Chapter 10
Beside hym stode a gret-hedid munke, I pray to God woo he be; Full sone he knew gode Robyn As sone as he hym se.
Out at the durre he ran Ful sone and anon; Alle the zatis of Notyngham He made to be sparred euerychone.
“Rise vp,” he seid, “thou prowde schereff, Buske the and make the bowne; I haue spyed the kynges felone, For sothe he is in this towne.
“I haue spyed the false felone, As he stondes at his masse; Hit is longe of the,” seide the munke, “And euer he fro vs passe.
“This traytur[s] name is Robyn Hode; Vnder the grene wode lynde, He robbyt me onys of a C pound, Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde.”
Vp then rose this prowd schereff, And zade towarde hym zare; Many was the modur son To the kyrk with him can fare.
In at the durres thei throly thrast With staves ful gode ilkone, “Alas, alas,” seid Robin Hode, “Now mysse I Litulle Johne.”
But Robyne toke out a too-hond sworde That hangit down be his kne; Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust, Thidurward wold he.
Thryes thorow at them he ran, Then for sothe as I yow say, And woundyt many a modur sone, And xii he slew that day.
Hys sworde vpon the schireff hed Sertanly he brake in too; “The smyth that the made,” seid Robyn, “I pray God wyrke him woo.
“For now am I weppynlesse,” seid Robyne, “Alasse, agayn my wylle; But if I may fle these traytors fro, I wot thei wil me kylle.”
Robyns men to the churche ran Throout hem euerilkon; Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede, And lay still as any stone.
* * * * *
Non of theym were in her mynde But only Litulle Jon.
“Let be your dule,” seid Litulle Jon, “For his luf that dyed on tre; Ze that shulde be duzty men, Hit is gret shame to se.
“Oure maister has bene hard bystode, And zet scapyd away; Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone, And herkyn what I shal say.
“He has seruyd our lady many a day, And zet wil securly; Therefore I trust in her specialy No wycked deth shal he dye.
“Therfor be glad,” seid Litul Johne, “And let this mournyng be, And I shall be the munkes gyde, With the myght of mylde Mary.
“And I mete hym,” seid Litull Johne, “We will go but we too . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Loke that ze kepe wel our tristil tre Vnder the levys smale, And spare non of this venyson That gose in thys vale.”
Forthe thei went these zemen too, Litul Johne and Moche onfere, And lokid on Moche emys hows The hyeway lay fulle nere.
Litul John stode at a window in the mornynge, And lokid forth at a stage; He was war wher the munke came ridynge, And with him a litul page.
“Be my feith,” said Litul Johne to Moche, “I can the tel tithyngus gode; I se wher the munk comys rydyng, I know hym be his wyde hode.”
Thei went into the way these zemen bothe As curtes men and hende, Thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke, As thei hade bene his frende.
“Fro whens come ze,” seid Litul Johne, “Tel vs tithyngus, I yow pray, Off a false owtlay [called Robyn Hode], Was takyn zisturday.
“He robbyt me and my felowes bothe Of xx marke in serten; If that false owtlay be takyn, For sothe we wolde be fayne.”
“So did he me,” seid the munke, “Of a C pound and more; I layde furst hande hym apon, Ze may thonke me therefore.”
“I pray God thanke yow,” seid Litulle Johne, “And we wil when we may; We wil go with yow, with your leve, And brynge yow on your way.
“For Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow, I telle yow in certen; If thei wist ze rode this way, In feith ze shulde be slayn.”
As thei went talkyng be the way, The munke an Litulle Johne, Johne toke the munkes horse be the hede Ful sone and anone.
Johne toke the munkes horse be the hed, For sothe as I yow say, So did Muche the litulle page, For he shulde not stirre away.
Be the golett of the hode Johne pulled the munke downe; Johne was nothynge of hym agast, He lete hym falle on his crowne.
Litulle Johne was sore agrevyd, And drew out his swerde in hye; The munke saw he shulde be ded, Lowd mercy can he crye.
“He was my maister,” said Litulle Johne, “That thou hase browzt in bale; Shalle thou neuer cum at our kynge For to telle hym tale.”
John smote of the munkes hed, No longer wolde he dwelle; So did Moche the litulle page, For ferd lest he wold tell.
Ther thei beryed hem both In nouther mosse nor lynge, And Litulle Johne and Muche infere Bare the letturs to oure kyng.
* * * * *
He kneled down vpon—his kne, “God zow sane, my lege lorde, Jesus yow saue and se.
“God yow saue, my lege kyng,” To speke Johne was fulle bolde; He gaf hym tbe letturs in his hond, The kyng did hit unfold.
The kyng red the letturs anon, And seid, “so met I the, Ther was neuer zoman in mery Inglond I longut so sore to see.
“Wher is the munke that these shuld haue browzt?” Oure kynge gan say; “Be my trouthe,” seid Litull Jone, “He dyed aftur the way.”
The kyng gaf Moche and Litul Jon xx pound in sertan, And made theim zemen of the crowne, And bade theim go agayn.
He gaf Johne the seel in hand, The scheref for to bere, To brynge Robyn hym to, And no man do hym dere.
Johne toke his leve at cure kyng, The sothe as I yow say; The next way to Notyngham To take he zede the way.
When Johne came to Notyngham The zatis were sparred ychone; Johne callid vp the porter, He answerid sone anon.
“What is the cause,” seid Litul John, “Thou sparris the zates so fast?” “Because of Robyn Hode,” seid [the] porter, “In depe prison is cast.
“Johne, and Moche, and Wylle Scathlok, For sothe as I yow say, Thir slew oure men vpon oure wallis, And sawtene vs euery day.”
Litulle Johne spyrred aftur the schereff, And sone he hym fonde; He oppyned the kyngus privè seelle, And gaf hyn in his honde.
When the schereft saw the kyngus seelle, He did of his hode anon; “Wher is the munke that bare the letturs?” He said to Litulle Johne.
“He is so fayn of hym,” seid Litulle Johne, “For sothe as I yow sey, He has made hym abot of Westmynster, A lorde of that abbay.”
The scheref made John gode chere, And gaf hym wine of the best; At nyzt thei went to her bedde, And euery man to his rest.
When the scheref was on-slepe Dronken of wine and ale, Litul Johne and Moche for sothe Toke the way vnto the jale.
Litul Johne callid vp the jayler, And bade him ryse anon; He seid Robyn Hode had brokyn preson, And out of hit was gon.
The portere rose anon sertan, As sone as he herd John calle; Litul Johne was redy with a swerd, And bare hym to the walle.
“Now will I be porter,” seid Litul Johne, “And take the keyes in honde;” He toke the way to Robyn Hode, And sone he hym vnbonde.
He gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond, His hed with for to kepe, And ther as the walle was lowyst Anon down can thei lepe.
Be that the cok began to crow, The day began to sprynge, The scheref fond the jaylier ded, The comyn belle made he rynge.
He made a crye thoroowt al the tow[n], Whedur he be zoman or knave, That cowthe brynge hyrn Robyn Hode, His warisone he shuld haue.
“For I dar neuer,” said the scheref, “Cum before oure kynge, For if I do, I wot serten, For sothe he wil me henge.”
The scheref made to seke Notyngham, Bothe be strete and stye, And Robyn was in mery Scherwode As lizt as lef on lynde.
Then bespake gode Litulle Johne, To Robyn Hode can he say, “I haue done the a gode turne for an euylle, Quyte me whan thou may.
“I haue done the a gode turne,” said Litulle Johne, “For sothe as I you saie; I haue brouzt the vnder grene wode lyne; Fare wel, and haue gode day.”
“Nay, be my trouthe,” seid Robyn Hode, “So shalle hit neuer be; I make the maister,” seid Robyn Hode, “Off alle my men and me.”
“Nay, be my trouthe,” seid Litulle Johne, “So shall hit neuer be, But lat me be a felow,” seid Litulle Johne, “Non odur kepe I’ll be.”
Thus Johne gate Robyn Hode out of prisone, Sertan withoutyn layne; When his men saw hym hol and sounde, For sothe they were ful fayne.
They filled in wyne, and made him glad, Vnder the levys smale, And zete pastes of venysone, That gode was with ale.
Than worde came to oure kynge, How Robyn Hode was gone, And how the scheref of Notyngham Durst neuer loke hyme vpone.
Then bespake oure cumly kynge, In an angur hye, “Litulle Johne hase begyled the schereff, In faith so hase he me.
“Litulle Johne has begyled vs bothe, And that fulle wel I se, Or ellis the schereff of Notyngham Hye hongut shuld he be.
“I made hem zemen of the crowne, And gaf hem fee with my hond, I gaf hem grithe,” seid oure kyng, “Thorowout alle mery Inglond.
“I gaf hem grithe,” then seide oure kyng, “I say, so mot I the, For sothe soche a zeman as he is on In alle Ingland ar not thre.
“He is trew to his maister,” seide oure kynge, “I say, be swete seynt Johne; He louys bettur Robyn Hode, Then he dose vs ychone.
“Robyne Hode is euer bond to him, Bothe in strete and stalle; Speke no more of this matter,” seid oure kynge, “But John has begyled vs alle.”
Thus endys the talkyng of the munke And Robyne Hode i-wysse; God, that is euer a crowned kyng, Bryng vs alle to his blisse.
ROBIN HOOD AND THE POTTER
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, corteysse, 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.
Bot as the god yemen stod on a day, Among hes mery manèy, He was war of a prowd potter, Cam dryfyng owyr the ley.
“Yonder comet a prod potter,” seyde Roben, “That long hayt hantyd this wey; He was never so corteys a man On peney of pawage to pay.”
“Y met hem bot at Wentbreg,” seyde 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 arnong hus all A wed schall make hem ley.”
“Her ys forty shillings,” seyde Roben, “Mor, and thow dar say, That y schall make that prowde potter, A wed to me schall he ley.”
Ther thes money they leyde, They toke bot a yeman to kepe; Roben befor the potter he breyde, And bad hem stond stell.
Handys apon hes horse he leyde, And bad the potter 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.”
“What ys they name,” seyde the potter, “For pauage thow ask of me?” “Roben Hod ys mey name, A wed schall thow leffe me.”
“Well well y non leffe,” seyde the potter, “Nor pavag well y non pay; Away they honde fro mey horse, Y well the tene eyls, be me 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.
Roben howt with a swerd bent, A bokeler en 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 seyde, “Yend potter welle steffeley stonde:” The potter, with an acward stroke, Smot the bokeler owt of hes honde;
And ar Roben meyt get hem 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 they stode ender a bow; “Let us helpe owr master,” seyed Lytell John, “Yonder potter els well hem sclo.”
Thes yemen went with a breyde, To ther master they cam. Leytell John to hes master seyde, “He haet the wager won?
“Schall y haff yowr forty shillings,” seyde Lytel John, “Or ye, master, schall haffe myne?” “Yeff they wer a hundred,” seyde Roben, “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; And thow dreyffe forthe yevery day, Thow schalt never be let for me.
“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 therto,” seyde the potter, “Thow schalt feynde me a felow gode; But thow can sell mey pottes well, Come ayen as thow yode.”
“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.”
“Heyt war howte,” seyde Roben, “Felowhes, let me alone; Thorow the helpe of howr ladey, 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.
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 Netynggam, 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 hem sell, Seyde he had be no potter long.
The pottys that wer werthe pens feyffe, He sold 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; On he hem toke of his car, And sende hem to the screffeys weyffe.
Therof sche was foll fayne, “Gramarsey, sir,” than seyde sche; “When ye com to thes contre ayen, Y schall bey of they pottys, so mot y the.”
“Ye schall haffe of the best,” seyde Roben, And swar be the treneytè; Foll corteysley she gan hem call, “Com deyne with the screfe and me.”
“Godamarsey,” seyde Roben, “Yowr bedyng schalle 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.
“Loketh what thes potter hayt geffe yow and me; Feyffe pottys smalle and grete!” “He ys fol wellcom,” seyd the screffe, “Let os was, and go 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, Off forty shillings, the soyt to saye, Who scholde thes wager wen.
Styll than sat thes prowde po, Thos than thowt he; “As y am a trow Cerstyn man, Thes schotyng well y se.”
Whan they had fared of the best, With bred and ale and weyne, To the bottys they made them prest, With bowes and boltys full 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.
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; Thou semyst a stalward and a stronge, Asay schall thow be.”
The screffe commandyd 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 potter, “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.
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.”
“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.”
“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 tree.”
“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.”
“Y well queyt the,” kod the screffe, And swer be god of meythe; 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 joy to sene.
“Her het ys mercy to be,” seyde Roben, “For a man that had hawt to spende; Be mey horne we schall awet Yeff Roben Hode be ner hande.”
Roben set hes horne to hes mowthe, And blow a blast that was full god, That herde hes men that ther stode, Fer downe yn the wodde; “I her mey master,” seyde Leytell 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? How haffe yow solde yowr war?”
“Ye, be mey trowthe, Leytyll 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 that beforen, At Notynggam when we wer, Thow scholde not com yn feyr forest Of all thes thowsande eyr.”
“That wot y well,” seyde Roben, “Y thanke god that ye be 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 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, 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 him, bothe bodey and bon, Y haffe hade a foll grete skorne.
“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 yow payed for all the pottys That Roben gaffe to me.
“Now ye be corn hom to Notynggam, Ye schall haffe god ynowe;” Now speke we of Roben Hode, And of the pottyr onder the grene bowhe.
“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.”
“Thow schalt hafe ten ponde,” seyde Roben, “Of money feyr and fre; And yever whan thou comest to grene wod, Wellcom, potter to me.”
Thes partyd Robyn, the screffe, and the potter, Ondernethe the grene-wod tre; God haffe mersey on Robyn Hodys solle, And saffe all god yemanrey!
ROBIN HOOD AND THE BUTCHER
COME, all you brave gallants, and listen awhile, _With hey down_, _down_, _an a down_, That are in the bowers within; For of Robin Hood, that archer good, A song I intend for to sing.
Upon a time it chancèd so, Bold Robin in forrest did ’spy A jolly butcher, with a bonny fine mare, With his flesh to the market did hye.
“Good morrow, good fellow,” said jolly Robin, “What food hast [thou]? tell unto me; Thy trade to me tell, and where thou dost dwell, For I like well thy company.”
The butcher he answer’d jolly Robin, “No matter where I dwell; For a butcher I am, and to Nottingham I am going, my flesh to sell.”
“What’s [the] price of thy flesh?” said jolly Robin, “Come, tell it soon unto me; And the price of thy mare, be she never so dear, For a butcher fain would I be.”
“The price of my flesh,” the butcher repli’d, “I soon will tell unto thee; With my bonny mare, and they are not too dear, Four mark thou must give unto me.”
“Four mark I will give thee,” saith jolly Robin, “Four mark it shall be thy fee; The mony come count, and let me mount, For a butcher I fain would be.”
Now Robin he is to Nottingham gone, His butchers trade to begin; With good intent to the sheriff he went, And there he took up his inn.
When other butchers did open their meat, Bold Robin he then begun; But how for to sell he knew not well, For a butcher he was but young.
When other butchers no meat could sell, Robin got both gold and fee; For he sold more meat for one peny Then others could do for three.
But when he sold his meat so fast, No butcher by him could thrive; For he sold more meat for one peny Than others could do for five.
Which made the butchers of Nottingham To study as they did stand, Saying, “Surely he ‘is’ some prodigal, That hath sold his fathers land.”
The butchers stepped to jolly Robin, Acquainted with him for to be; “Come, brother,” one said, “we be all of one trade, Come, will you go dine with me?”