William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.
Robin Hood and the MonkAnonymous
I
And leves be large and longe,
Hit is full mery in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song.
And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow hem in the levës grene,
Undur the grene-wode tre.
Erly in a May mornyng,
The son up fayre can shyne,
And the briddis mery can syng.
‘Be hym that dyed on tre;
A more mery man than I am one
Lyves not in Cristiandë.’
Litull John can sey,
‘And thynk hit is a full fayre tyme
In a mornyng of may.’
‘And does my hert mych woo,
That I may nor no solem day
Yo mas nor matyns goo.
‘Syn I my Sauyour see;
Today wil I to Notyngham,’ seid Robyn,
‘With the myght of mylde Mary.’
Euer more wel hym betyde!
‘Take twelve of thi wyght yemen
Well weppynd, be thei side,
Such on wolde thi selfe slon
That twelve dar not abyde.’
‘Be my feith I wil none haue;
But Litull John shall beyre my bow
Til that me list to drawe.’
‘Maister, and I wil beyre myne,
And we will shete a peny,’ seid Litull Jon,
‘Under the grene-wode lyne.’
‘In feith, Litull John, with the,
But euer for on as thou shetis,’ seid Robyn,
‘In feith I holde the thre.’
Bothe at buske and brome,
Til Litull John wan of his maister
Five shillings to hose and shone.
As they went bi the way;
Litull John seid he had won five shillings,
And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.
And smote him with his honde;
Litul Jon waxed wroth therwith,
And pulled out his bright bronde.
‘Thou shuldis by hit ful sore;
Get the a man where thou wilt,
For thou getes me no more.’
Hym selfe mornyng allone,
And Litull John to mery Scherwode,
The pathes he knew ilkone.
Sertenly withouten layn,
He prayed to God and myld Mary
To bryng hym out save agayn.
And knele down before the rode;
Alle that ever were the church within
Beheld wel Robyn Hode.
I pray to God woo he be;
Full sone he knew gode Robyn
As sone as he hym se.
Ful sone and anon;
Alle the yatis of Notyngham
He made to be sparred everychon.
Buske the and make the bowne;
I have spyed the kynggis felon,
For sothe he is in this town.
As he stondis at his masse;
Hit is longe of the,’ seide the munke,
‘And ever he fro us passe.
Under the grene-wode lynde,
He robbyt me onys of a hundred pound,
Hit shalle nevre out of my mynde.’
And rade towarde hym yare;
Many was the modur son
To the kyrk with him can fare.
With staves ful gode wone,
‘Alas, alas,’ seid Robyn Hode,
‘Now mysse I Litull John.’
That hangit down be his kne;
Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust,
Thedurwarde wold he.
For sothe as I yow say,
And woundyt many a modur son,
And twelve he slew that day.
Sertanly he brake in too;
‘The smyth that the made,’ seid Robyn,
‘I pray God wyrke him woo.
‘Alasse, agayn my wylle;
But if I may fle these traytors fro,
I wot thei wil me kyll.’
Throout hem everilkon;
Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede,
And lay still as any stone.
Non of theym were in her mynde
But only Litull Jon.
‘For his luf that dyed on tre;
Ye that shulde be dughty men,
Hit is gret shame to se.
And yet scapyd away;
Pluk up your hertis, and leve this mone,
And harkyn what I shal say.
And yet wil, securly;
Therefor I trust in hir specialy
No wyckud deth shal he dye.
And let this mournyng be,
And I shal be the munkis gyde,
With the myght of mylde Mary.
‘We will go but we too;
‘And I mete hym,’ seid Litul John,
Under the levys smale,
And spare non of this venyson
That gose in thys vale.’
Litul John and Moche on fere,
And lokid on Moch emys hows
The hye way lay full nere.
And lokid forth at a stage;
He was war wher the munke came ridyng,
And with hym a litul page.
‘I can the tel tithyngus gode;
I se wher the munk comys rydyng,
I know hym be his wyde hode.’
As curtes men and hende,
Thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke,
As thei hade bene his frende.
‘Tel us tithyngus, I yow pray,
Off a false owtlay, callid Robyn Hode,
Was takyn yisterday.
Of twenti marke in serten;
If that false owtlay be takyn,
For sothe we wolde be fayn.’
‘Of a hundred pound and more;
I layde furst hande hym apon,
Ye may thonke me therfore.’
‘And we wil when we may;
We wil go with you, with your leve,
And bryng you on your way.
I tell you in certen;
If thei wist ye rode this way,
In feith ye shulde be slayn.’
The munke and Litull John,
John toke the munkis horse be the hede
Ful sone and anon.
For sothe as I yow say,
So did Muche the litull page,
For he shulde not scape away.
John pulled the munke down;
John was nothyng of hym agast,
He lete hym falle on his crown.
And drew owt his swerde in hye;
The munke saw he shulde be ded,
Lowd mercy can he crye.
‘That thou hase browght in bale;
Shalle thou never cum at our kyng,
For to telle hym tale.’
No longer wolde he dwell;
So did Moch the litull page,
For ferd lest he wold tell.
In nouther mosse nor lyng,
And Litull John and Much infere
Bare the letturs to oure kyng.
‘God yow save, my lege lorde,
Jhesus yow save and se.
To speke John was full bolde;
He gaf hym the letturs in his hond,
The kyng did hit unfold.
And seid, ‘So mot I the,
Ther was never yoman in mery Inglond
I longut so sore to see.
Oure kynge can say;
‘Be my trouth,’ seid Litull John,
‘He dyed after the way.’
Twenti pound in sertan,
And made theim yemen of the crown,
And bade theim go agayn.
The scheref for to bere,
To bryng Robyn hym to,
And no man do hym dere.
The sothe as I yow say;
The next way to Notyngham
To take, he yede the way.
The gatis were sparred ychon;
John callid up the porter,
He answerid sone anon.
‘Thou sparris the gates so fast?’
‘Because of Robyn Hode,’ seid the porter,
‘In depe prison is cast.
For sothe as I yow say,
Thei slew oure men upon our wallis,
And sawten us every day.’
And sone he hym fonde;
He oppyned the kyngus privé seell,
And gaf hym in his honde.
He did of his hode anon;
‘Wher is the munke that bare the letturs?’
He seid to Litull John.
‘For sothe as I yow say,
He has made hym abot of Westmynster,
A lorde of that abbay.’
And gaf hym wyne of the best;
At nyght thei went to her bedde,
And every man to his rest.
Dronken of wyne and ale,
Litul John and Moch for sothe
Toke the way unto the jale.
And bade him rise anon;
He seid Robyn Hode had brokyn prison,
And out of hit was gon.
As sone as he herd John calle;
Litul John was redy with a swerd,
And bare hym to the walle.
‘And take the keyes in honde;’
He toke the way to Robyn Hode,
And sone he hym unbonde.
His hed therwith for to kepe,
And ther as the walle was lowyst
Anon down can thei lepe.
The day began to spryng,
The scheref fond the jaylier ded,
The comyn bell made he rynge.
Wheder he be yoman or knave,
That cowthe bryng hym Robyn Hode,
His warison he shuld have.
‘Cum before oure kyng;
For if I do, I wot serten,
For sothe he wil me heng.’
Bothe be strete and stye,
And Robyn was in mery Scherwode
As light as lef on lynde.
To Robyn Hode can he say,
‘I have done the a gode turn for an evyll,
Quyte the whan thou may.
‘For sothe as I yow say;
I have brought the under the grene-wode lyne;
Fare wel, and have gode day.’
‘So shall hit never be;
I make the maister,’ seid Robyn Hode,
Off alle my men and me.’
‘No shalle hit never be,
‘But lat me be a felow,’ seid Litull John,
‘No noder kepe I be.’
Sertan withoutyn layn;
Whan his men saw hym hol and sounde,
For sothe they were ful fayne.
Under the levys smale,
And gete pastes of venyson,
That gode was with ale.
How Robyn Hode was gon,
And how the scheref of Notyngham
Durst never loke hym upon.
In an angur hye,
‘Litul John hase begyled the schereff,
In faith so hase he me.
And that full wel I se,
Or ellis the schereff of Notyngham
Hye hongut shulde he be.
And gaf hem fee with my hond,
I gaf hem grith,’ seid oure kyng,
‘Thorowout all mery Inglond.
‘I say, so mot I the,
For sothe soch a yeman as he is on
In all Ingland ar not thre.
‘I say, be swete seynt John;
He lovys better Robyn Hode,
Then he dose us ychon.
Bothe in strete and stalle;
Speke no more of this matter,’ seid oure kyng,
‘But John has begyled us alle.’
And Robyn Hode i-wysse;
God, that is ever a crowned kyng,
Bryng us all to his blisse!