Chapter VIII: Part I: I (2)

All the passe of Lancasshyre,
He went both ferre and nere,
Tyll he came to Plomton parke,
He faylyd many of his dere {64}

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 here a bowe in his hondes ; {65}

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 walke downe by ‘yon’[197] 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, {66}

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 blyth.

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. {67}

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 ;[198]

And ye have chyrches and rentes both,
And gold full grete plentè ;
Gyve us some of your spendynge,
For saynt Charytè.[199]

Than bespake our cumly kynge,
Anone than sayd he,
I brought no more to grene wode,
But forty pounde with me ; {68}

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.[200]

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 a nother 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,[201]
And sone he lete hym se ;
Robyn coud his courteysy,
And set hym on his kne : {69}

“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 can blowe,
Seven score of wyght yonge men,
Came redy on a rowe,

All they kneeled on theyr kne,
Full fayre before Robyn.
The kygne 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. {70}

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.[202]

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

Now shalte thou se what lyfe 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. {71}

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[203] ryght 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[204] hand.

Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke,
For nothyng 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. {72}

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. {73}

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 your 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.[205]
I make myn avowe to god, sayd Robyn,
And ryght so shall it be ; {74}

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.

THE EIGHTH FYTTE.

Haste thou ony grene cloth, sayd our kynge,
That thou wylte sell nowe 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,[206] then sayd Robyn,
Or elles I were a fole ;
Another day ye wyll me clothe,
I trowe, ayenst the Yole. {75}

The kynge kest of his cote then,
A grene garment he dyde on,
And every knyght had so, I wys,
They clothed them full soone.[207]

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. {76}

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.[208]

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[209] 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. {77}

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,
Ever more 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[210] 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[211] 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. {78}

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. {79}

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. {80}

Yet he was begyled, I wys,
Through a wycked womàn,
The pryoresse of Kyrkesly,
That nye was of his kynne,

For the love of a knyght,
Syr Roger of Donkestèr,[212]
That was her owne speciall,
Full evyll mote they ‘fare.’[213]

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,
To morow I muste to Kyrkesley,
Craftely to be leten blode.

Sir 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.

{81}

II.

ROBYN HODE [AND THE POTTER].

This curious, and hitherto unpublished, and even unheard of, old piece is given from a manuscript among Bishop More’s collections, in the public library of the University of Cambridge (Ee. 4. 35). The writing, which is evidently that of a vulgar and illiterate person, appears to be of the age of Henry the Seventh, that is, about the year 1500; but the composition (which he has irremediably corrupted) is probably of an earlier period, and much older, no doubt, than “The Play of Robyn Hode,” which seems allusive to the same story. At the end of the original is “Expleycyt Robyn Hode.” {82}

In schomer, when the leves spryng,
The bloschems on every bowe,
So merey doyt the berdys syng,
Yn wodys merey now.

Herkens, god yemen,
Comley, cortessey, and god,
On of the best that yever bar bou,
Hes name was Roben Hode.

Roben Hood was the yemans name,
That was boyt corteys and fre ;
For the loffe of owr ladey,
All wemen werschep ‘he.’[214]

Bot as the god yeman stod on a day,
Among hes mery manèy,
He was war of a prowd potter,
Cam dryfyng owyr the ‘ley.’[215]

Yonder comet a prod potter, seyde[216] Roben,
That long hayt hantyd this wey,
He was never so corteys a man
On peney of pawage to pay. {83}

Y met hem bot at Wentbreg, seyde[217] Lytyll John,
And therfor yeffell mot he the,
Seche thre strokes he me gafe,
Yet they cleffe by my seydys.

Y ley forty shillings, seyde Lytyll John,
To pay het thes same day,
Ther ys nat a man among hus[218] all
A wed schall make hem ley.[219]

Her ys forty shillings, seyde Robèn,
Mor, and thow dar say,
That y schall make that prowde pottèr,
A wed to me schall he ley.

Ther thes money they leyde,
They toke het a yeman to kepe ;
Roben befor the potter he breyde,
‘And up to hem can lepe.’[220]

Handys apon hes horse he leyde,
And bad ‘hem’[221] stonde foll stell.
The potter schorteley to hem seyde,
Felow, what ys they well ?

All thes thre yer, and mor, potter, he seyde,
Thow hast hantyd thes wey,
Yet wer tow never so cortys a man
One peney of pauage to pay. {84}

What ys they name, seyde the potter,
For pauage thow aske of me ?
“Roben Hod ys mey name,
A wed schall thow leffe me.”

Wed well y non leffe, seyde the potter,
Nor pavag well y non pay ;
Awey they honde fro mey horse,
Y well the tene eyls, be mey fay.

The potter to hes cart he went,
He was not to seke,
A god to-hande staffe therowt he hent,
Befor Roben he ‘lepe.’[222]

Roben howt with a swerd bent,
A bokeler on hes honde [therto] ;
The potter to Roben he went,
And seyde, Felow, let mey horse go.

Togeder then went thes two yemen,
Het was a god seyt to se ;
Therof low Robyn hes men,
Ther they stod onder a tre.

Leytell John to hes felowhes[223] seyde,
Yend potter welle steffeley stonde.
The potter, with a caward stroke,
Smot the bokeler owt of hes honde ; {85}

And[224] ar Roben meyt get hen agen,
Hes bokeler at hes fette,
The potter yn the neke hem toke,
To the gronde sone he yede.

That saw Roben hes men,
As thay stode ender a bow ;
Let us helpe owr master, seyed Lytell John,
Yonder potter els well[225] hem sclo.

These yemen went[226] with a breyde,
To ‘ther’[227] master they cam.
Leytell John to hes master seyde,
Ho haet the wager won ?

Schall y haff yowr forty shillings, seyde Lytel[228] John,
Or ye, master, schall haffe myne ?
Yeff they wer a hundred, seyde Robèn,
Y feythe, they ben all theyne.

Het ys fol leytell cortesey, seyde the potter,
As y haffe harde weyse men saye,
Yeff a por yeman com drywyng ower the wey,
To let hem of hes gorney.

Be mey trowet, thow seys soyt, seyde Roben,
Thow seys god yemenrey ;[229]
And thow dreyffe forthe yevery day,
Thow schalt never be let for me. {86}

Y well prey the, god potter,
A felischepe well thow haffe ?
Geffe me they clothyng, and thow schalt hafe myne ;
Y well go to Notynggam.

Y grant[230] therto, seyde the potter,
Thow schalt feynde me a felow gode ;
Bot thow can sell mey pottes well,
Com ayen as thow yode.[231]

Nay, be mey trowt, seyde Roben,
And then y bescro mey hede,
Yeffe y bryng eney pottes ayen,
And eney weyffe well hem chepe.

Than spake Leytell John,
And all hes felowhes heynd,
Master, be well war of the screffe of Notynggam,
For he ys leytell howr frende.

Thorow the helpe of howr ladey,
Felowhes, let me alone ;
Heyt war howte, seyde Roben,
To Notynggam well y gon.

Robyn went to Notynggam,
Thes pottes for to sell ;
The potter abode with Robens men,
Ther he fered not eylle.[232] {87}

Tho Roben droffe on hes wey,
So merey ower the londe.
Heres mor and affter ys to saye,
The best ys beheynde.

[THE SECOND FIT.]

When Roben cam to Notynggam,
The soyt yef y scholde saye,
He set op hes horse anon,
And gaffe hem hotys and haye.

Yn the medys of the towne,
Ther he schowed hes war,
Pottys ! pottys ! he gan crey foll sone,
Haffe hansell for the mar.

Foll effen agenest the screffeys gate,
Schowed he hes chaffar ;
Weyffes and wedowes abowt hem drow,
And chepyd fast of hes war.

Yet, Pottys, gret chepe ! creyed Robyn,
Y loffe yeffell thes to stonde.
And all that saw[233] hem sell,
Seyde he had be no potter long. {88}

The pottys that wer werthe pens feyfte,
He solde tham for pens thre :
Preveley seyde man and weyffe,
Ywnder potter schall never the.

Thos Roben solde foll fast,
Tell he had pottys bot feyffe ;
Op he hem toke of his car,
And sende hem to the screffeys weyffe.

Therof sche was foll fayne,
Gereamarsey, sir, than seyde sche,[234]
When ye com to thes contre ayen,
Y schall bey of ‘they’[235] pottys, so mot y the.

Ye schall haffe of the best, seyde Roben,
And swar be the treneytè.
Foll corteysley ‘she’[236] gan hem call,
Come deyne with the screfe and me.

Godamarsey, seyde Roben,
Yowr bedyng schall be doyn.
A mayden yn the pottys gan ber,
Roben and the screffe weyffe folowed anon.

Whan Roben ynto the hall cam,
The screffe sone he met,
The potter cowed of corteysey,
And sone the screffe he gret.

{89}

“Loketh[237] what thes potter hayt geffe yow and me !
Feyffe pottys smalle and grete !”
He ys fol welcom, seyd the screffe,
Let os was, and ‘go’[238] to mete.

As they sat at her methe,
With a nobell cher,
Two of the screffes men gan speke
Off a gret wagèr,

Was made the thother daye,
Off a schotyng was god and feyne,[239]
Off forty shillings, the soyt to saye,
Who scholde thes wager wen.

Styll than sat thes prowde potter,
Thos than thowt he,
As y am a trow Cerstyn man,
Thes schotyng well y se.

When they had fared of the best,
With bred and ale and weyne,
To the ‘bottys they’[240] made them prest,
With bowes and boltys[241] foll feyne.

The screffes men schot foll fast,
As archares that weren godde,
Ther cam non ner ney the marke
Bey halfe a god archares bowe. {90}

Stell then stod the prowde potter,
Thos than seyde he,
And y had a bow, be the rode,
On schot scholde yow se.

Thow schall haffe a bow, seyde the screffe,
The best that thow well cheys of thre :
Thow semyst[242] a stalward and a stronge,
Asay schall thow be.

The screffe comandyd a yeman that stod hem bey
Affter bowhes to wende ;
The best bow that the yeman browthe
Roben set on a stryng.

“Now schall y wet and thow be god,
And polle het op to they ner.”
So god me helpe, seyde the prowde pottèr,
Thys ys bot rygzt weke ger.

To a quequer Roben went,
A god bolt owthe he toke,
So ney on to the marke he went,
He fayled not a fothe.

All they schot abowthe agen,
The screffes men and he,
Off the marke he welde not fayle,
He cleffed the preke on thre. {91}

The screffes men thowt gret schame,
The potter the mastry wan ;
The screffe lowe and made god game,
And seyde, Potter, thow art a man ;
Thow art worthey to ber a bowe,
Yn what plas that thow ‘gang.’[243]

Yn mey cart y haffe a bowe,
Forsoyt, he seyde, and that a godde ;
Yn mey cart ys the bow
That ‘I had of Robyn Hode.’[244]

Knowest thow Robyn Hode ? seyde the screffe,
Potter, y prey the tell thou me.
“A hundred torne y haffe schot with hem,
Under hes tortyll tre.”

Y had lever nar a hundred ponde, seyde the screffe,
And swar be the trenitè,
[Y had lever nar a hundred ponde, he seyde,]
That the fals owtelawe stod be me.

And ye well do afftyr mey red, seyde the potter,
And boldeley go with me,
And to morow, or we het bred,
Roben Hode wel we se. {92}

Y well queyt the, kod the screffe,
And swere be god of meythe.[245]
Schetyng thay left, and hom they went,
Her scoper was redey deythe.

Upon the morow, when het was day,
He boskyd hem forthe to reyde ;
The potter hes carte forthe gan ray,
And wolde not [be] leffe beheynde.

He toke leffe of the screffys wyffe,
And thankyd her of all thyng :
“Dam, for mey loffe, and ye well thys wer,
Y geffe yow her a golde ryng.”

Gramarsey, seyde the weyffe,
Sir, god eylde het the.
The screffes hart was never so leythe,
The feyr forest to se.

And when he cam ynto the foreyst,
Yonder the leffes grene,
Berdys ther sange on bowhes prest,
Het was gret goy to sene.

Her het ys merey to be,[246] seyde Roben,
For a man that had hawt to spende :
Be mey horne ‘we’[247] schal awet
Yeff Roben Hode be ‘ner hande.’ {93}

Roben set hes horne to hes[248] mowthe,
And blow a blast that was foll god,
That herde hes men that ther stode,
Fer[249] downe yn the wodde.
I her mey master, seyde Leytyll John :
They ran as thay wer wode.

Whan thay to thar master cam,
Leytell John wold not spar :
“Master, how haffe yow far yn Notynggam ?
Haffe[250] yow solde yowr war ?”

“Ye, be mey trowthe, Leytyll[251] John,
Loke thow take no car ;
Y haffe browt the screffe of Notynggam,
For all howr chaffar.”

He ys foll wellcom, seyde Lytyll John,
Thes tydyng ys foll godde.
The screffe had lever nar a hundred ponde
[He had never sene Roben Hode].

“Had I west[252] that beforen,
At Notynggam when we wer,
Thow scholde not com yn feyr forest
Of all thes thowsande eyr.” {94}

That wot y well, seyde Roben,
Y thanke god that y be[253] her ;
Therfor schall ye leffe yowr horse with hos,
And all your hother ger.

That fend I godys forbode, kod the screffe,
So to lese mey godde.
“Hether ye[254] cam on horse foll hey,
And hom schall ye go on fote ;
And gret well they weyffe at home,
The woman ys foll godde.

Y schall her sende a wheyt palffrey,[255]
Het hambellet as the weynde ;
Ner for the loffe of yowr weyffe,
Off mor sorow scholde yow seyng.”

Thes parted Robyn Hode and the screffe,
To Notynggam he toke the waye ;
Hes weyffe feyr welcomed hem hom,
And to hem gan sche saye :

Seyr, how haffe yow fared yn grene foreyst ?
Haffe ye browt Roben hom ?
“Dam, the deyell spede hem, bothe bodey and bon,
Y haffe hade a foll grete skorne. {95}

Of all the god that y haffe lade to grene wod,
He hayt take het fro me,
All bot this feyr palffrey,
That he hayt sende to the.”

With that sche toke op a lowde lawhyng,
And swhar be hem that deyed on tre :
“Now haffe you payed for all the pottys
That Roben gaffe to me.

Now ye be com hom to Notynggam,
Ye schall haffe god ynowe.”
Now speke we of Roben Hode,
And of the pottyr onder the grene bowhe.[256]

“Potter, what was they pottys worthe
To Notynggam that y ledde with me ?”
They wer worth two nobellys, seyd he,
So mot y treyffe or the ;
So cowde y had for tham,
And y had ther be.[257]

Thow schalt hafe ten ponde, seyde Roben,
Of money feyr and fre :
And yever whan thow comest to grene wod,
Wellcom, potter, to me. {96}

Thes partyd Robyn, the screffe, and the potter,
Ondernethe the grene wod tre.
God haffe mersey on Roben Hodys solle,
And saffe all god yemanrey ! {97}

III.

ROBIN HOOD AND THE BEGGAR.

This poem, a North-country (or perhaps Scotish) composition of some antiquity, is given from a modern copy printed at Newcastle, where it was accidentally picked up: no other edition having been ever seen or heard of. The corruptions of the press being equally numerous and minute, some of the most trifling have been corrected without notice. But it may be proper to mention that each line of the printed copy is here thrown into two: a step which, though absolutely necessary from the narrowness of the page, is sufficiently justified by the frequent recurrence of the double rime. The division of stanzas was conceived to be a still further improvement.—The original title is, “A Pretty Dialogue betwixt Robin Hood and a Beggar.”

A similar story (“Comment un moine se débarasse des voleurs”) may be found in “Le Moyen de Parvenir,” i. 304 (edit. 1739). {98}

Lyth and listen, gentlemen,
That be of high born blood,
I’ll tell you of a brave bootìng
That befell Robin Hood.

Robin Hood upon a day,
He went forth him alone,
And as he came from Barnsdale
Into fair evenìng,

He met a beggar on the way,
Who sturdily could gang ;
He had a pike-staff in his hand
That was both stark and strang ;

A clouted clock about him was,
That held him frae the cold,
The thinnest bit of it, I guess,
Was more than twenty fold.

His meal-poke hang about his neck,
Into a leathern whang,
Well fasten’d to a broad bucle,
That was both stark and ‘strang.’

He had three hats upon his head,
Together sticked fast,
He car’d neither for wind nor wet,
In lands where’er[258] he past. {99}

Good Robin cast him in the way,
To see what he might be,
If any beggar had monèy,
He thought some part had he.

Tarry, tarry, good Robin says,
Tarry, and speak with me.
He heard him as he heard him not,
And fast on his way can hy.

’Tis be not so, says [good] Robìn,
Nay, thou must tarry still.
By my troth, said the bold beggàr,
Of that I have no will.

It is far to my lodging house,
And it is growing late,
If they have supt e’er I come in
I will look wondrous blate.

Now, by my truth, says good Robìn,
I see well by thy fare,
If thou shares well to thy suppèr,
Of mine thou dost not care,

Who wants my dinner all this day
And wots not where to ly,
And would I to the tavern go,
I want money to buy. {100}

Sir, you must lend me some monèy
Till we meet again.
The beggar answer’d cankardly,
I have no money to lend :

Thou art a young man as I,
And seems to be as sweer ;
If thou fast till thou get from me,
Thou shalt eat none this year.

Now, by my truth, says [good] Robìn,
Since we are assembled so,
If thou hast but a small farthìng,
I’ll have it e’er thou go.

Come, lay down thy clouted cloak,
And do no longer stand,
And loose the strings of all thy pokes,
I’ll ripe them with my hand.

And now to thee I make a vow,
If ‘thou’ make any din,
I shall see a broad arròw,
Can pierce a beggar’s skin.

The beggar smil’d, and answer made,
Far better let me be ;
Think not that I will be afraid,
For thy nip crooked tree ; {101}

Or that I fear thee any whit,
For thy curn nips of sticks,
I know no use for them so meet
As to be puding-pricks.

Here I defy thee to do me ill,
For all thy boisterous fair,
Thou’s get nothing from me but ill,
Would’st thou seek evermair.

Good Robin bent his noble bow,
He was an angery man,
And in it set a broad arròw ;
Lo ! e’er ’twas drawn a span,

The beggar, with his noble tree,
Reach’d him so round a rout,
That his bow and his broad arròw
In flinders flew about.

Good Robin bound him to his brand,
But that prov’d likewise vain,
The beggar lighted on his hand
With his pike-staff again :

[I] wot he might not draw a sword
For forty days and mair.
Good Robin could not speak a word,
His heart was ne’er so sair. {102}

He could not fight, he could not flee,
He wist not what to do ;
The beggar with his noble tree
Laid lusty slaps him to.

He paid good Robin back and side,
And baist him up and down,
And with his pyke-staff laid on loud,
Till he fell in a swoon.

Stand up, man, the beggar said,
’Tis shame to go to rest ;
Stay till thou get thy money told,
I think it were the best :

And syne go to the tavern house,
And buy both wine and ale ;
Hereat thy friends will crack full crouse,
Thou hast been at the dale.

Good Robin answer’d ne’er a word,
But lay still as a stane ;
His cheeks were pale as any clay,
And closed[259] were his een.

The beggar thought him dead but fail,
And boldly bound his way.—
I would ye had been at the dale,
And gotten part of the play. {103}

THE SECOND PART.

Now three of Robin’s men, by chance,
Came walking by the way,
And found their master in a trance,
On ground where that he lay.

Up have they taken good Robìn,
Making a piteous bear,
Yet saw they no man there at whom
They might the matter spear.

They looked him all round about,
But wound on him saw ‘nane,’
Yet at his mouth came bocking out
The blood of a good vain.

Cold water they have gotten syne,
And cast unto his face ;
Then he began to hitch his ear,
And speak within short space.

Tell us, dear master, said his men,
How with you stands the case.
Good Robin sigh’d e’er he began
To tell of his disgrace. {104}

“I have been watchman in this wood
Near hand this twenty year,
Yet I was never so hard bestead
As ye have found me here ;

A beggar with a clouted clock,
Of whom I fear’d no ill
Hath with his pyke-staff cla’d my back,
I fear ’twill never be well.

See, where he goes o’er yon hill,
With hat upon his head ;
If e’er ye lov’d your master well,
Go now revenge this deed ;

And bring him back again to me,
If it lie in your might,
That I may see, before I die,
Him punish’d in my sight :

And if you may not bring him back,
Let him not go loose on ;
For to us all it were great shame
If he escape again.”

“One of us shall with you remain,
Because you’re ill at ease,
The other two shall bring him back,
To use him as you please.” {105}

Now, by my truth, says good Robìn,
I true there’s enough said ;
And he get scouth to wield his tree,
I fear you’ll both be paid.

“Be not fear’d, our mastèr,
That we two can be dung
With any bluter base beggàr,
That has nought but a rung.

His staff shall stand him in no stead,
That you shall shortly see,
But back again he shall be led,
And fast bound shall he be,
To see if ye will have him slain,
Or hanged on a tree.”

“But cast you sliely in his way,
Before he be aware,
And on his pyke-staff first hands lay,
Ye’ll speed the better far.”

Now leave we Robin with this man,
Again to play the child,
And learn himself to stand and gang
By halds, for all his eild.

Now pass we to the bold beggàr,
That raked o’er the hill,
Who never mended his pace more,
Then he had done no ill. {106}

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And they have taken another way,[260] Was nearer by miles three.

They stoutly ran with all their might,
Spared neither dub ‘nor’ mire,
They started at neither how nor height,
No travel made them tire,

Till they before the beggar wan,
And cast them in his way ;
A little wood lay in a glen,
And there they both did stay ;

They stood up closely by a tree,
In each side of the gate,
Untill the beggar came them nigh,
That thought of no such late :

And as he was betwixt them past,
They leapt upon him baith ;
The one his pyke-staff gripped fast,
They feared for its skaith.

The other he held in his sight
A drawen durk to his breast,
And said, False ‘carel,’ quit thy staff,
Or I shall be thy priest. {107}

His pyke-staff they have taken him frae,
And stuck it in the green,
He was full loath to let it gae,
An better might it been.

The beggar was the feardest man
Of any that e’er might be,
To win away no way he can,
Nor help him with his tree.

Nor wist he wherefore he was ta’en,
Nor how many was there ;
He thought his life days had been gane,
He grew into dispair.

Grant me my life, the beggar said,
For him that dy’d on the tree,
And hold away that ugly knife,
Or else for fear I’ll die.

I griev’d you never in all my life,
Neither by late or air,
You have great sin if you would slay
A silly poor beggàr.

Thou lies, false lown, they said again,
For all that may be sworn ;
Thou hast ‘near’ slain the gentlest man
Of one that e’er was born ; {108}

And back again thou shall be led,
And fast bound shalt thou be,
To see if he will have thee slain,
Or hanged on a tree.

The beggar then thought all was wrong,
They were set for his wrack,
He saw nothing appearing then
But ill upon warse back.

Were he out of their hands, he thought,
And had again his tree,
He should not be led back for nought,
With such as he did see.

Then he bethought him on a wile,
If it could take effect,
How he might the young men beguile,
And give them a begeck.[261]

Thus to do them shame for ill
His beastly breast was bent,
He found the wind blew something shrill,
To further his intent.

He said, Brave gentlemen, be good,
And let a poor man be :
When ye have taken a beggar’s blood,
It helps you not a flee. {109}

It was but in my own defence,
If he has gotten skaith ;
But I will make a recompence
Is better for you baith.

If ye will set me fair and free,
And do me no more dear,
An hundred pounds I will you give,
And much more odd silvèr,

That I have gather’d this many years,
Under this clouted cloak,
And hid up wonder privately,
In bottom of my poke.

The young men to the council yeed,[262]
And let the beggar gae ;
They wist full well he had no speed
From them to run away.

They thought they would the money take,
Come after what so may ;
And yet they would not take him back,
But in that place him slay.

By that good Robin would not know
That they had gotten coin,
It would content him [well] to show
That there they had him slain, {110}

They said, False carel, soon have done,
And tell forth thy monèy,
For the ill turn that thou hast done
It’s but a simple plee.

And yet we will not have thee back,
Come after what so may,
If thou will do that which thou spak,[263]
And make us present pay.

O then he loosed his clouted clock,
And spread it on the ground,
And thereon lay he many a poke,
Betwixt them and the wind.

He took a great bag from his hals,[264]
It was near full of meal,
Two pecks in it at least there was,
And more, I wot full well.

Upon this cloak he set it down,
The mouth he opened wide,
To turn the same he made him bown,[265]
The young men ready spy’d ;

In every hand he took a nook
Of that great leathren ‘mail,’[266]
And with a fling the meal he shook
Into their face all hail : {111}

Wherewith he blinded them so close,
A stime they could not see ;
And then in heart he did rejoice,
And clap’d his lusty tree.

He thought if he had done them wrong,
In mealing of their cloaths,[267]
For to strike off the meal again
With his pyke-staff he goes.

E’er any of them could red their een,
Or a glimmring might see,
Ilke one of them a dozen had,
Well laid on with his tree.

The young men were right swift of foot,
And boldly bound away,
The beggar could them no more hit,
For all the haste he may.

What’s all this haste ? the beggar said,
May not you[268] tarry still,
Untill your money be received ?
I’ll pay you with good will.

The shaking of my pokes, I fear,
Hath blown into your een ;
But I have a good pyke-staff here
Can ripe them out full clean. {112}

The young men answered never a word,
They were dum as a stane ;
In the thick wood the beggar fled,
E’er they riped their een :

And syne the night became so late,
To seek him was in vain :
But judge ye if they looked blate
When they cam home again.

Good Robin speer’d how they had sped.[269]
They answered him, Full ill.
That can not be, good Robin says,
Ye have been at the mill.

The mill it is a meat-rife part,
They may lick what they please,
Most like ye have been at the art,
Who would look at your ‘claiths.’[270]

They hang’d their heads, they drooped down,
A word they could not speak.
Robin said, Because I fell a-sound,
I think ye’ll do the like.

Tell on the matter, less or more,
And tell me what and how
Ye have done with the bold beggàr
I sent you for right now. {113}

And when they told him to an end,
As i have said before,
How that the beggar did them blind,
What ‘mister’ presses more ?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And how in the thick woods he fled, E’er they a stime could see ;

And how they scarcely could win home,
Their bones were baste so sore ;
Good Robin cry’d, Fy ! out ! for shame !
We’re sham’d for evermore.

Altho good Robin would full fain
Of his wrath revenged be,
He smil’d to see his merry young men
Had gotten a taste of the tree.

{114}

IV.

ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE,

is reprinted from the “Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,” published by Dr. Percy (vol. i. p. 81), who there gives it from his “folio MS.” as “never before printed, and ‘carrying’ marks of much greater antiquity than any of the common popular songs on this subject.”

As for Guy of Gisborne, the only further memorial which has occurred concerning him is in an old satirical piece by William Dunbar, a celebrated Scotish poet of the 15th century, on one “Schir Thomas Nory” (MS. Maitland, p. 3; MSS. More, Ll. 5, 10), where he is named along with our hero, Adam Bell, and other worthies, it is conjectured, of a similar stamp, but whose merits have not, less fortunately, come to the knowledge of posterity. {115}

“Was nevir WEILD ROBEINE under bewch, Nor yitt Roger of Clekkinslewch, So bauld a bairne as he ; GY OF GYSBURNE, na Allane Bell, Na Simones sones of Quhynsell, Off thocht war nevir so slie.”

Gisborne is a market-town in the West Riding of the county of York, on the borders of Lancashire.

In the fourth edition of the publication above referred to, which appeared in July 1795, it is acknowleged that “some liberties were, by the editor, taken with this ballad, which in this edition hath been brought nearer to the folio MS.” The new readings have therefore been introduced into the present text.

Whan shaws beene sheene, and shraddes[271] full fayre,
And leaves both large and longe,
Itt’s merrye walkyng in the fayre forrèst
To heare the small birdes songe.

The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
Sitting upon the spraye,
Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,
In the greenwood where he lay.

Now, by my faye, sayd jollye Robìn,
A sweaven I had this night ;
I dreamt me of tow wighty yemèn,
That fast with me can fight. {116}

Methought they did me beate and binde,
And tooke my bowe me froe ;
Iff I be Robin alive in this lande,
Ile be wroken on them towe.

Sweavens are swift, master, quoth John,
As the wind that blowes ore a hill ;
For iff itt be never so loude this night,
To-morrow it may be still.

“Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
And John shall goe with mee,
For Ile goe seeke yond wighty yeomèn,
In greenwood where they bee.”

Then they cast on theyr gownes of grene,
And tooke theyr bowes each one ;
And they away to the greene forrèst
A shooting forth are gone ;

Untill they came to the merry greenwood,
Where they had gladdest to bee,
There they were ware of a wight yeomàn,
His body leaned to a tree.

A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
Of manye a man the bane ;
And he was clad in his capull hyde,
Topp and tayll and mayne. {117}

Stand you still, master, quoth Little John,
Under this tree so grene,
And I will go to yond wight yeomàn,
To know what he doth meane.

“Ah ! John, by me thou settest noe store,
And that I farley finde :
How offt send I my men before,
And tarry my selfe behinde ?

It is no cunning a knave to ken,
And a man but heare him speake ;
And it were not for bursting of my bowe,
John, I thy head wold breake.”

As often wordes they breeden bale,
So they parted Robin and John :
And John is gone to Barnesdale ;
The gates he knoweth eche one.

But when he came to Barnesdale,
Great heavinesse there he hadd,
For he found tow of his own fellòwes,
Were slaine both in a slade.

And Scarlette he was flying a-foote
Fast over stocke and stone,
For the proud sheriffe with seven score men
Fast after him is gone. {118}

One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John,
With Christ his might and mayne ;
Ile make yond sheriffe that flyes soe fast,
To stopp he shall be fayne.

Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
And fetteled him to shoote :
The bow was made of tender boughe,
And fell downe at his foote.

“Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
That ever thou grew on a tree !
For now this day thou art my bale,
My boote when thou shold bee.”

His shoote it was but loosely shott,
Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
For itt mett one of the sheriffes men,
Good William a Trent was slaine.

It had bene better of William a Trent
To have bene abed with sorrowe,
Than to be that day in the greenwood slade
To meet with Little Johns arrowe.

But as it is said, when men be mett
Fyve can doe more than three,
The sheriffe hath taken Little John,
And bound him fast to a tree. {119}

“Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
And hanged hye on a hill.”
But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John,
If it be Christ his will.

Lett us leave talking of Little John,
And thinke of Robin Hood,
How he is gone to the wight yeomàn,
Where under the leaves he stood.

Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre,
Good morrowe, good fellow, quo’ he :[272]
Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande,
A good archere thou sholdst bee.

I am wilfulle of my waye, quo’ the yemàn,
And of my morning tyde.
Ile lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin ;
Good fellow, Ile be thy guide.

I seeke an outlawe, the straunger sayd,
Men call him Robin Hood ;
Rather Ild meet with that proud outlàwe
Than fortye pound soe good. {120}

“Now come with me, thou wighty yemàn
And Robin thou soone shalt see ;
But first let us some pastime find
Under the greenwood tree.

First let us some masterye make
Among the woods so even,
We may chance to meet with Robin Hood
Here at some unsett steven.”

They cutt them down two summer shroggs,
That grew both under a breere,
And sett them threescore rood in twaine,
To shoote the prickes y-fere.

Leade on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood,
Leade on, I do bidd thee.
Nay, by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,
My leader thou shalt bee.

The first time Robin shot at the pricke,
He mist but an inch it fro :
The yeoman he was an archer good,
But he cold never shoote soe.

The second shoote had the wightye yemàn,
He shot within the garlànd :
But Robin he shott far better than hee,
For he clave the good pricke-wande. {121}

A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd ;
Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode ;
For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
Thou wert better than Robin Hoode.

Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he,
Under the leaves of lyne.
Nay, by my faith, quoth bold Robin,
Till thou have told me thine.

I dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee,
And Robin to take Ime sworne ;
And when I am called by my right name
I am Guy of good Gisbòrne.

My dwelling is in this wood, sayes Robin,
By thee I set right nought :
I am Robin Hood of Barnèsdale,
Whom thou so long hast sought.

He that had neyther beene kythe nor kin,
Might have seen a full fayre fight,
To see how together these yeomen went
With blades both browne and bright.

To see how these yeomen together they fought
Two howres of a summers day :
Yett neither Robin Hood nor sir Guy
Them fettled to flye away. {122}

Robin was reachles on a roote
And stumbled at that tyde ;
And Guy was quicke and nimble withall,
And hitt him ore the left syde.

Ah, deere ladye, sayd Robin Hood tho,
Thou art both[273] mother and may,
I think it was never mans destinye
To dye before his day.

Robin thought on our ladye deere,
And soone leapt up againe,
And strait he came with a[n] awkwarde[274] stroke,
And he sir Guy[275] hath slayne.

He took sir Guys head by the hayre,
And sticked itt upon his bowes end :
“Thou hast beene a traytor all thy life,
Which thing must have an end.” {123}

Robin pulled forth an Irish knife,
And nicked sir Guy in the face,
That he was never on woman born
Cold tell whose head it was.

Sayes, Lye there, lye there, now sir Guye,
And with me be not wrothe ;
Iff thou have had the worst strokes at my hand,
Thou shalt have the better clothe.

Robin did off his gown of greene,
And on sir Guy did it throwe,
And he put on that capull hyde,
That cladd him topp to toe.

“The bowe, the arrowes, and little horne,
Now with me I will beare ;
For I will away to Barnèsdale,
To see how my men doe fare.”

Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth,
And a loude blast in it did blow :
That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
As he leaned under a lowe.

Hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe,
I heare nowe tydings good,
For yonder I heare sir Guyes horne blow,
And he hath slaine Robin Hoode. {124}

Yonder I heare sir Guyes horne blowe,
Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
And yonder comes that wightye yeomàn,
Cladd in his capull hyde.

Come hyther, come hyther, thou good sir Guy,
Aske what thou wilt of mee.
O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin,
Nor I will none of thy fee :

But now I have slaine the master, he sayes,
Let me goe strike the knave ;
For this is all the meede I aske ;
Nor no other will I have.

Thou art a madman, sayd the sheriffe,
Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee :
But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
Well granted it shal bee.

When Little John heard his master speake,
Well knewe he it was his steven :
Now shall I be looset, quoth Little John,
With Christ his might in heaven.

Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John,
He thought to loose him belive ;
The sheriffe and all his companye
Fast after him did drive. {125}

Stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robìn ;
Why draw you mee so neere ?
It was never the use in our countryè,
Ones shrift another shold heere.

But Robin pulled forth an Irish knife,
And losed John hand and foote,
And gave him sir Guyes bow into his hand,
And bade it be his boote.

Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand,
His boltes and arrowes eche one :
When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,
He fettled him to be gone.

Towards his house in Nottingham towne,
He fled full fast away ;
And soe did all the companye :
Not one behind wold stay.

But he cold neither runne soe fast,
Nor away soe fast cold ryde,
But Little John with an arrowe soe broad,
He shott him into the ‘backe’-syde.[276]

{126}

V.

A TRUE TALE OF ROBIN HOOD:

OR,

A briefe touch of the life and death of that renowned outlaw Robert earl of Huntingdon, vulgarly called Robin Hood, who lived and dyed in A. D. 1198,[277] being the 9th year of king Richard the first, commonly called Richard Cœur de Lyon.

Carefully collected out of the truest writers of our English Chronicles: and published for the satisfaction of those who desire truth from falshood.

BY MARTIN PARKER. {127}