Good Reading: "Casey at the Bat: A Ballad of the Republic Sung in the Year 1888" by Ernest Thayer (in English)

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
the score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
a sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
they thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that –
they'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
and the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake,
so upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
for there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
and Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
and when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
there was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
it knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
there was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
and Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
he stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
he signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said: "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and Echo answered fraud;
but one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
and they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
he pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
and now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
but there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.

Good Reading: "A Gest of Robyn Hode” by Unknown Writer (in English)

A lythe and listin, gentilmen,

That be of frebore blode;

I shall you tel of a gode yeman,

His name was Robyn Hode.

Robyn was a prude outlaw,

[Whyles he walked on grounde;

So curteyse an outlawe] as he was one

Was never non founde.

Robyn stode in Bernesdale,

And lenyd hym to a tre;

And bi hym stode Litell Johnn,

A gode yeman was he.

And alsoo dyd gode Scarlok,

And Much, the miller's son;

There was none ynch of his bodi

But it was worth a grome.

Than bespake Lytell Johnn

All vntoo Robyn Hode:

Maister, and ye wolde dyne betyme

It wolde doo you moche gode.

Than bespake hym gode Robyn:

To dyne haue I noo lust,

Till that I haue som bolde baron,

Or som vnkouth gest.

. . . . . . .

That may pay for the best,

Or som knyght or [som] squyer,

That dwelleth here bi west.

A gode maner than had Robyn;

In londe where that he were,

Euery day or he wold dyne

Thre messis wolde he here.

The one in the worship of the Fader,

And another of the Holy Gost,

The thirde of Our der Lady,

That he loued allther moste.

Robyn loued Oure der Lady;

For dout of dydly synne,

Wolde he neuer do compani harme

That any woman was in.

'Maistar,' than sayde Lytil Johnn,

'And we our borde shal sprede,

Tell vs wheder that we shal go,

And what life that we shall lede.

'Where we shall take, where we shall leue,

Where we shall abide behynde;

Where we shall robbe, where we shal reue,

Where we shal bete and bynde.'

'Therof no force,' than sayde Robyn;

'We shall do well inowe;

But loke ye do no husbonde harme,

That tilleth with his ploughe.

'No more ye shall no gode yeman

That walketh by gren -wode shawe;

Ne no knyght ne no squyer

That wol be a gode felawe.

'These bisshoppes and these archebishoppes,

Ye shall them bete and bynde;

The hy sherif of Notyingham,

Hym holde ye in your mynde.'

'This worde shalbe holde,' sayde Lytell Johnn,

'And this lesson we shall lere;

It is fer dayes ; God sende vs a gest,

That we were at oure dynere!'

'Take thy gode bowe in thy honde,' sayde Rob[yn];

'Late Much wende with the;

And so shal Willyam Scarlo[k],

And no man abyde with me.

'And walke vp to the Saylis,

And so to Watlingr Stret[e],

And wayte after some vnkuth gest,

Vp chaunce ye may them mete.

'Be he erle, or ani baron,

Abbot, or ani knyght,

Bringhe hym to lodge to me;

His dyner shall be dight.'

They wente vp to the Saylis,

These yeman all thre;

They loked est, they loke[d] weest;

They myght no man see.

But as they loked in to Bernysdale,

Bi a dern strete,

Than came a knyght ridinghe;

Full sone they gan hym mete.

All dreri was his semblaunce,

And lytell was his pryde;

His one fote in the styrop stode,

That othere wauyd beside.

His hode hanged in his iyn two;

He rode in symple aray;

A soriar man than he was one

Rode neuer in somer day.

Litell Johnn was full curteyes,

And sette hym on his kne:

'Welcom be ye, gentyll knyght,

Welcom ar ye to me.

'Welcom be thou to gren wode,

Hend knyght and fre;

My maister hath abiden you fastinge,

Syr, al these our s thre.'

'Who is thy maister?' sayde the knyght;

Johnn sayde, Robyn Hode;

'He is [a] gode yoman,' sayde the knyght,

'Of hym haue I herde moche gode.

'I graunte,' he sayde, 'with you to wende,

My bretherne, all in fere;

My purpos was to haue dyned to day

At Blith or Dancastere.'

Furth than went this gentyl knight,

With a carefull chere;

The teris oute of his iyen ran,

And fell downe by his lere.

They brought hym to the lodg -dore;

Whan Robyn hym gan see,

Full curtesly dyd of his hode

And sette hym on his knee.

'Welcome, sir knight,' than sayde Robyn,

'Welcome art thou to me;

I haue abyden you fastinge, sir,

All these ouris thre.'

Than answered the gentyll knight,

With word s fayre and fre;

God the saue, goode Robyn,

And all thy fayre meyn .

They wasshed togeder and wyped bothe,

And sette to theyr dynere;

Brede and wyne they had right ynoughe,

And noumbles of the dere.

Swannes and fessauntes they had full gode,

And foules of the ryuere;

There fayled none so litell a birde

That euer was bred on bryre.

'Do gladly, sir knight,' sayde Robyn;

'Gramarcy, sir,' sayde he;

'Suche a dinere had I nat

Of all these wekys thre.

'If I come ageyne, Robyn,

Here by thys contr ,

As gode a dyner I shall the make

As that thou haest made to me.'

'Gramarcy, knyght,' sayde Robyn;

'My dyner whan that I it haue,

I was neuer so gredy, bi dere worthy God,

My dyner for to craue.

'But pay or ye wende,' sayde Robyn;

'Me thynketh it is gode ryght;

It was neuer the maner, by dere worthi God,

A yoman to pay for a knyhht.'

'I haue nought in my coffers,' saide the knyght,

'That I may profer for shame:'

'Litell Johnn, go loke,' sayde Robyn,

'Ne let nat for no blame.

'Tel me truth,' than saide Robyn,

'So God haue parte of the:'

'I haue no more but ten shelynges,' sayde the knyght,

'So God haue parte of me.'

If thou hast no more,' sayde Robyn,

'I woll nat one peny;

And yf thou haue nede of any more,

More shall I lend the.

'Go nowe furth, Littell Johnn,

The truth tell thou me;

If there be no more but ten shelinges,

No peny that I se.'

Lyttell Johnn sprede downe hys mantell

Full fayre vpon the grounde,

And there he fonde in the knyght s cofer

But euen halfe [a] pounde.

Littell Johnn let it lye full styll,

And went to hys maysteer [full] lowe;

'What tidyng s, Johnn?' sayde Robyn;

'Sir, the knyght is true inowe.'

'Fyll of the best wine,' sayde Robyn,

'The knyght shall begynne;

Moche wonder thinketh me

Thy clot[h]ynge is so thin[n]e.

'Tell me [one] worde,' sayde Robyn,

'And counsel shal it be;

I trowe thou warte made a knyght of force,

Or ellys of yemanry.

'Or ellys thou hast bene a sori husbande,

And lyued in stroke and stryfe;

An okerer, or ellis a lechoure,' sayde Robyn,

'Wyth wronge hast led thy lyfe.'

'I am none of those,' sayde the knyght,

'By God that mad me;

An hundred wynter here before

Myn auncetres knyghtes haue be.

'But oft it hath befal, Robyn,

A man hath be disgrate;

But God that sitteth in heuen aboue

May amende his state.

'Withyn this two yere, Robyne,' he sayde,

'My neghbours well it knowe,

Foure hundred pounde of gode money

Ful well than myght I spende.

'Nowe haue I no gode,' saide the knyght,

'God hath shaped such an ende,

But my chyldren and my wyfe,

Tyll God yt may amende.'

'In what maner,' than sayde Robyn,

'Hast thou lorne thy rychesse?'

'For my great foly,' he sayde,

'And for my kynd[ ]nesse.

'I hade a sone, forsoth, Robyn,

That shulde hau[e] ben myn ayre,

Whanne he was twenty wynter olde,

In felde wolde iust full fayre.

'He slewe a knyght of Lancaster,

And a squyer bolde;

For to saue hym in his ryght

My godes both sette and solde.

'My londes both sette to wedde, Robyn,

Vntyll a certayn day,

To a ryche abbot here besyde

Of Seynt Mari Abbey.'

'What is the som?' sayde Robyn;

'Trouth than tell thou me;'

'Sir,' he sayde, 'Foure hundred pounde;

The abbot told it to me.'

'Nowe and thou lese thy lond,' sayde Robyn,

'What woll fall of the?'

'Hastely I wol me buske,' sayd the knyght,

'Ouer the salt see,

'And se w[h]ere Criste was quyke and dede,

On the mount of Caluer ;

Fare wel, frende, and haue gode day;

It may no better be.'

Teris fell out of hys iyen two;

He wolde haue gone hys way:

'Farewel, frende, and haue gode day;

I ne haue no more to pay.'

'Where be thy frend s?' sayde Robyn:

'Syr, neuer one wol me knowe;

While I was ryche ynowe at home

Great boste than wolde they blowe.

'And nowe they renne away fro me,

As bestis on a rowe;

They take no more hede of me

Thanne they had me neuer sawe.'

For ruthe thanne wept Litell Johnn,

Scarlok and Muche in fere;

'Fyl of the best wyne,' sayde Robyn,

'For here is a symple chere.

'Hast thou any frende,' sayde Robyn,

'Thy borowe that wold be?'

'I haue none,' than sayde the knyght,

'But God that dyed on tree.'

'Do away thy iapis,' than sayde Robyn,

'Thereof wol I right none;

Wenest thou I wolde haue God to borowe,

Peter, Poule, or Johnn?

'Nay, by hym that me made,

And shope both sonne and mone,

Fynde me a better borowe,' sayde Robyn,

'Or money getest thou none.'

'I haue none other,' sayde the knyght,

'The sothe for to say,

But yf yt be Our der Lady;

She fayled me neuer or thys day.'

'By dere worthy God,' sayde Robyn,

'To seche all Englonde thorowe,

Yet fonde I neuer to my pay

A moche better borowe.

'Come nowe furth, Litell Johnn,

And go to my tresour ,

And bringe me foure hundered pound,

And loke well tolde it be.'

Furth than went Litell Johnn,

And Scarlok went before;

He tolde oute foure hundred pounde

By eight and twenty score.

'Is thys well tolde?' sayde [litell] Much;

Johnn sayde, 'What gre[ue]th the?

It is almus to helpe a gentyll knyght,

That is fal in pouert .

'Master,' than sayde Lityll John,

'His clothinge is full thynne;

Ye must gyue the knight a lyueray,

To lappe his body therin.

'For ye haue scarlet and grene, mayster,

And man[y] a riche aray;

Ther is no marchaunt in mery Englond

So ryche, I dare well say.'

'Take hym thre yerdes of euery colour,

And loke well mete that it be;'

Lytell Johnn toke none other mesure

But his bow -tree.

And at euery handfull that he met

He lep d foot s three;

'What deuyll s drapar,' sayid litell Muche,

'Thynkest thou for to be?'

Scarlok stode full stil and loughe,

And sayd, By God Almyght,

Johnn may gyue hym gode mesure,

For it costeth hym but lyght.

'Mayster,' than said Litell Johnn

To gentill Robyn Hode,

'Ye must giue the knig[h]t a hors,

To lede home this gode.'

'Take hym a gray coursar,' sayde Robyn,

'And a saydle newe;

He is Oure Ladye's messangere;

God graunt that he be true.'

'And a gode palfray,' sayde lytell Much,

'To mayntene hym in his right;'

'And a peyre of bot s,' sayde Scarlock,

'For he is a gentyll knight.'

'What shalt thou gyue hym, Litell John?' said Robyn;

'Sir, a peyre of gilt sporis clene,

To pray for all this company;

God bringe hym out of tene.'

'Whan shal mi day be,' said the knight,

'Sir, and your wyll be?'

'This day twelue moneth,' saide Robyn,

'Vnder this gren -wode tre.

'It were greate sham ,' sayde Robyn,

'A knight alone to ryde,

Without squyre, yoman, or page,

To walk by his syde.

'I shall the lende Litell John, my man,

For he shalbe thy knaue;

In a yema[n]'s stede he may the stande,

If thou greate ned haue.'

Now is the knight gone on his way;

This game hym thought full gode;

Whanne he loked on Bernesdale

He blessyd Robyn Hode.

And whanne he thought on Bernysdale,

On Scarlok, Much, and Johnn,

He blyssyd them for the best company

That euer he in come.

Then spake that gentyll knyght,

To Lytel Johan gan he saye,

To-morrowe I must to Yorke toune,

To Saynt Mary abbay.

And to the abbot of that place

Foure hondred pounde I must pay;

And but I be there vpon this nyght

My londe is lost for ay.

The abbot sayd to his couent,

There he stode on grounde,

This day twelfe moneth came there a knyght

And borowed foure hondred pounde.

[He borowed foure hondred pounde,]

Upon all his lond fre;

But he come this ylk day

Dysheryte shall he be.

'It is full erely,' sayd the pryoure,

'The day is not yet ferre gone;

I had leuer to pay an hondred pounde,

And lay downe anone.

'The knyght is ferre beyonde the see,

In Englonde is his ryght,

And suffreth honger and colde,

And many a sory nyght.

'It were grete pyt ,' said the pryoure,

'So to haue his londe;

And ye be so lyght of your consyence,

Ye do to hym moch wronge.'

'Thou arte euer in my berde,' sayd the abbot,

'By God and Saynt Rycharde;'

With that cam in a fat-heded monke,

The heygh selerer.

'He is dede or hanged,' sayd the monke,

'By God that bought me dere,

And we shall haue to spende in this place

Foure hondred pounde by yere.'

The abbot and the hy selerer

Stert forthe full bolde,

The [hye] iustyce of Englonde

The abbot there dyde holde.

The hy iustyce and many mo

Had take in to they[r] honde

Holy all the knyght s det,

To put that knyght to wronge.

They demed the knyght wonder sore,

The abbot and his meyn :

'But he come this ylk day

Dysheryte shall he be.'

'He wyll not come yet,' sayd the iustyce,

'Idare well vndertake;'

But in sorowe tym for them all

The knyght came to the gate.

Than bespake that gentyll knyght

Untyll his meyn :

Now put on your symple wedes

That ye brought fro the see.

[They put on their symple wedes,]

They came to the gates anone;

The porter was redy hymselfe,

And welcomed them euerychone.

'Welcome, syr knyght,' sayd the porter;

'My lorde to mete is he,

And so is many a gentyll man,

For the loue of the.'

The porter swore a full grete othe,

RR'Brry God that mad me,

Here be the best coresed hors

That euer yet sawe I me.

'Lede them in to the stable,' he sayd,

'That eased myght they be;'

'They shall not come therin,' sayd the knyght,

'By God that dyed on a tre.'

Lord s were to mete isette

In that abbotes hall;

The knyght went forth and kneled downe,

And salued them grete and small.

'Do gladly, syr abbot,' sayd the knyght,

'I am come to holde my day:'

The fyrst word the abbot spake,

'Hast thou brought my pay?'

'Not one peny,' sayd the knyght,

'By God that maked me;'

'Thou art a shrewed dettour,' sayd the abbot;

'Syr iustyce, drynke to me.

'What doost thou here,' sayd the abbot,

'But thou haddest brought thy pay?'

'For God,' than sayd the knyght,

'To pray of a lenger daye.'

'Thy daye is broke,' sayd the iustyce,

'Londe getest thou none:'

'Now, good syr iustyce, be my frende,

And fende me of my fone!'

'I am holde with the abbot,' sayd the iustyce,

'Both with cloth and fee :'

'Now, good syr sheryf, be my frende!'

'Nay, for God,' sayd he.

'Now, good syr abbot, be my frende,

For thy curteys ,

And holde my lond s in thy honde

Tyll I haue made the gree!

'And I wyll be thy true seruaunte,

And trewely seru the,

Tyl ye haue foure hondred pounde

Of money good and free.'

The abbot sware a full grete othe,

'By God that dyed on a tree,

Get the londe where thou may,

For thou getest none of me.'

'By dere worthy God,' then sayd the knyght,

'That all this world wrought,

But I haue my londe agayne,

Full dere it shall be bought.

'God, that was of a mayden borne,

Leue vs well to spede!

For it is good to assay a frende

Or that a man haue nede.'

The abbot lothely on hym gan loke,

And vylaynesly hym gan call;

'Out,' he sayd, 'Thou fals knyght,

Spede the out of my hall!'

'Thou lyest,' then sayd the gentyll knyght,

'Abbot, in thy hal;

False knyght was I neuer,

By God that made vs all.'

Vp then stode that gentyll knyght,

To the abbot sayd he,

To suffre a knyght to knele so longe,

Thou canst no curteysye.

In ioust s and in tournement

Full ferre than haue I be,

And put my selfe as ferre in prees

As ony that euer I se.

'What wyll ye gyue more,' sayd the iustice,

'And the knyght shall make a releyse?

And elles dare I safly swere

Ye holde neuer your londe in pees.'

'An hondred pounde,' sayd the abbot;

The justice sayd, Gyue hym two;

'Nay, be God,' sayd the knyght,

'Yit gete ye it not so.

'Though ye wolde gyue a thousand more,

Yet were ye neuer the nere;

Shall there neuer be myn heyre

Abbot, iustice, ne frere.'

He stert hym to a borde anone,

Tyll a table rounde,

And there he shoke oute of a bagge

Euen four hundred pound.

'Haue here thi golde, sir abbot,' saide the knight,

'Which that thou lentest me;

Had thou ben curtes at my comynge,

Rewarded shuldest thou haue be.'

The abbot sat styll, and ete no more,

For all his ryall fare;

He cast his hede on his shulder,

And fast began to stare.

'Take me my golde agayne,' saide the abbot,

'Sir iustice, that I toke the:'

'Not a peni,' said the iustice,

'Bi Go[d, that dy]ed on tree.'

'Sir [abbot, and ye me]n of lawe,

Now haue I holde my daye;

Now shall I haue my londe agayne,

For ought that you can saye.'

The knyght stert out of the dore,

Awaye was all his care,

And on he put his good clothynge,

The other he lefte there.

He wente hym forth full mery syngynge,

As men haue tolde in tale;

His lady met hym at the gate,

At home in Verysdale.

'Welcome, my lorde,' sayd his lady;

'Syr, lost is all your good?'

'Be mery, dame,' sayd the knyght,

'And pray for Robyn Hode,

'That euer his soul be in blysse:

He holpe me out of tene;

Ne had be his kynd nesse,

Beggers had we bene.

'The abbot and I accorded ben,

He is serued of his pay;

The god yoman lent it me,

As I cam by the way.'

This knight than dwelled fayre at home,

The sothe for to saye,

Tyll he had gete four hundred pound,

Al redy for to pay.

He purueyed him an hundred bowes,

The stryng s well ydyght,

An hundred shefe of arow s gode,

The hedys burneshed full bryght;

And euery arowe an ell longe,

With pecok wel idyght,

Inocked all with whyte siluer;

It was a semely syght.

He purueyed hym an [hondreth men],

Well harness[ed in that stede],

And hym selfe in that same sete,

And clothed in whyte and rede.

He bare a launsgay in his honde,

And a man ledde his male,

And reden with a lyght songe

Vnto Bernysdale.

But as he went at a brydge ther was a wrastelyng,

And there taryed was he,

And there was all the best yemen

Of all the west countree.

A full fayre game there was vp set,

A whyte bulle vp i-pyght,

A grete courser, with sadle and brydil,

With golde burnyssht full bryght.

A payre of gloues, a rede golde rynge,

A pype of wyne, in fay;

What man that bereth hym best i-wys

The pryce shall bere away.

There was a yoman in that place,

And best worthy was he,

And for he was ferre and frembde bested,

Slayne he shulde haue be.

The knight had ruthe of this yoman,

In plac where he stode;

He sayde that yoman shulde haue no harme,

For loue of Robyn Hode.

The knyght presed in to the place,

An hundreth folowed hym [free],

With bow s bent and arow s sharpe,

For to shende that companye.

They shulderd all and made hym rome,

To wete what he wolde say;

He toke the yeman bi the hande,

And gaue hym al the play .

He gaue hym fyue marke for his wyne,

There it lay on the molde,

And bad it shulde be set a broche,

Drynk who so wolde.

Thus longe taried this gentyll knyght,

Tyll that play was done;

So longe abode Robyn fastinge,

Thre hour s after the none.

Lyth and lystyn, gentilmen,

All that nowe be here;

Of Litell Johnn, that was the knight s man,

Goode myrth ye shall here.

It was vpon a mery day

That yonge men wolde go shete;

Lytell Johnn fet his bowe anone,

And sayde he wolde them mete.

Thre tymes Litell Johnn shet aboute,

And alway he slet the wande;

The proud sherif of Notingham

By the mark s can stande.

The sherif swore a full greate othe:

'By hym that dyede on a tre,

This man is the best arsch re

That euer yet sawe I [me.]

'Say me nowe, wight yonge man,

What is nowe thy name?

In what countre were thou borne,

And where is thy wonynge wane?'

'In Holdernes, sir, I was borne,

I-wys al of my dame;

Men cal me Reynolde Gren lef

Whan I am at home.'

'Sey me, Reyno[l]de Gren lefe,

Wolde thou dwell with me?

And euery yere I woll the gyue

Twenty marke to thy fee.'

'I haue a maister,' sayde Litell Johnn,

'A curteys knight is he;

May ye leu gete of hym,

The better may it be.'

The sherif gate Litell John

Twelue moneth s of the knight;

Therfore he gaue him right anone

A gode hors and a wight.

Nowe is Litell John the sherif s man,

God lende vs well to spede!

But alwey thought Lytell John

To quyte hym wele his mede.

'Nowe so God me help ,' sayde Litell John,

'And by my true leutye,

I shall be the worst seruaunt to hym

That euer yet had he.'

fell vpon a Wednesday

The sherif on huntynge was gone,

And Litel Iohn lay in his bed,

And was foriete at home.

Therfore he was fastinge

Til it was past the none;

'Gode sir stuarde, I pray to the,

Gyue me my dynere,' saide Litell John.

'It is longe for Gren lefe

Fastinge thus for to be;

Therfor I pray the, sir stuarde,

Mi dyner gif me.'

'Shalt thou neuer ete ne drynke,' saide the stuarde,

'Tyll my lorde be come to towne:'

'I make myn auowe to God,' saide Litell John,

'I had leuer to crake thy crowne.'

The boteler was full vncurteys,

There he stode on flore;

He start to the botery

And shet fast the dore.

Lytell Johnn gaue the boteler suche a tap

His backe went nere in two;

Though he liued an hundred ier,

The wors shuld he go.

He sporned the dore with his fote;

It went open wel and fyne;

And there he made large lyueray,

Bothe of ale and of wyne.

'Sith ye wol nat dyne,' sayde Litell John,

'I shall gyue you to drinke;

And though ye lyue an hundred wynter,

On Lytel Johnn ye shall thinke.'

Litell John ete, and Litel John drank,

The whil that he wolde;

The sherife had in his kechyn a coke,

A stoute man and a bolde.

'I make myn auowe to God,' saide the coke,

'Thou arte a shrewde hynde

In ani hous for to dwel,

For to ask thus to dyne.'

And there he lent Litell John

God[ ] strokis thre;

'I make myn auowe to God,' sayde Lytell John,

'These strokis lyked well me.

'Thou arte a bolde man and hardy,

And so thinketh me;

And or I pas fro this place

Assayed better shalt thou be.'

Lytell Johnn drew a ful gode sworde,

The coke toke another in hande;

They thought no thynge for to fle,

But stifly for to stande.

There they faught sore togedere

Two myl way and well more;

Myght neyther other harme done,

The mountnaunce of an owre.

'I make myn auowe to God,' sayde Litell Johnn,

And by my true lewt ,

Thou art one of the best sworde-men

That euer yit sawe I [me.]

'Cowdest thou shote as well in a bowe,

To gren wode thou shuldest with me,

And two times in the yere thy clothinge

Chaunged shuld be;

'And euery yere of Robyn Hode

Twenty merke to thy fe:'

'Put vp thy swerde,' saide the coke,

'And felow s woll we be.'

Thanne he fet to Lytell Johnn

The nowmbles of a do,

Gode brede, and full gode wyne;

They ete and drank theretoo.

And when they had dronkyn well,

Theyre trouth s togeder they plight

That they wo[l]de be with Robyn

That ylk sam nyght.

They dyd them to the tresoure-hows,

As fast as they myght gone;

The lokk s, that were of full gode stele,

They brake them euerichone.

They toke away the siluer vessell,

And all that they mig[h]t get;

Pecis, masars, ne sponis,

Wolde thei not forget.

Also [they] toke the god pens,

Thre hundred pounde and more,

And did them st[r]eyte to Robyn Hode,

Under the gren wode hore.

'God the saue, my der mayster,

And Criste the saue and se!'

And thanne sayde Robyn to Litell Johnn,

Welcome myght thou be.

'Also be that fayre yeman

Thou bryngest there with the;

What tydyng s fro Noty[n]gham?

Lytill Johnn, tell thou me.'

'Well the gretith the proud sheryf,

And sende[th] the here by me

His coke and his siluer vessell,

And thre hundred pounde and thre.'

'I make myne avowe to God,' sayde Robyn,

'And to the Trenyt ,

It was neuer by his gode wyll

This gode is come to me.'

Lytyll Johnn there hym bethought

On a shrewde wyle;

Fyue myle in the forest he ran,

Hym happed all his wyll.

Than he met the proud sheref,

Huntynge with houndes and horne;

Lytell Johnn coude of curtesye,

And knelyd hym beforne.

'God the saue, my der mayster,

And Criste the saue and se!'

'Reynolde Gren lefe,' sayde the shryef,

'Where hast thou nowe be?'

'I haue be in this forest;

A fayre syght can I se;

It was one of the fayrest syghtes

That euer yet sawe I me.

'Yonder I sawe a ryght fayre harte,

His coloure is of grene;

Seuen score of dere vpon a herde

Be with hym all bydene.

'Their tynd s are so sharpe, maister,

Of sexty, and well mo,

That I durst not shote for drede,

Lest they wolde me slo.'

'I make myn auowe to God,' sayde the shyref,

'That syght wolde I fayne se:'

'Buske you thyderwarde, mi der mayster,

Anone, and wende with me.'

The sherif rode, and Litell Johnn

Of fote he was smerte,

And whane they came before Robyn,

'Lo, sir, here is the mayster-herte.'

Still stode the proud sherief,

A sory man was he;

'Wo the worthe, Raynolde Gren lefe,

Thou hast betrayed nowe me.'

'I make myn auowe to God,' sayde Litell Johnn,

'Mayster, ye be to blame;

I was mysserued of my dynere

Whan I was with you at home.'

Sone he was to souper sette,

And serued well with siluer white,

And whan the sherif sawe his vessell,

For sorowe he myght nat ete.

'Make glad chere,' sayde Robyn Hode,

'Sherif, for charit ,

And for the loue of Litill Johnn

Thy lufe I graunt to the.'

Whan they had souped well,

The day was al gone;

Robyn commaunde[d] Litell Johnn

To drawe of his hosen and his shone;

His kirtell, and his cote of pie,

That was fured well and fine,

And to[ke] hym a grene mantel,

To lap his body therin.

Robyn commaundyd his wight yonge men,

Vnder the gren -wode tree,

They shulde lye in that same sute,

That the sherif myght them see.

All nyght lay the proud sherif

In his breche and in his [s]chert;

No wonder it was, in gren wode,

Though his syd s gan to smerte.

'Make glade chere,' sayde Robyn Hode,

'Sheref, for charit ;

For this is our ordre i-wys,

Vnder the gren -wode tree.'

'This is harder order,' sayde the sherief,

'Than any ankir or frere;

For all the golde in mery Englonde

I wolde nat longe dwell her.'

'All this twelue monthes,' sayde Robin,

'Thou shalt dwell with me;

I shall the tech , proud sherif,

An outlaw for to be.'

'Or I be here another nyght,' sayde the sherif,

'Robyn, nowe pray I the,

Smyte of mijn hede rather to-morowe,

And I forgyue it the.

'Lat me go,' than sayde the sherif,

'For saynt charit ,

And I woll be the best[ ] frende

That euer yet had ye.'

'Thou shalt swere me an othe,' sayde Robyn,

'On my bright bronde;

Shalt thou neuer awayte me scathe,

By water ne by lande.

'And if thou fynde any of my men,

By nyght or [by] day,

Vpon thyn oth thou shalt swere

To helpe them tha[t] thou may.'

Nowe hathe the sherif sworne his othe,

And home he began to gone;

He was as full of gren wode

As euer was hepe of stone.

The sherif dwelled in Notingham;

He was fayne he was agone;

And Robyn and his mery men

Went to wode anone.

'Go we to dyner,' sayde Littell Johnn;

Robyn Hode sayde, Nay;

For I drede Our Lady be wroth with me,

Foe she sent me nat my pay.

'Haue no doute, maister,' sayde Litell Johnn;

'Yet is nat the sonne at rest;

For I dare say, and sauely swere,

The knight is true and truste.'

'Take thy bowe in thy hande,' sayde Robyn,

'Late Much wende with the,

And so shal Wyllyam Scarlok,

And no man abyde with me.

'And walke vp vnder the Sayles,

And to Watlynge-strete,

And wayte after some vnketh gest;

Vp-chaunce ye may them mete.

'Whether he be messengere,

Or a man that myrth s can,

Of my good he shall haue some,

Yf he be a por man.'

Forth then stert Lytel Johan,

Half in tray and tene,

And gyrde hym with a full good swerde,

Under a mantel of grene.

They went vp to the Sayles,

These yemen all thre;

They loked est, they loked west,

They myght no man se.

But as [t]he[y] loked in Bernysdale,

By the hy waye,

Than were they ware of two blacke monkes,

Eche on a good palferay.

Then bespake Lytell Johan,

To Much he gan say,

I dare lay my lyfe to wedde,

That [these] monkes haue brought our pay.

'Make glad chere,' sayd Lytell Johan,

'And frese your bowes of ewe,

And loke your hert s be seker and sad,

Your stryng s trusty and trewe.

'The monke hath two and fifty [men,]

And seuen somers full stronge;

There rydeth no bysshop in this londe

So ryally, I vnderstond.

'Brethern,' sayd Lytell Johan,

'Here are no more but we thre;

But we bryng them to dyner,

Our mayster dare we not se.

'Bende your bowes,' sayd Lytell Johan,

'Make all yon prese to stonde;

The formost monke, his lyfe and his deth

Is closed in my honde.

'Abyde, chorle monke,' sayd Lytell Johan,

'No ferther that thou gone;

Yf thou doost, by dere worthy God,

Thy deth is in my honde.

'And euyll thryfte on thy hede,' sayd Lytell Johan,

'Ryght vnder thy hatt s bonde;

For thou hast made our mayster wroth,

He is fastynge so longe.'

'Who is your mayster?' sayd the monke;

Lytell Johan sayd, Robyn Hode;

'He is a stronge thefe,' sayd the monke,

'Of hym herd I neuer good.'

'Thou lyest,' than sayd Lytell Johan,

'And that shall rew the;

He is a yeman of the forest,

To dyne he hath bod the.'

Much was redy with a bolte,

Redly and anone,

He set the monke to-fore the brest,

To the grounde that he can gone.

Of two and fyfty wyght yonge yemen

There abode not one,

Saf a lytell page and a grome,

To lede the somers with Lytel Johan.

They brought the monke to the lodg -dore,

Whether he were loth or lefe,

For to speke with Robyn Hode,

Maugre in theyr tethe.

Robyn dyde adowne his hode,

The monke whan that he se;

The monke was not so curt yse,

His hode then let he be.

'He is a chorle, mayster, by dere worthy God,'

Than sayd Lytell Johan:

'Thereof no force,' sayd Robyn,

'For curteysy can he none.

'How many men,' sayd Robyn,

'Had this monke, Johan?'

'Fyfty and two whan that we met,

But many of them be gone.'

'Let blowe a horne,' sayd Robyn,

'That felaushyp may vs knowe;'

Seuen score of wyght yemen

Came pryckynge on a rowe.

And euerych of them a good mantell

Of scarlet and of raye;

All they came to good Robyn,

To wyte what he wolde say.

They made the monke to wasshe and wype,

And syt at his denere,

Robyn Hode and Lytell Johan

They serued him both in-fere.

'Do gladly, monke,' sayd Robyn.

'Gramercy, syr,' sayd he.

'Where is your abbay, whan ye are at home,

And who is your avow ?'

'Saynt Mary abbay,' sayd the monke,

'Though I be symple here.'

'In what offyce?' sayd Robyn:

'Syr, the hy selerer.'

'Ye be the more welcome,' sayd Robyn,

'So euer mote I the;

Fyll of the best wyne,' sayd Robyn,

'This monke shall drynke to me.

'But I haue grete meruayle,' sayd Robyn,

'Of all this long day;

I drede Our Lady be wroth with me,

She sent me not my pay.'

'Haue no doute, mayster,' sayd Lytell Johan,

'Ye haue no nede, I saye;

This monke it hath brought, I dare well swere,

For he is of her abbay.'

'And she was a borowe,' sayd Robyn,

'Betwene a knyght and me,

Of a lytell money that I hym lent,

Under the g'Rene-wode tree.

'And yf thou hast that syluer ibrought,

I pray the let me se;

And I shall help the eftsones,

Yf thou haue nede to me.'

The monke swore a full grete othe,

With a sory chere,

'Of the borowehode thou spekest to me,

Herde I neuer ere.'

'I make myn avowe to God,' sayd Robyn,

'Monke, thou art to blame;

For God is holde a ryghtwys man,

And so is his dame.

'Thou toldest with thyn own tonge,

Thou may not say nay,

How thou arte her seruaunt,

And seruest her euery day.

'And thou art made her messengere,

My money for to pay;

Therfore I cun the mor thanke

Thou arte come at thy day.

'What is in your cofers?' sayd Robyn,

'Trewe than tell thou me:'

'Syr,' he sayd, 'Twenty marke,

Al so mote I the.'

'Yf there be no more,' sayd Robyn,

'I wyll not one peny;

Yf thou hast myster of ony more,

Syr, more I shall lende to the.

'And yf I fynd [more,' sayd] Robyn,

'I-wys thou shalte it for gone;

For of thy spendynge-syluer, monke,

Thereof wyll I ryght none.

'Go nowe forthe, Lytell Johan,

And the trouth tell thou me;

If there be no more but twenty marke,

No peny that I se.'

Lytell Johan spred his mantell downe,

As he had done before,

And he tolde out of the monk s male

Eyght [hondred] pounde and more.

Lytell Johan let it lye full styll,

And went to his mayster in hast;

'Syr,' he sayd, 'The monke is trewe ynowe,

Our Lady hath doubled your cast.'

'I make myn avowe to God,' sayd Robyn-+--+-

'Monke, what tolde I the?-+--+-

Our Lady is the trewest woman

That euer yet founde I me.

'By dere worthy God,' sayd Robyn,

'To seche all Englond thorowe,

Yet founde I neuer to my pay

A moche better borowe.

'Fyll of the best wyne, and do hym drynke,' sayd Robyn,

'And grete well thy lady hende,

And yf she haue nede to Robyn Hode,

A frende she shall hym fynde.

'And yf she nedeth ony more syluer,

Come thou agayne to me,

And, by this token she hath me sent,

She shall haue such thre.'

The monke was goynge to London ward,

There to holde grete mote,

The knyght that rode so hye on hors,

To brynge hym vnder fote.

'Whether be ye away?' sayd Robyn:

'Syr, to maners in this londe,

Too reken with our reues,

That haue done moch wronge.'

'Come now forth, Lytell Johan,

And harken to my tale;

A better yemen I knowe none,

To seke a monk s male.'

'How moch is in yonder other corser?' sayd Robyn,

'The soth must we see:'

'By Our Lady,' than sayd the monke,

'That were no curteysye,

'To bydde a man to dyner,

And syth hym bete and bynde.'

'It is our old maner,' sayd Robyn,

'To leue but lytell behynde.'

The monke toke the hors with spore,

No lenger wolde he abyde:

'Ask to drynk ,' than sayd Robyn,

'Or that ye forther ryde.'

'Nay, for God,' than sayd the monke,

'Me reweth I cam so nere;

For better chepe I myght haue dyned

In Blythe or in Dankestere.'

'Grete well your abbot,' sayd Robyn,

'And your pryour, I you pray,

And byd hym send me such a monke

To dyner euery day.'

Now lete we that monke be styll,

And speke we of that knyght:

Yet he came to holde his day,

Whyle that it was lyght.

He dyde him streyt to Bernysdale,

Under the gren -wode tre,

And he founde there Robyn Hode,

And all his mery meyn .

The knyght lyght doune of his good palfray;

Robyn whan he gan see,

So curteysly he dyde adoune his hode,

And set hym on his knee.

'God the sau , Robyn Hode,

And all this company:'

'Welcome be thou, gentyll knyght,

And ryght welcome to me.'

Than bespake hym Robyn Hode,

To that knyght so fre:

What ned dryueth the to gren wode?

I praye the, syr knyght, tell me.

'And welcome be thou, ge[n]tyll knyght,

Why hast thou be so longe?'

'For the abbot and the hy iustyce

Wolde haue had my londe.'

'Hast thou thy londe [a]gayne?' sayd Robyn;

'Treuth than tell thou me:'

'Ye, for God,' sayd the knyght,

'And that thanke I God and the.

'But take not a grefe,' sayd the knyght, 'That I haue be so longe;

I came by a wrastelynge,

And there I holpe a por yeman,

With wronge was put behynde.'

'Nay, for God,' sayd Robyn,

'Syr knyght, that thanke I the;

What man that helpeth a good yeman,

His frende than wyll I be.'

'Haue here foure hondred pounde,' than sayd the knyght,

'The whiche ye lent to me;

And here is also twenty marke

For your curteysy.'

'Nay, for God,' than sayd Robyn,

'Thou broke it well for ay;

For Our Lady, by her [hy ] selerer,

Hath sent to me my pay.

'And yf I toke it i-twyse,

A shame it were to me;

But trewely, gentyll knyght,

Welcom arte thou to me.'

Whan Robyn had tolde his tale,

He leugh and had good chere:

'By my trouthe,' then sayd the knyght,

'Your money is redy here.'

'Broke it well,' sayd Robyn,

'Thou gentyll knyght so fre;

And welcome be thou, ge[n]tyll knyght,

Under my trystell-tre.

'But what shall these bow s do?' sayd Robyn,

'And these arow s ifedred fre?'

'By God,' than sayd the knyght,

'A por present to the.'

'Come now forth, Lytell Johan,

And go to my treasur ,

And brynge me there foure hondred pounde;

The monke ouer-tolde it me.

'Haue here foure hondred pounde,

Thou gentyll knyght and trewe,

And bye hors and harnes good,

And gylte thy spores all newe.

'And yf thou fayle ony spendynge,

Com to Robyn Hode,

And by my trouth thou shalt none fayle,

The whyles I haue any good.

'And broke well thy foure hondred pound,

Whiche I lent to the,

And make thy selfe no more so bare,

By the counsell of me.'

Thus than holpe hym good Robyn,

The knyght all of his care:

God, that syt in heuen hye,

Graunte vs well to fare!

Now hath the knyght his leue i-take,

And wente hym on his way;

Robyn Hode and his mery men

Dwelled styll full many a day.

Lyth and lysten, gentil men,

And herken what I shall say,

How the proud[ ] sheryfe of Notyngham

Dyde crye a full fayre play;

That all the best archers of the north

Sholde come vpon a day,

And [he] that shoteth allther best

The game shall bere a way.

He that shoteth allther best,

Furthest fayre and lowe,

At a payre of fynly buttes,

Under the gren -wode shawe,

A ryght good arowe he shall haue,

The shaft of syluer whyte,

The hede and the feders of ryche red golde,

In Englond is none lyke.

This than herde good Robyn,

Under his trystell-tre:

'Make you redy, ye wyght yonge men;

That shotynge wyll I se.

'Buske you, my mery yonge men,

Ye shall go with me;

And I wyll wete the shryu s fayth,

Trewe and yf he be.'

Whan they had theyr bowes i-bent,

Theyr takles fedred fre,

Seuen score of wyght yonge men

Stode by Robyns kne.

Whan they cam to Notyngham,

The buttes were fayre and longe;

Many was the bolde archere

That shoted with bow s stronge.

'There shall but syx shote with me;

The other shal kepe my he[ue]de,

And stand with good bow s bent,

That I be not desceyued.'

The fourth outlawe his bowe gan bende,

And that was Robyn Hode,

And that behelde the proud[ ] sheryfe,

All by the but [as] he stode.

Thry s Robyn shot about,

And alway he slist the wand,

And so dyde good Gylberte

Wyth the whyt hande.

Lytell Johan and good Scatheloke

Were archers good and fre;

Lytell Much and good Reynolde,

The worste wolde they not be.

Whan they had shot aboute,

These archours fayre and good,

Euermore was the best,

For soth, Robyn Hode.

Hym was delyuered the good arowe,

For best worthy was he;

He toke the yeft so curteysly,

To gren wode wolde he.

They cryed out on Robyn Hode,

And grete horn s gan they blowe:

'Wo worth the, treason!' sayd Robyn,

'Full euyl thou art to knowe.

'And wo be thou! thou proud sheryf,

Thus gladdynge thy gest;

Other wyse thou behot me

In yonder wylde forest.

'But had I the in gren wode,

Under my trystell-tre,

Thou sholdest leue me a better wedde

Than thy trewe lewt .'

Full many a bow there was bent,

And arow s let they glyde;

Many a kyrtell there was rent,

And hurt many a syde.

The outlawes shot was so stronge

That no man myght them dryue,

And the proud[ ] sheryf s men,

They fled away full blyue.

Robyn sawe the busshement to-broke,

In gren wode he wolde haue be;

Many an arowe there was shot

Amonge that company.

Lytell Johan was hurte full sore,

With an arowe in his kne,

That he myght neyther go nor ryde;

It was full grete pyt .

'Mayster,' then sayd Lytell Johan,

'If euer thou loue[d]st me,

And for that ylk lord s loue

That dyed vpon a tre,

'And for the medes of my seruyce,

That I haue serued the,

Lete neuer the proud sheryf

Alyue now fynd me.

'But take out thy brown swerde,

And smyte all of my hede,

And gyue me wound s depe and wyde;

No lyfe on me be lefte.'

'I wolde not that,' sayd Robyn,

'Johan, that thou were slawe,

For all the golde in mery Englonde,

Though it lay now on a rawe.'

'God forbede,' sayd Lytell Much,

'That dyed on a tre,

That thou sholdest, Lytell Johan,

Parte our company.'

Up he toke hym on his backe,

And bare hym well a myle;

Many a tyme he layd hym downe,

And shot another whyle.

n was there a fayre castell,

A lytell within the wode;

Double-dyched it was about,

And walled, by the rode.

And there dwelled that gentyll knyght,

Syr Rychard at the Lee,

That Robyn had lent his good,

Under the gren -wode tree.

In he toke good Robyn,

And all his company:

'Welcome be thou, Robyn Hode,

Welcome arte thou to me;

'And moche [I] thanke the of thy confort,

And of thy curteysye,

And of thy gret kynd nesse,

Under the gren -wode tre.

'I loue no man in all this worlde

So much as I do the;

For all the proud[ ] sheryf of Notyngham,

Ryght here shalt thou be.

'Shyt the gates, and drawe the brydge,

And let no man come in,

And arme you well, and make you redy,

And to the walles ye wynne.

'For one thynge, Robyn, I the behote;

Iswere by Saynt Quyntyne,

These forty dayes thou wonnest with me,

To soupe, ete, and dyne.'

Bordes were layde, and clothes were spredde,

Redely and anone;

Robyn Hode and his mery men

To met can they gone.

Lythe and lysten, gentylmen,

And herkyn to your songe;

Howe the proud shyref of Notyngham,

And men of armys stronge,

Full fast cam to the hy shyref,

The contr vp to route,

And they besette the knyght s castell,

The wall s all aboute.

The proud shyref loude gan crye,

And sayde, Thou traytour knight,

Thou kepest here the kynges enemys,

Agaynst the lawe and right.

'Syr, I wyll auowe that I haue done,

The dedys that here be dyght,

Vpon all the land s that I haue,

As I am a trew knyght.

'Wende furth, sirs, on your way,

And do no more to me

Tyll ye wyt oure kyng s wille,

What he wyll say to the.'

The shyref thus had his answere,

Without any lesynge;

[Fu]rth he yede to London towne,

All for to tel our kinge.

Ther he telde him of that knight,

And eke of Robyn Hode,

And also of the bolde archars,

That were soo noble and gode.

'He wyll auowe that he hath done,

To mayntene the outlawes stronge;

He wyll be lorde, and set you at nought,

In all the northe londe.'

'I wil be at Notyngham,' saide our kynge,

'Within this fourteenyght,

And take I wyll Robyn Hode,

And so I wyll that knight.

'Go nowe home, shyref,' sayde our kynge,

'And do as I byd the;

And ordeyn gode archers ynowe,

Of all the wyd contr .'

The shyref had his leue i-take,

And went hym on his way,

And Robyn Hode to gren wode,

Vpon a certen day.

And Lytel John was hole of the arowe

That shot was in his kne,

And dyd hym streyght to Robyn Hode,

Vnder the grene-wod tree.

Robyn Hode walked in the forest,

Vnder the leuys grene;

The proud shyref of Notyngham

Thereof he had grete tene.

The shyref there fayled of Robyn Hode,

He myght not haue his pray;

Than he awayted this gentyll knyght,

Bothe by nyght and day.

Euer he wayted the gentyll knyght,

Syr Richarde at the Lee,

As he went on haukynge by the ryuer-syde,

And let [his] hauk s flee.

Toke he there this gentyll knight,

With men of armys stronge,

And led hym to Notyngham warde,

Bounde bothe fote and hande.

The sheref sware a full grete othe,

Bi hym that dyed on rode,

He had leuer than an hundred pound

That he had Robyn Hode.

This harde the knyght s wyfe,

A fayr lady and a free;

She set hir on a gode palfrey,

To gre'Ne wode anone rode she.

Whanne she cam in the forest,

Vnder the gren -wode tree,

Fonde she there Robyn Hode,

And al his fayre men .

'God the sau , god Robyn,

And all thy company;

For Our der Ladyes sake,

A bon graunte thou me.

'Late neuer my wedded lorde

Shamefully slayne be;

He is fast bowne to Notingham warde,

For the loue of the.'

Anone than saide goode Robyn

To that lady so fre,

What man hath your lorde [i-]take?

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

'For soth as I the say;

He is nat yet thre myl s

Passed on his way.'

Vp than sterte gode Robyn,

As man that had ben wode:

'Buske you, my mery men,

For hym that dyed on rode.

'And he that this sorowe forsaketh,

By hym that dyed on tre,

Shall he neuer in gren wode

No lenger dwel with me.'

Sone there were gode bow s bent,

Mo than seuen score;

Hedge ne dyche spared they none

That was them before.

'I make myn auowe to God,' sayde Robyn,

'The sherif wolde I fayne see;

And if I may hym take,

I-quyte shall it be.'

And whan they came to Notingham,

They walked in the strete;

And with the proud sherif i-wys

Son can they mete.

'Abyde, thou proud sherif,' he sayde,

'Abyde, and speke with me;

Of some tidinges of oure kinge

I wolde fayne here of the.

'This seuen yere, by dere worthy God,

Ne yede I this fast on fote;

I make myn auowe to God, thou proud sherif,

It is nat for thy gode.'

Robyn bent a full goode bowe,

An arrowe he drowe at wyll;

He hit so the proud sherife

Vpon the grounde he lay full still.

And or he myght vp aryse,

On his fete to stonde,

He smote of the sherifs hede

With his bright[ ] bronde.

'Lye thou there, thou proud sherife,

Euyll mote thou cheue!

There myght no man to the truste

The whyles thou were a lyue.'

His men drewe out theyr bryght swerdes,

That were so sharpe and kene,

And layde on the sheryues men,

And dryued them downe bydene.

Robyn stert to that knyght,

And cut a two his bonde,

And toke hym in his hand a bowe,

And bad hym by hym stonde.

'Leue thy hors the behynde,

And lerne for to renne;

Thou shalt with me to gren wode,

Through myr , mosse, and fenne.

'Thou shalt with me to gren wode,

Without ony leasynge,

Tyll that I haue gete vs grace

Of Edwarde, our comly kynge.'

The kynge came to Notynghame,

With knyght s in grete araye,

For to take that gentyll knyght

And Robyn Hode, and yf he may.

He asked men of that countr

After Robyn Hode,

And after that gentyll knyght,

That was so bolde and stout.

Whan they had tolde hym the case

Our kynge vnderstode ther tale,

And seased in his honde

The knyght s lond s all.

All the passe of Lancasshyre

He went both ferre and nere,

Tyll he came to Plomton Parke;

He faylyd many of his dere.

There our kynge was wont to se

Herd s many one,

He coud vnneth fynde one dere,

That bare ony good horne.

The kynge was wonder wroth withall,

And swore by the Trynyt ,

'I wolde I had Robyn Hode,

With eyen I myght hym se.

'And he that wolde smyte of the knyght s hede,

And brynge it to me,

He shall haue the knyght s londes,

Syr Rycharde at the Le.

'I gyue it hym with my charter,

And sele it [with] my honde,

To haue and holde for euer more,

In all mery Englonde.'

Than bespake a fayre olde knyght,

That was treue in his fay:

A, my leeg lorde the kynge,

One worde I shall you say.

There is no man in this countr

May haue the knyght s londes,

Whyle Robyn Hode may ryde of gone,

And bere a bowe in his hondes,

That he ne shall lese his hede,

That is the best ball in his hode:

Giue 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 countr that he were.

But alway went good Robyn

By halke and eke by hyll,

And alway slewe the kyng s dere,

And welt them at his wyll.

Than bespake a proude fostere,

That stode by our kyng s kne;

Yf ye wyll se good Robyn,

Ye must do after me.

Take fyue of the best knyght s

That be in your lede,

And walke downe by yon abbay,

And gete you monk s wede.

And I wyll be your led s-man,

And lede you the way,

And or ye come to Notyngham,

Myn hede then dare I lay,

That ye shall mete with good Robyn,

On lyue yf that he be;

Or ye come to Notyngham,

With eyen ye shall hym se.

Full hast[ ]ly our kynge was dyght,

So were his knyght s fyue,

Euerych of them in monk s wede,

And hasted them thyder blyve.

Our kynge was grete aboue his cole,

A brode hat on his crowne,

Ryght as he were abbot-lyke,

They rode up in-to the towne.

Styf bot s our kynge had on,

Forsoth as I you say;

He rode syngynge to gren wode,

The couent was clothed in graye.

His male-hors and his gret somers

Folowed our kynge behynde,

Tyll they came to gren wode,

A myle vnder 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.

Robyn toke the kyng s hors,

Hast ly in that stede,

And sayd, Syr abbot, by your leue,

A whyle ye must abyde.

'We be yemen of this foreste,

Vnder the gren -wode tre;

We lyue by our kyng s dere,

[Other shyft haue not wee.]

'And ye haue chyrches and rent s both,

And gold full grete plent ;

Gyue vs some of your spendynge,

For saynt[ ] charyt .'

Than bespake our cumly kynge,

Anone than sayd he;

I brought no more to gren wode

But forty pounde with me.

I haue layne at Notyngham

This fourtynyght with our kynge,

And spent I haue full moche good,

On many a grete lordynge.

And I haue but forty pounde,

No more than haue I me;

But yf I had an hondred pounde,

I wolde vouch it safe on the.

Robyn toke the forty pounde,

And departed it in two partye;

Halfendell he gaue his mery men,

And bad them mery to be.

Full curteysly Robyn gan say;

Syr, haue this for your spendyng;

We shall mete another 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 brod targe,

And sone he lete hym se;

Robyn coud his courteysy,

And set hym on his kne.

'I loue no man in all the worlde

So well as I do my kynge;

Welcome is my lord s seale;

And, monke, for thy tydynge,

'Syr abbot, for thy tydynges,

To day thou shalt dyne with me,

For the loue 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 gan blowe;

Seuen score of wyght yonge men

Came redy on a rowe.

All they kneled on theyr kne,

Full fayre before Robyn:

The kynge sayd hym selfe vntyll,

And swore by Saynt Austyn,

'Here is a wonder semely syght;

Me thynketh, by Godd s pyne,

His men are more at his byddynge

Then my men be at myn.'

Full hast[ ]ly was theyr dyner idyght,

And therto gan they gone;

They serued our kynge with al theyr myght,

Both Robyn and Lytell Johan.

Anone before our kynge was set

The fatt venyson,

The good whyte brede, the good rede wyne,

And therto the fyne ale and browne.

'Make good chere,' said Robyn,

'Abbot, for charyt ;

And for this ylk 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 stert all in hast,

Theyr bow s were smartly bent;

Our kynge was neuer so sore agast,

He wende to haue be shente.

Two yerd s there were vp set,

Thereto gan they gange;

By fyfty pase, our kynge sayd,

The merk s were to longe.

On euery syde a rose-garlonde,

They shot vnder the lyne:

'Who so fayleth of the rose-garlonde,' sayd Robyn,

'His takyll he shall tyne,

'And yelde it to his mayster,

Be it neuer so fyne;

For no man wyll I spare,

So drynke I ale or wyne:

'And bere a buffet on his hede,

I-wys ryght all bare:'

And all that fell in Robyns lote,

He smote them wonder sare.

Twyse Robyn shot aboute,

And euer he cleued the wande,

And so dyde good Gylberte

With the Whyt Hande.

Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke,

For nothynge wolde they spare;

When they fayled of the garlonde,

Robyn smote them full sore.

At the last shot that Robyn shot,

For all his frend s fare,

Yet he fayled of the garlonde

Thre fyngers and mare.

Than bespake good Gylberte,

And thus he gan say;

'Mayster,' he sayd, 'your takyll is lost,

Stande forth and take your pay.'

'If it be so,' sayd Robyn,

'That may no better be,

Syr abbot, I delyuer the myn arowe,

I pray the, syr, serue thou me.'

'It falleth not for myn ordre,' sayd our kynge,

'Robyn, by thy leue,

For to smyte no good yeman,

For doute I sholde hym greue.'

'Smyte on boldely,' sayd Robyn,

'I giue the larg leue:'

Anone our kynge, with that worde,

He folde vp his sleue,

And sych a buffet he gaue 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 shete:'

Thus our kynge and Robyn Hode

Togeder gan they mete.

Robyn beheld our comly kynge

Wystly in the face,

So dyde Syr Rycharde 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 our kynge,

'Vnder your trystyll-tre,

Of thy goodnesse and thy grace,

For my men and me!'

'Yes, for God,' sayd Robyn,

'And also God me saue,

I ask mersy, my lorde the kynge,

And for my men I craue.'

'Yes, for God,' than sayd our kynge,

'And therto sent I me,

With that thou leue the gren wode,

And all thy company;

'And come home, syr, to my courte,

And there dwell with me.'

'I make myn avowe to God,' sayd Robyn,

'And ryght so shall it be.

'I wyll come to your courte,

Your seruyse for to se,

And brynge with me of my men

Seuen score and thre.

'But me lyk well your seruyse,

I [wyll] come agayne full soone,

And shote at the donn dere,

As I am wonte to done.'

'Haste thou ony gren cloth,' sayd our kynge,

'That thou wylte sell nowe to me?'

'Ye, for God,' sayd Robyn,

'Thyrty yerd s and thre.'

'Robyn,' sayd our kynge,

'Now pray I the,

Sell me some of that cloth,

To me and my meyn .'

'Yes, for God,' then sayd Robyn,

'Or elles I were a fole;

Another day ye wyll me clothe,

I trowe, ayenst the Yole.'

The kynge kest of his col then,

A grene garment he dyde on,

And euery knyght also, i-wys,

Another had full sone.

Whan they were clothed in Lyncolne grene,

They keste away theyr graye;

'Now we shall to Notyngham,'

All thus our kynge gan say.

They bente theyr bowes, 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 help ,' sayd our kynge,

'Thy game is nought to lere;

I sholde not get a shote of the,

Though I shote all this yere.'

All the people of Notyngham

They stode and behelde;

They sawe nothynge but mantels of grene

That couered all the felde.

Than euery man to other gan say,

I drede our kynge be slone;

Com Robyn Hode to the towne, i-wys

On lyue he lefte neuer one.'

Full hast[ ]ly they began to fle,

Both yemen and knaues,

And olde wyues that myght euyll goo,

They hypped on theyr staues.

The kynge l[o]ughe full fast,

And commaunded them agayne;

When they se our comly kynge,

I-wys they were full fayne.

They ete and dranke, and made them glad,

And sange with not s hye;

Than bespake our comly kynge

To Syr Rycharde at the Lee.

He gaue hym there his londe agayne,

A good man he bad hym be;

Robyn thanked our comly kynge,

And set hym on his kne.

Had robyn dwelled in the kyng s courte

But twelue monethes and thre,

That [he had] spent an hondred pounde,

And all his mennes fe.

In euery place where Robyn came

Euer more he layde downe,

Both for knyght s 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 Scathlocke,

With hym all for to gone.

Robyn sawe yonge men shote

Full fayre vpon 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 compted 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.'

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 Magdaleyne,

And thereto wolde I be.

'I myght neuer in this seuen nyght

No tyme to slepe ne wynke,

Nother all these seuen dayes

Nother ete ne drynke.

'Me longeth sore to Bernysdale,

I may not be therfro;

Barefote and wolwarde I haue hyght

Thyder for to go.'

'Yf it be so,' than sayd our kynge,

'It may no better be,

Seuen nyght I gyue the leue,

No lengre, to dwell fro me.'

'Gramercy, lorde,' then sayd Robyn,

And set hym on his kne;

He toke his leu full courteysly.

To gren wode then went he.

Whan he came to gren wode,

In a mery mornynge,

There he herde the not s small

Of byrd s mery syngynge.

'It is ferre gone,' sayd Robyn,

'That I was last here;

Me lyste a lytell for to shote

At the donn dere.'

Robyn slewe a full grete harte;

His horne than gan he blow,

That all the outlawes of that forest

That horne coud they knowe,

And gadred them togyder,

In a lytell throwe.

Seuen score of wyght yonge men

Came redy on a rowe,

And fayre dyde of theyr hodes,

And set them on theyr kne:

'Welcome,' they sayd, 'our [der ] mayster,

Under this gren -wode tre.

Robyn dwelled in gren wode

Twenty yere and two;

For all drede of Edwarde our kynge,

Agayne wolde he not goo.

Yet he was begyled, i-wys,

Through a wycked woman,

The pryoresse of Kyrk sly,

That nye was of hys kynne:

For the loue of a knyght,

Syr Roger of Donkesly,

That was her own speciall;

Full euyll mot they the!

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 Kyrke[s]ly,

Craftely to be leten blode.'

Syr Roger of Donkestere,

By the pryoresse he lay,

And there they betrayed good Robyn Hode,

Through theyr fals playe.

Cryst haue mercy on his soule,

That dyed on the rode!

For he was a good outlawe,

And dyde pore men moch god.