English Poetry I: From Chaucer to Gray.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Traditional Ballads
32. A Gest of Robyn Hode
The Fyfth FytteNow hath the knyght his leve i-take,
And wente hym on his way;
Robyn Hode and his mery men
Dwelled styll full many a day.
And herken what I shall say,
How the proud sheryfe of Notyngham
Dyde crye a full fayre play;
Sholde come upon a day,
And he that shoteth allther best
The game shall bere away.
Furthest fayre and lowe,
At a payre of fynly buttes,
Under the grene wode shawe,
The shaft of sylver whyte,
The hede and feders of ryche rede golde,
In Englond is none lyke.
Under his trystell-tre:
‘Make you redy, ye wyght yonge men;
That shotynge wyll I se.
Ye shall go with me;
And I wyll wete the shryvës fayth,
Trewe and yf he be.’
Theyr takles fedred fre,
Seven score of wyght yonge men
Stode by Robyns kne.
The buttes were fayre and longe;
Many was the bolde archere
That shot with bowës stronge.
The other shal kepe my he [ve] de,
And stande with good bowes bent,
That I be not desceyved.’
And that was Robyn Hode,
And that behelde the proud sheryfe,
All by the but he stode.
And alway he slist the wand,
And so dyde good Gylberte
With the whytë hande.
Were archers good and fre;
Lytell Much and good Reynolde,
The worste wolde they not be.
These archours fayre and good,
Evermore was the best,
For soth, Robyn Hode.
For best worthy was he;
He toke the yeft so curteysly,
To grene-wode wolde he.
And grete hornes gan they blowe:
‘Wo worth the, treason!’ sayd Robyn
‘Full evyl thou art to knowe.
Thus gladdynge thy gest;
Other wyse thou behote me
In yonder wylde forest.
Under my trystell-tre,
Thou sholdest leve me a better wedde
Than thy trewe lewtë.
And arowes let they glyde;
Many a kyrtell there was rent,
And hurt many a syde.
That no man myght them dryve,
And the proud sheryfes men,
They fled away full blyve.
In grene wode he wolde have be;
Many an arowe there was shot
Amonge that company.
With an arowe in his kne,
That he myght neyther go nor ryde;
It was full grete pytë.
‘If ever thou lovedst me,
And for that ylkë lordës love
That dyed upon a tre,
That I have served the,
Lete never the proud sheryf
Alyve now fyndë me.
And smyte all of my hede,
And gyve me woundës depe and wyde;
No lyfe on me be lefte.’
‘Johan, that thou were slawe,
For all the golde in merry Englonde,
Though it lay now on a rawe.’
‘That dyed on a tre,
That thou sholdest, Lytell Johan,
Parte our company.’
And bare hym well a myle;
Many a tyme he layd him downe,
And shot another whyle.
A lytell within the wode;
Double-dyched it was about,
And walled, by the rode.
Syr Rychard at the Lee,
That Robyn had lent his good,
Under the grene-wode tree.
And all his company:
‘Welcome be thou, Robyn Hode,
Welcome art thou to me;
And of thy curteysye,
And of thy grete knydnesse,
Under the grene-wode tre.
So much as I do the;
For all the proud sheryf of Notyngham,
Ryght here shalt thou be.
And let no man come in,
And arme you well, and make you redy,
And to the walles ye wynne.
I swere by Saynt Quyntyne,
These forty dayes thou wonnest with me,
To soupe, ete, and dyne.’
Redely and anone;
Robyn Hode and his merry men
To metë can they gone.