William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.
Robin Hood and the KingAnonymous
T
With knyghtës in grete araye,
For to take that gentyll knyght
And Robyn Hode, and yf he may.
After Robyn Hode,
And after that gentyll knyght,
That was so bolde and stout.
Our kynge understode ther tale,
And seased in his honde
The knyghtës londës all.
He went both feere and nere,
Tyll he came to Plomton Parke;
He faylyd many of his dere.
Herdës many one,
He coud unneth fynde one dere,
That bare ony good horne.
And swore by the Trynytë,
‘I wolde I had Robyn Hode,
With eyen I myght hym se.
And brynge it to me,
He shall have the knyghtës londes,
Syr Rycharde at the Le.
And sele it with my honde,
To have and holde for ever more,
In all mery Englonde.’
That was treue in his fay:
‘A, my leegë lorde the kynge,
One worde I shall you say.
May have the knyghtës londes,
Whyle Robyn Hode may ryde or gone,
And bere a bowe in his hondes,
That is the best ball in his hode:
Give it no man, my lorde the kynge,
That ye wyll any good.’
In Notyngham, and well more;
Coude he not here of Robyn Hode,
In what countrè that he were.
By halke and eke by hyll,
And alway slewe the kyngës dere,
And welt them at his wyll.
That stode by our kyngës kne:
‘Yf ye wyll see good Robyn,
Ye must do after me.
That be in your lede,
And walke downe by yon abbay,
And gete you monkës wede.
And lede you the way,
And or ye come to Notyngham,
Myn hede then dare I lay,
On lyve yf that he be;
Or ye come to Notyngham,
With eyen ye shall hym se.’
So were his knyghtës fyve,
Everych of them in monkës wede,
And hasted them thyder blyve.
A brode hat on his crowne,
Ryght as he were abbot-lyke,
They rode up into the towne.
Forsoth as I you say;
He rode syngynge to grene wode,
The covent was clothed in graye.
Folowed our kynge behynde,
Tyll they came to grene wode,
A myle under the lynde.
Stondynge on the waye,
And so dyde many a bolde archere,
For soth as I you say.
Hastely in that stede,
And sayd, ‘Syr abbot, by your leve,
A whyle ye must abyde.
Under the grene-wode tre;
We lyve by our kyngës dere,
Other shift have not wee.
And gold full grete plentë;
Gyve us some of your spendynge,
For saynt chartyë.’
Anone than sayde he;
‘I brought no more to grene-wode
But forty pounde with me.
This fourtynyght with our kynge,
And spent I have full moche good
On many a grete lordynge.
No more than have I me:
But if I had an hondred pounde,
I would give it to thee.’
And departed it in two partye;
Halfendell he gave his mery men,
And bad them mery to be.
‘Syr, have this for your spendyng;
We shall mete another day.’
‘Gramercy,’ than sayd our kynge.
And sent to the his seale,
And byddeth the com to Notyngham,
Both to mete and mele.’
And sone he lete hym se;
Robyn coud his courteysy,
And set hym on his kne.
So well as I do my kynge;
Welcome is my lordës seale;
And, monke, for thy tydynge,
Today thou shalt dyne with me,
For the love of my kynge,
Under my trystell-tre.’
Full fayre by the honde;
Many a dere there was slayne,
And full fast dyghstande.
And loude he gan blowe;
Seven score of wyght yonge men
Came redy on a rowe.
Full fayre before Robyn:
The kynge sayd hym selfe untyll,
And sore by Saynt Austyn,
Me thynketh, by Goddës pyne,
His men are more at his byddynge
Then my men be at myn.’
And therto gan they gone;
They served our kynge with all theyr myght,
Both Robyn and Lytell Johan.
The fatte venyson,
The good whyte brede, the good rede wyne,
And therto the fyne ale and browne.
‘Abbot, for chartyë;
And for this ylkë tydynge,
Blyssed mote thou be.
Or thou hens wende;
Than thou may enfourme our kynge,
Whan ye togyder lende.’
Theyr bowes were swartly bent;
Our kynge was never so sore agast,
He wende to have be shente.
Thereto gan they gange;
By fyfty pase, our kynge sayd,
The merkës were to longe.
They shot under the lyne:
‘Who so fayleth of the rose-garlonde,’ sayd Robyn,
‘His takyll he shall tyne,
Be it never so fyne;
For no man wyll I spare,
So drynke I ale or wyne;
I-wys ryght all bare:’
And all that fell in Robyns lote,
He smote them wonder sare.
And ever he cleved the wande,
And so dyde good Gylberte
With the whytë hande.
For nothynge wolde they spare;
When they fayled of the garlonde,
Robyn smote them full sare.
For all his frendës fare,
Yet he fayled of the garlonde
Thre fyngers and mare.
And thus he gan say;
‘Mayster,’ he sayd, ‘your takyll is lost,
Stande forth and take your pay?’
‘That may no better be,
Syr abbot, I delyver the myn arowe,
I pray the, syr, serve thou me.’
‘Robyn, by thy leve,
For to smyte no good yeman,
For doute I sholde hym greve.’
‘I give the largë leve;’
Anone our kynge, with that worde,
He folde up his sleve,
To grounde he yede full nere:
‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayd Robyn,
‘Thou arte a stalworthe frere.’
‘I trowe thou canst well shete;’
Thus our kynge and Robyn Hode
Togeder gan they mete.
Wystly in the face,
So dyde Syr Rycharde at the Le,
And kneled downe in that place.
Whan they se them knele:
‘My lorde the kynge of Englonde,
Now I knowe you well.’
‘Under your trystyll-tre,
Of thy goodnesse and thy grace,
For my men and me!’
‘And also God me save,
I aske mercy, my lorde the kynge,
And for my men I crave.’
‘And therto sent I me,
With that thou leve the grene wode,
And all thy company;
And there dwell with me.’
‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayd Robyn
‘And ryght so shall it be.
Your servyse for to se,
And brynge with me of my men
Seven score and thre.
I will come agayne full sone,
And shote at the donne dere,
As I am wonte to done.’