English Poetry I: From Chaucer to Gray.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Traditional Ballads
32. A Gest of Robyn Hode
The Fourth FytteThe sherif dwelled in Notingham;
He was fayne he was agone;
And Robyn and his mery men
Went to wode anone.
Robyn Hode sayde, ‘Nay;
For she sent me nat my pay.’
‘Yet is not the sonne at rest;
For I dare say, and savely swere,
The knight is true and truste.’
‘Late Much wende with the,
And so shal Wyllyam Scarlok,
And no man abyde with me.
And to Watlynge-strete,
And wayte after some unketh gest;
Up-chaunce ye may them mete.
Or a man that myrthës can,
Of my good he shall have some,
Yf he be a pore man.’
Half in tray and tene,
And gyrde hym with a full good swerde,
Under a mantel of grene.
These yemen all thre;
They loked est, they loked west,
They myght no man se.
By the hyë waye,
Than were they ware of two blacke monkes,
Eche on a good palferay.
To Much he gan say,
These monkes have brought our pay.
‘And frese our bowes of ewe,
And loke your hertes be seker and sad,
Your strynges trusty and trewe.
And seven somers full stronge;
There rydeth no bysshop in this londe
So ryally, I understond.
‘Here are no more but we thre;
But we brynge them to dyner,
Our mayster dare we not se.
‘Make all yon prese to stonde;
The formost monke, his lyfe and his deth
Is closed in my honde.
‘No ferther that thou gone;
Yf thou doost, by dere worthy God,
Thy deth is in my honde.
‘Ryght under thy hattes bonde,
For thou hast made our mayster wroth,
He is fastynge so longe.’
Lytell Johan sayd, Robyn Hode;
‘He is a stronge thefe,’ sayd the monke,
‘Of hym herd I never good.’
‘And that shall rewë the;
He is a yeman of the forest,
To dyne he hath bodë the.’
Redly and anone,
He set the monke to-fore the brest,
To the grounde that he can gone.
There abode not one,
Saf a lytell page and a grome,
To lede the somers with Lytel Johan.
Whether he were loth or lefe,
For to speke with Robyn Hode,
Maugre in theyr tethe.
The monke whan that he se;
The monke was not so curteyse,
His hode then let he be.
Than sayd Lytell Johan:
‘Thereof no force,’ sayd Robyn,
‘For curteysy can he none.
‘Had this monke, Johan?’
‘Fyfty and two whan that we met,
But many of them be gone.’
‘That felaushyp may us knowe’;
Seven score of wyght yemen,
Came pryckynge on a rowe.
Of scarlet and of raye;
All they came to good Robyn,
To wyte what he wolde say.
And syt at his denere,
Robyn Hode and Lytell Johan
They served him both in-fere.
‘Gramercy, syr,’ sayd he.
‘Where is your abbay, whan ye are at home,
And who is your avowë?’
‘Though I be symple here.’
‘In what offyce?’ said Robyn:
‘Syr, the hye selerer.’
‘So ever mote I the:
Fyll of the best wyne,’ sayd Robyn,
‘This monke shall drynke to me.
‘Of all this longë day;
I drede Our Lady be wroth with me,
She sent me not my pay.’
‘Ye have no nede, I saye;
This monke hath brought it, I dare well swere,
For he is of her abbay.’
‘Betwene a knyght and me,
Of a lytell money that I hym lent,
Under the grene-wode tree.
I pray the let me se;
And I shall helpë the eftsones,
Yf thou have nede to me.’
With a sory chere,
‘Of the borowehode thou spekest to me,
Herde I never ere.’
‘Monke, thou art to blame;
For God is holde a ryghtwys man,
And so is his dame.
Thou may not say nay,
How thou arte her servaunt,
And servest her every day.
My money for to pay;
Therefore I cun the morë thanke
Thou arte come at thy day.
‘Trewe than tell thou me’:
‘Syr,’ he sayd, ‘twenty marke,
Al so mote I the.’
‘I wyll not one peny;
Yf thou hast myster of ony more,
Syr, more I shall lende to the.’
‘I-wys thou shalte it for gone;
For of thy spendynge-sylver, monke,
Thereof wyll I ryght none.
And the trouth tell thou me;
If there be no more but twenty marke,
No peny that I se.’
As he had done before,
And he tolde out of the monkes male
Eyght hondred pounde and more.
And went to his mayster in hast;
‘Syr,’ he sayd, ‘the monke is trewe ynowe,
Our Lady hath doubled your cast.
‘Monke, what tolde I the?—
Our Lady is the trewest woman
That ever yet founde I me.
‘To seche all Englond thorowe,
Yet founde I never to my pay
A moche better borowe.
‘And grete well thy lady hende,
And yf she have nede to Robyn Hode,
A frende she shall hym fynde.
Come thou agayne to me,
And, by this token she hath me sent,
She shall have such thre.’
There to hold grete mote,
The knyght that rode so hye on hors,
To brynge hym under fote.
‘Syr, to maners in this londe,
Too reken with our reves,
That have done moch wronge.’
And harken to my tale;
A better yemen I knowe none,
To seke a monkës male.’
‘The soth must we see’;
By Our Lady,’ than sayd the monke,
‘That were no curteysye,
And syth hym bete and bynde.’
‘It is our olde maner,’ sayd Robyn,
‘To leve but lytell behynde.’
No lenger wolde he abyde:
‘Aske to drynke,’ than sayd Robyn,
‘Or that ye forther ryde.’
‘Me reweth I cam so nere;
For better chepe I myght have dyned
In Blythe or in Dankestere.’
‘And your pryour, I you pray,
And byd hym send me such a monke
To dyner every day.’
And speke we of that knyght:
Yet he came to holde his day,
Whyle that it was lyght.
Under the grene-wode tre,
And he founde there Robyn Hode,
And all his mery meynë.
Robyn whan he gan see,
So curteysly he dyde adoune his hode,
And set hym on his knee.
And all this company’:
‘Welcome be thou, gentyll knyght,
And ryght welcome to me.’
To that knyght so fre:
What nede dryveth the to grene-wode?
I praye the, syr knyght, tell me.
Why hast thou be so longe?’
‘For the abbot and the hye iustyce
Wolde have had my londe.’
‘Treuth than tell thou me’:
‘Ye, for God,’ sayd the knyght,
‘And that thanke I God and the.
I came by a wrastelynge,
And there I holpe a pore yeman,
With wronge was put behynde.’
‘Syr knyght, that thanke I the;
What man that helpeth a good yeman,
His frende than wyll I be.’
‘The whiche ye lent to me;
And here is also twenty marke
For your curteysy.’
‘Thou broke it well for ay;
For Our Lady, by her hye selerer,
Hath sent to me my pay.
A shame it were to me;
But trewely, gentyll knyght,
Welcome arte thou to me.’
He leugh and made good chere:
‘By my trouthe,’ then sayd the knyght,
‘Your money is redy here.’
‘Thou gentyll knyght so fre;
And welcome be thou, gentyll knyght,
Under my trystell-tre.
‘And these arowes ifedred fre?
‘By God,’ than sayd the knyght,
‘A pore present to the.’
And go to my treasurë,
And brynge me there foure hondred pounde;
The monke over-tolde it me.
Thou gentyll knyght and trewe,
And bye thee hors and harnes good,
And gylte thy spores all newe.
Com to Robyn Hode,
And by my trouth thou shalt none fayle,
The whyles I have any good.
Whiche I lent to the,
And make thy selfe no more so bare,
By the counsell of me.’
The knyght all of his care:
God, that syt in heven hye,
Graunte us well to fare!