needs kiss twain: Her lover seeing that, Did rap him over the pate, That he had nought to say, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, oh, &c. The piper lookt aside, And there he spied the bride, He thought it was a hard chance, That none would lead her a dance; But there was none durst touch her, Save only Bat the Butcher; He took her by the hand, And danced while he could stand: The bride was fine and gay, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine Arthur of Bradley, oh, &c. Then out stept Will the weaver, And he swore he’d not leave her, He hopp’d it all on one leg, For the honour of his Peg: But Kister in cambrick ruffe, He took that all in snuffe; For he against that day Had made himself fine and gay, His ruffe was whipt with blew, {364} And he cried, A new dance, a new, Then strike up a round-delay, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine, &c. Then gan the sun decline, And every one thought it time To go unto his home, And leave the bridegroom alone. Tut, tut, says lusty Ned, I’le see them both in bed, For I’le gib at a joynt, But I’le have his codpeece-point: Then forward piper and play, For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine, &c. And thus the day was spent, And no man homeward went, There was such a crowding and thrusting, That some were in danger of bursting, To see them go to bed; For all the skill they had, He was got to his bride, And lay close to her side: Then got they his points and his garters, And cut them in pieces like martyrs; And then they all did play For the honour of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine, &c. {365} Then Will and his sweetheart Did call for Loth to depart; And then they did foot it, and toss it, Till the cook brought in the sack-posset. The bride-pye was brought forth, A thing of mickle worth: And so all at the beds side Took leave of Arthur and his bride, And so went all away From the wedding of Arthur of Bradley, Oh fine, &c. This song and its tune, as the editor is informed by his ingenious friend Edward Williams, the Welsh bard, are well known in South Wales by the name of “Marchog glas,” i.e. Green knight. Though apparently ancient, it is not known to exist in black letter, nor has any better authority been met with than the common collection of Aldermary-church-yard. See before, p. 303. Bold Robin Hood ranging the forrest all round, The forrest all round ranged he; O there did he meet with a gay lady, She came weeping along the highway. {366} Why weep you, why weep you? bold Robin he said, What weep you for gold or fee? Or do you weep for your maidenhead, That is taken from your body? I weep not for gold, the lady reply’d, Neither do I weep for fee; Nor do I weep for my maidenhead, That is taken from my body. What weep you for then? said jolly Robin, I prithee come tell unto me. “Oh? I do weep for my three sons, For they are all condemned to die.” What church have they robbed? said jolly RobÌn, Or parish-priest have they slain? What maids have they forced against their will? Or with other mens wives have lain? No church have they robbed, this lady reply’d, Nor parish-priest have they slain; No maids have they forced against their will, Nor with other mens wives have lain. What have they done then? said jolly RobÌn, Come tell me most speedily. “Oh! it is for killing the king’s fallow deer, ‘That’ Get you home, get you home, said jolly RobÌn, Get you home most speedily, And I will unto fair Nottingham go, For the sake of the ’squires all three. Then bold Robin Hood for Nottingham goes, For Nottingham town goes he, O there did he meet with a poor beggar-man, He came creeping along the highway. “What news, what news, thou old beggar-man? What news, come tell unto me.” “O there’s weeping and wailing in Nottingham [town], For the death of the ’squires all three.” This beggar-man had a coat on his back, ’Twas neither green, yellow, nor red; Bold Robin Hood thought ’twas no disgrace To be in the beggar-mans stead. “Come, pull off thy coat, thou old beggar-man, And thou shalt put on mine; And forty good shillings I’ll give thee to boot, Besides brandy, good beer, ale and wine.” Bold Robin Hood then unto Nottingham came, Unto Nottingham town came he; O there did he meet with great master sheriff, And likewise the ’squires all three. {368} One boon, one boon, says jolly RobÌn, One boon I beg on my knee; That, as for the death of these three ’squires, Their hangman I may be. Soon granted, soon granted, says master sherÌff, Soon granted unto thee; And ‘thou shalt’ Aye, and all their white monÈy. “O I will have none of their gay cloathÌng, Nor none of their white monÈy, But I’ll have three blasts on my bugle-horn, That their souls to heaven may flee.” ‘Then’ Where he blew loud and shrill, Till a hundred and ten of Robin Hoods men Came marching down the green hill. Whose men are these? says master sherÌff, Whose men are they? tell unto me. “O they are mine, but none of thine, And are come for the ’squires all three.” O take them, O take them, says great master sheriff, O take them along with thee; For there’s never a man in fair NottinghÀm Can do the like of thee. Dr. Pepusch, among other very curious articles of ancient English music, was possessed of a MS. folio (supposed to be still extant), which at p. 15 contained a tune intitled “Robin Hood.” See Ward’s “Lives of the Professors of Gresham College,” 1740 (an interleaved copy, corrected and augmented by the author, in the British Museum). “Robene Hude” is likewise the name of a dance in Wedderburn’s “Complainte of Scotland,” printed in 1549. The following tune is preserved by Oswald in his “Caledonian Pocket Companion.” [Listen] This singularly curious and excellent poem, which is probably the earliest extant on the subject, was first printed in the “Ancient Metrical Tales,” edited by the Rev. C. H. Hartshorne (8vo, 1829), from a MS. in the library of University College, Cambridge (F. F. 5. 48), with which it has been since obligingly collated by Frederic Madden, Esq. A few lines are unfortunately rendered illegible by damp. In somer when the shawes be sheyne, And leves be large and longe, Hit is fulle mery in feyre foreste To here the foulys song. To se the dere draw to the dale, And leve the hilles hee, And shadow hem in the leves grene Vndur the grene wode tre. Hit befel on whitsontide, Erly in a may mornyng, The son vp fayre can shyne, And the briddis mery can syng. This is a mery mornyng, seid litulle Johne, Be hym that dyed on tre, A more mery man than I am one Lyves not in cristiantÉ. {371} Pluk vp thi hert my dere mayster, Litulle Johne can sey, And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme In a mornynge of may. Ze on thynge greves me seid Robyne, And does my hert myche woo, That I may not so solem day To mas nor matyns goo. Hit is a fourtnet and more, seyd hee, Syn I my sauyour see; To day wil I to Notyngham, seid Robyn, With the myght of mylde Mary. Then spake Moche the mylner[s] sune, Euer more wel hym betyde, Take xii of thi wyght zemen Welle weppynd be ther side. Such on wolde thi selfe slon That xii dar not abyde, Off alle my mery men, seid Robyne, Be my feithe I wil non haue. But litulle Johne shalle beyre my bow Til that me list to drawe Thou shalle beyre ‘thin own’ Maister & I wil beyre myne, And we wille shete a peny, seid litulle Jon, Vnder the grene wode lyne. I wil not shete a peny, seyde Robyn Hode, In feith litulle Johne with thee, But euer for on as thou shetes, seid Robyn, In feith I hold the thre. Thus shet thei forthe these zemen too Bothe at buske and brome, Til litulle Johne wan of his maister V s. to hose and shone. A ferly strife fel them betwene As they went bi the way; Litulle Johne seid he had won v shyllyngs, And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay. With that Robyn Hode lyed litul Jone, And smote hym with his honde, Litul John waxed wroth therwith, And pulled out his bright bronde. Were thou not my maister, seid litulle Johne, Thou shuldis by hit ful sore, Get the a man where thou wilt, Robyn, For thou getes me no more. {373} Then Robyn goes to Notyngham Hymselfe mornynge allone, And litulle Johne to mery Scherewode, The pathes he knowe alkone. Whan Robyn came to Notyngham, Sertenly withoutene layne, He prayed to god and myld Mary To brynge hym out saue agayne. He gos into seynt Mary[s] chirche, And knelyd downe before the rode, Alle that euer were the churche within Beheld wel Robyne Hode. Besyde hym stode a gret hedid munke, I pray to god woo he be, Ful sone he knew gode Robyn [Hode] As sone as he hym se. Out at the durre he ran Ful son and anon, Alle the zatis of Notyngham He made to be sparred euerychone. Rise vp, he seid, thou prowde schereff, Buske the and make the bowne, I haue spyed the kynges felone, For sothe he is in this towne. {374} I haue spyed the false felone As he stondes at his masse, Hit is longe of the seide the munke, And euer he fro vs passe. This traytur[s] name is Robyn Hode, Vndur the grene wode lynde, He robbyt me onys of a C pound, Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde. Vp then rose this prowd schereff, And zade towarde hym zare; Many was the modur son To the kyrk with hym can fare. In at the durres thei throly thrast With staves ful gode ‘ilkone’ Alas, alas, seid Robyn Hode, Now mysse I litulle Johne. But Robyne toke out a too-hond sworde That hangit down be his kne, Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust Thidurward wold he. Thryes thorow at them he ran, Ther for sothe as I yow say, And woundyt many a modur sone, And xii he slew that day. {375} His sworde vpon the schireff hed Sertanly he brake in too; The smyth that the made, seid Robyn, I pray god For now am I weppynlesse, seid Robyne, Alasse agayn my wylle; But if I may fle these traytors fro, I wot thei wil me kylle. Robyns men to the churche ran Throout hem euer ilkon, Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede, And lay still as any stone. Non of theym were in her mynde But only litulle Jon. Let be your rule, seid litulle Jon, For his luf that dyed on tre, Ze that shulde be duzty men Hit is gret shame to se. Oure maister has bene hard bystode, And zet scapyd away Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone, And herkyn what I shal say. {376} He has seruyd our lady many a day, And zet wil securly, Therfore I trust in her specialy No wycked deth shal he dye. Therfor be glad, seid litul Johne, And let this mournyng be, And I shall be the munkes gyde With the myght of mylde Mary. And I mete hym, seid litull Johne, We wille go but we too Loke that ze kepe wel oure tristil tre Vndur the levys smale, And spare non of his venyson That gose in thys vale. Forthe thei went these zemen too, Litul Johne and Moche onfere, And lokid on Moche emys hows The hyeway lay fulle nere. Litul John stode at a window in the mornynge And lokid forth at a stage, He was war wher the munke came ridynge, And with hym a litul page. {377} Be my feith, seid litul Johne to Moche, I can the tel tithyngus gode; I see wher the munk comys rydyng, I know hym be his wyde hode. Thei went into the way these zemen bothe, As curtes men and hende, Thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke As thei hade bene his frende. Fro whens come ze, seid litul Johne, Tel vs tithyngus I yow pray Off a false owtlay [called Robyn Hode] Was takyn zisturday. He robbyt me and my felowes bothe Of xx marke in serten; If that false owtlay be takyn, For sothe we wolde be fayne. So did he me, seid the munke, Of a C pound and more; I layde furst hande hym apon, Ze may thonke me therfore. I pray god thanke yow, seid litulle Johne, And we wil when we may, We wil go with yow with your leve, And brynge yow on your way. {378} For Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow, I telle yow in certen, If thei wist ze rode this way, In feith ze shulde be slayn. As thei went talkyng be the way, The munke and litulle Johne, Johne toke the munkes horse be the hede Ful sone and anone. Johne toke the munkes horse be the hed, For sothe as I yow say, So did Muche the litulle page, For he shulde not stirre away. Be the golett of the hode Johne pulled the munke downe, Johne was nothynge of hym agast, He lete hym falle on his crowne. Litulle John was ‘sore’ And drew out his swerde in hye, The munke saw he shulde be ded, Lowd mercy can he crye. He was my maister, seid litulle Johne, That thou base browzt in bale, Shalle thou neuer cum at oure kynge For to telle hym tale. {379} Johne smote of the munkes hed, No longer wolde he dwelle, So did Moche, the litulle page, For ferd lest he wold tell. Ther thei beryed hem both In nouther mosse nor lynge, And litulle Johne and Muche infere Bare the letturs to oure kynge. He kneled down vpon kis kne, God zow saue, my lege lorde, Jesus yow saue and se. God yow saue, my lege kyng, To speke Johne was fulle bolde; He gaf hym the letturs in his hond, The kynge did hit unfold. The kynge red the letturs anon, And seid so mot I the, Ther was neuer zoman in mery Inglond I longut so sore to see. Wher is the munke that these shuld haue browzt, Oure kynge can say, Be my trouthe, seid litulle Jone, He dyed aftur the way. {380} The kyng gaf Moche and litul Jon xx pound in sertan, And made theim zemen of the crowne, And bade theim go agayn. He gaf Johne the seel in hand, The scheref for to bere, To brynge Robyn hym to, And no man do hym dere. Johne toke his leve at oure kyng, The sothe as I yow say; The next way to Notyngham To take he zede the way. Whan Johne came to Notyngham The zatis were sparred ychone, Johne callid vp the porter, He answerid sone anon. What is the cause, seid litul John, Thou sparris the zates so fast? Because Robyn Hode, In depe prison is cast. Johne, and Moche, and Wylle Scathlok, For sothe as I yow say, Thir slew oure men vpon oure wallis, And sawtene vs euery day. {381} Litulle Johne spyrred aftur the schereff, And sone he hym fonde, He oppyned the kyngus priue seelle And gaf hym in his honde. When the schereff saw the kyngus seelle He did of his hode anon, Wher is the munke that bare the letturs? He seid to litulle Johne. He is so fayn of him, seid litulle Johne, For sothe as I yow sey; He has made hym abot of Westmynster, A lorde of that abbay. The scheref made John gode chere, And gaf hym wine of the best; At nyzt thei went to her bedde, And euery man to his rest. When the scheref was on-slepe Dronken of wine and ale, Litul Johne and Moche for sothe Toke the way vnto the gale; Litul Johne callid vp the jayler, And bade hym rise anon; He seid Robyn Hode had brokyn preson, And out of hit was gon. {382} The portere rose anon sertan, As sone as he herd John calle; Litul Johne was redy with a swerd, And bare hym to the walle. Now will I be porter, seid litul Johne, And take the keyes in honde; He toke the way to Robyn Hode, And sone he hym vnbonde. He gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond, His hed [ther-]with for to kepe, And ther as the walle was lowyst Anon downe can thei lepe. Be that the cok began to crow, The day began to sprynge, The scheref fond the jaylier ded, The comyn belle made he rynge. He made a crye thoroowt al the tow[n], Whedur he be zoman or knave, That cowthe brynge hym Robyn Hode, His warisone he shuld haue. For I dar neuer, said the scheref, Cum before oure kynge; For if I do I wot serten, For sothe he wil me henge. {383} The scheref made to seke Notyngham, Bothe be strete and stye, And Robyn was in mery Scherwode As lizt as lef on lynde. Then bespake gode litulle Johne To Robyn Hode can he say, I haue done the a gode turne for an euylle, Quyte ‘me’ I haue done the a gode turne, said litulle Johne, For sothe as I you saie, I haue brouzt the vndur [the] grene wode lyne, Fare wel, and haue gode day. Nay be my trouthe, seid Robyn Hode, So shalle hit neuer be, I make the maister, seid Robyne Hode, Off alle my men and me. Nay be my trouthe, seid litulle Johne, So shall hit neuer be, But lat me be a felow, seid litulle Johne, No nodur kepe I’ll be. Thus Johne gate Robyn Hode out of prisone Sertan withoutyn layne, When his men saw hym hol and sounde For sothe they were ful fayne. {384} They filled in wyne, and made him glad Vndur the levys smale, And zete pastes of venysone That gode was ‘withal.’ Than worde came to our kynge, How Robyn Hode was gone, And how the scheref of Notyngham Durst neuer loke hyme vpone. Then bespake oure cumly kynge, In an angur hye, Litulle Johne hase begyled the schereff, In faith so hase he me. Litulle Johne has begyled vs bothe, And that fulle wel I se, Or ellis the schereff of Notyngham Hye hongut shuld he be. I made hem zemen of the crowne, And gaf hem fee with my hond, I gaf hem grithe, seid oure kyng, Thorowout alle mery Inglond. I gaf hem grithe, then seid oure kyng, I say, so mot I the, For sothe soche a zeman as he is on In alle Ingland ar not thre. {385} He is trew to his maister, seid oure kynge, I sey, be swete seynt Johne, He louys bettur Robyn Hode, Then he dose vs ychone. Robyne Hode is euer bond to him, Bothe in strete and stalle, Speke no ‘more’ But John has begyled vs alle. Thus endys the talkyng of the munke, And Robyne Hode I wysse; God, that is euer a crowned kyng, Bryng vs alle to his blisse. “For to satisfye your wanton lust I shall apoynt you a trull of trust, Not a feyrer in this towne.” Again, in Warner’s Albion’s England, 1602: “How cheere you Pan, quoth Pryapus, the shameles god of lust, Thus can i fit such friends as you with such a trull of trust.” —“soche araie costnith but lite.” The poet Gower, as represented on his monument in the church of St. Mary-Overy, hath, according to Stow, “on his head a chaplet, like a coronet of foure roses;” and it may be remembered that Copland, the printer of this identical May-game, dwelled “at the signe of the rose garlande.” We see, likewise, that “a rose garlonde” was set up (to be shot through, it is presumed) in the “Lytell Geste of Robyn Hode,” fytte 7, v. 177. Though the fashion of wearing such an ornament was formerly common in France (for which see Chaucer’s “Romaunt of the Rose,” a close translation from the French), and at a still later period in Germany, see “The Hystorye of Reynarde the Foxe,” a translation from the language of that country, and Moryson’s Itinerary, 1617 (part 1, p. 25, and part 3, p. 167), no further instance has been met with of its prevalence in this country. |