English Poetry I: From Chaucer to Gray.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Traditional Ballads
32. A Gest of Robyn Hode
The Thirde FytteAll that nowe be here;
Of Litell Johnn, that was the knightes man,
Goode myrth ye shall here.
That yonge men wolde go shete;
Lytell Johnn fet his bowe anone,
And sayde he wolde them mete.
And alway cleft the wande;
The proude sherif of Notingham
By the markes gan stande.
By hym that dyede on a tre,
This man is the best arschere
That ever I dyd see.
What is nowe thy name?
In what countre were thou borne,
And where is thy wonynge wane?’
I-wys al of my dame;
Men cal me Reynolde Grenelef
Whan I am at home.’
Wolde thou dwell with me?
And every yere I woll the gyve
Twenty marke to thy fee.’
‘A curteys knight is he;
The better may it be.’
Twelve moneths of the knight;
Therefore he gave him right anone
A gode hors and a wight.
God lende us well to spede!
But alwey thought Lytell John
To quyte hym wele his mede.
‘And by my true leutye,
I shall be the worst servaunt to hym
That ever yet had he.’
The sherif on huntynge was gone,
And Litel John lay in his bed,
And was foriete at home.
Til it was past the none;
‘Gode sir stuarde, I pray to the,
Gyve me my dynere,’ saide Litell John.
Fastinge thus for to be;
Therfor I pray the, sir stuarde,
Mi dyner gif thou me.’
‘Tyll my lorde be come to towne’:
‘I make myn avowe to God,’ saide Litell John,
‘I had lever to crake thy crowne.’
There he stode on flore;
And shet fast the dore.
His backe went nere in two;
Though he liveth an hundred wynter,
The wors he still shall goe.
It went open wel and fyne;
And there he made large lyveray,
Bothe of ale and of wyne.
‘I shall gyve you to drinke;
And though ye lyve an hundred wynter,
On Lytel Johnn ye shall thinke.’
The whilë that he wolde;
The sherife had in his kechyn a coke,
A stoute man and a bolde.
‘Thou arte a shrewde hyne
In ani householde for to dwel,
For to aske thus to dyne.’
Godë strokis thre;
‘I make myn avowe,’ sayde Lytell John,
‘These strokis lyked well me.
And so thinketh me;
And or I pas fro this place
Assayed better shalt thou be.’
The coke toke another in hande;
But stifly for to stande.
Two mylë way and more;
Myght neyther other harme done,
The mountnaunce of an owre.
‘And by my true lewtë;
Thou art one of the best sworde-men
That ever yit sawe I me.
To grene wode thou shuldest with me,
And two times in the yere thy clothinge
Chaunged shuldë be;
Twenty merke to thy fe;’
‘Put up thy swerde,’ saide the coke
‘And felowes woll we be.’
The nowmbles of a do,
Gode brede and full gode wyne;
They ete and drank theretoo.
Theyre trouthes togeder they plight
That they wolde by with Robyn
That ylkë samë nyght.
As fast as they myght gone;
The lokkes, that were of full gode stele,
They brake them everichone.
And all that thei might get;
Pecis, masars, ne sponis,
Wolde thei not forget.
Thre hundred pounde and more,
And did them streyte to Robyn Hode,
Under the grene wode hore.
And Criste the save and se!’
And thanne sayde Robyn to Litell Johnn
‘Welcome myght thou be.
Thou bryngest there with the;
What tydynges fro Notyngham?
Lytill Johnn, tell thou me.’
And sendeth the here by me
His cok and his silver vessell,
And thre hundred pounde and thre.’
‘And to the Trenytë,
It was never by his gode wyll
This gode is come to me.’
On a shrewde wyle;
Fyve myle in the forest he ran,
Hym happed all his wyll.
Huntynge with houndes and horne;
Lytell Johnn coude of curtesye,
And knelyd hym beforne.
And Criste the save and se!’
‘Reynolde Grenelefe,’ sayde the shyref,
‘Where hast thou nowe be?’
A fayre syght can I se;
It was one of the fayrest syghtes
That ever yet sawe I me.
His coloure is of grene;
Seven score of dere upon a herde
Be with hym all bydene.
Of sexty, and well mo,
That I durst not shote for drede,
Lest they wolde me slo.
‘That syght wolde I fayne se’:
‘Buske you thyderwarde, mi dere mayster,
Anone, and wende with me.’
Of fote he was full smerte,
And whane they came before Robyn,
‘Lo, here is the mayster-herte.’
A sory man was he;
‘Wo the worthe, Raynolde Grenelefe,
Thou hast betrayed me.’
‘Mayster, ye be to blame;
I was mysserved of my dynere
When I was with you at home.’
And served with silver white,
And when the sherif sawe his vessell,
For sorowe he myght nat ete.
‘Sherif, for charitë,
And for the love of Litill Johnn
Thy lyfe I graunt to the.’
The day was al gone;
Robyn commaunded Litell Johnn
To drawe of his hose and shone;
That was fured well and fine
And toke hym a grene mantel,
To lap his body therein.
Under the grene wode tree,
They shulde lye in that same sute
That the sherif myght them see.
In his breche and in his schert;
No wonder it was, in grene wode;
Though his sydes gan to smerte.
‘Sheref, for charitë
For this is our ordre i-wys
Under the grene-wode tree.
‘Than any ankir or frere;
For all the golde in mery Englonde
I wolde nat longe dwell her.’
‘Thou shalt dwell with me;
I shall the teche, proude sherif,
An outlawe for to be.’
‘Robyn, nowe pray I the,
Smyte of mijn hede rather to-morowe,
And I forgyve it the.
‘For sayntë charitë,
And I woll be the best frende
That ever yet had ye.’
‘On my bright bronde;
Shalt thou never awayte me scathe
By water ne by lande.
By nyght or by day,
Upon thyn othe thou shalt swere
To helpe them that thou may.’
And home he began to gone;
He was as full of grene wode
As ever was hepe of stone.