English Poetry I: From Chaucer to Gray.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Traditional Ballads
32. A Gest of Robyn Hode
The Eighth Fytte‘Haste thou ony grene cloth,’ sayd our kynge,
‘That thou wylte sell nowe to me?’
‘Ye, for God,’ sayd Robyn,
‘Thyrty yerdes and thre.’
‘Now pray I the,
Sell me some of that cloth,
To me and my meynë.’
‘Or elles I were a fole;
Another day ye wyll me clothe,
I trowe, ayenst the Yole.’
A grene garment he dyde on,
And every knyght also, iwys,
Another had full sone.
They keste away theyr graye;
‘Now we shall to Notyngham,’
All thus our kynge gan say.
Shotynge all in-fere,
Towarde the towne of Notyngham,
Outlawes as they were.
For soth as I you say,
And they shote plucke-buffet,
As they went by the way.
Of Robyn Hode that day,
And nothynge spared good Robyn
Our kynge when he did pay.
‘Thy game is nought to lere;
I sholde not get a shote of the,
Though I shote all this yere.’
They stode and behelde;
They sawe nothynge but mantels of grene
That covered all the felde.
‘I drede our kynge be slone;
Come Robyn Hode to the towne, i-wys
On lyve he lefte never one.’
Both yemen and knaves,
And olde wyves that myght evyll goo,
They hypped on theyr staves.
And commaunded theym agayne;
When they se our comly kynge,
I-wys they were full fayne.
And sange with notës hye;
Than bespake our comly kynge
To Syr Richarde at the Lee.
A good man he bad hym be;
Robyn thanked our comly kynge,
And set hym on his kne.
But twelve monethes and thre,
That he had spent an hondred pounde,
And all his mennes fe.
Ever more he layde downe,
Both for knyghtës and for squyres,
To gete hym grete renowne.
He had no man but twayne,
Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke,
With hym all for to gone.
Full faire upon a day;
‘Alas!’ than sayd good Robyn,
‘My welthe is went away.
A styffe and eke a stronge;
I was compted the best archere
That was in mery Englonde.
‘Alas and well a woo!
Yf I dwele lenger with the kynge,
Sorowe wyll me sloo.’
Tyll he came to our kynge:
‘My lorde the kynge of Englonde,
Graunte me myn askynge.
That semely is to se,
It is of Mary Magdaleyne,
And thereto wolde I be.
No tyme to slepe ne wynke,
Nother all these seven dayes
Nother ete ne drynke.
I may not be therfro;
Barefote and wolwarde I have hyght
Thyder for to go.’
‘It may no better be;
Seven nyght I gyve the leve,
No lengre, to dwell fro me.’
And set hym on his kne;
He toke his leve full courteysly,
To grene wode then went he.
In a mery mornynge,
There he herde the notës small
Of byrdës mery syngynge.
‘That I was last here;
Me lyste a lytell for to shote
At the donnë dere.’
His horne than gan he blow,
That all the outlawes of that forest
That horne coud they knowe,
In a lytell throwe.
Seven score of wyght yonge men
Came redy on a rowe,
And set them on theyr kne:
‘Welcome,’ they sayd, ‘our mayster,
Under this grene-wode tre.’
Twenty yere and two;
For all drede of Edwarde our kynge,
Agayne wolde he not goo.
Through a wycked woman,
The pryoresse of Kyrkësly,
That nye was of hys kynne:
Syr Roger of Donkesly,
That was her ownë speciall;
Full evyll mote they the!
Robyn Hode for to sle,
And how they myght best do that dede,
His banis for to be.
In place where as he stode,
‘Tommorow I muste to Kyrke[s]ly,
Craftely to be leten blode.’
By the pryoresse he lay,
And there they betrayed good Robyn Hode,
Through theyr falsë playe.
That dyed on the rode!
For he was a good outlawe,
And dyde pore men moch god.