English Poetry I: From Chaucer to Gray.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Traditional Ballads
32. A Gest of Robyn Hode
The Sixth FytteLythe and lysten, gentylmen,
And herkyn to your songe;
Howe the proude shyref of Notyngham,
And men of armys stronge,
The contrë up to route,
And they besette the knyghtes castell,
The wallës all aboute.
And sayde, ‘Thou traytour knight,
Thou kepest here the kynges enemys,
Agaynst the lawe and right.’
The dedys that here be dyght,
Upon all the landës that I have,
As I am a trewe knyght.
And do no more to me
Tyll ye wyt oure kyngës wille,
What he wyll say to the.’
Without any lesynge;
Forth he yede to London towne,
All for to tel our kinge.
And eke of Robyn Hode,
And also of the bolde archars,
That were soo noble and gode.
To mayntene the outlawes stronge;
He wyll be lorde, and set you at nought,
In all the northe londe.’
‘Within this fourteenyght,
And take I wyll Robyn Hode
And so I wyll that knight.
‘And do as I byd the;
And ordeyn gode archers ynowe,
Of all the wyde contrë.’
And went hym on his way,
And Robyn Hode to grene wode,
Upon a certen day.
That shot was in his kne,
And dyd hym streyght to Robyn Hode,
Under the grene wode tree.
Under the levys grene;
The proude shyref of Notyngham
Thereof he had grete tene.
He myght not have his pray;
Than he awayted this gentyll knyght,
Bothe by nyght and day.
Syr Richarde at the Lee,
As he went on haukynge by the ryver-syde,
And lete his haukës flee.
With men of armys stronge,
And led hym to Notynghamwarde,
Bound bothe fote and hande.
Bi him that dyed on rode,
He had lever than an hundred pound
That he had Robyn Hode.
A fayr lady and a free;
She set hir on a gode palfrey,
To grene wode anone rode she.
Under the grene wode tree,
Fonde she there Robyn Hode,
And al his fayre menë.
And all thy company;
For Our dere Ladyes sake,
A bone graunte thou me.
Shamefully slayne be;
He is fast bound to Notinghamwarde,
For the love of the.’
To that lady so fre,
‘What man hath your lorde ytake?’
‘The proude shirife,’ than sayd she.
‘For soth as I the say;
He is nat yet thre mylës
Passed on his way.’
As man that had ben wode:
‘Buske you, my mery men,
For hym that dyed on rode.
By hym that dyed on tre,
Shall he never in grene wode
No lenger dwel with me.’
Mo than seven score;
Hedge ne dyche spared they none
That was them before.
‘The sherif wolde I fayne see;
And if I may him take,
I-quyt then shall he be.’
They walked in the strete;
And with the proude sherif i-wys
Sonë can they mete.
‘Abyde, and speke with me;
Of some tidinges of oure kinge
I wolde fayne here of the.
Ne yede I this fast on fote;
I make myn avowe to God, thou proude sherif,
It is not for thy gode.’
An arrowe he drowe at wyll;
He hit so the proude sherife
Upon the grounde he lay full still.
On his fete to stonde,
He smote of the sherifs hede
With his bright bronde.
Evyll mote thou thryve:
There myght no man to the truste
The whyles thou were a lyve.’
That were so sharpe and kene,
And layde on the sheryves men,
And dryved them downe bydene.
And cut a two his bonde,
And toke hym in his hand a bowe,
And bad hym by hym stonde.
And lerne for to renne;
Thou shalt with me to grene wode,
Through myre, mosse, and fenne.
Without ony leasynge,
Tyll that I have gete us grace
Of Edwarde, our comly kynge.’