_HE
"Ah, it's wilt thou come with me, my love?
And it's wilt thou, love, be mine?
For I will give unto thee, my love,
Gay knots and ribbons so fine.
I'll woo thee, love, on my bended knee,
And I'll pipe sweet songs to none but thee.
Then it's hark! hark! hark!
To the winged lark
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
So come thou and be my love.
SHE
"Now get thee away, young man so fine;
Now get thee away, I say;
For my true love shall never be thine,
And so thou hadst better not stay.
Thou art not a fine enough lad for me,
So I'll wait till a better young man I see.
For it's hark! hark! hark!
To the winged lark,
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
Yet never I'll be thy love.
HE
"Then straight will I seek for another fair she,
For many a maid can be found,
And as thou wilt never have aught of me,
By thee will I never be bound.
For never is a blossom in the field so rare,
But others are found that are just as fair.
So it's hark! hark! hark!
To the joyous lark
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
And I'll seek me another dear love.
SHE
"Young man, turn not so very quick away
Another fair lass to find.
Methinks I have spoken in haste today,
Nor have I made up my mind_,
_And if thou only wilt stay with me,
I'll love no other, sweet lad, but thee_."
Here Robin could contain himself no longer but burst forth into a mighty
roar of laughter; then, the holy Friar keeping on with the song, he
joined in the chorus, and together they sang, or, as one might say,
bellowed:
"_So it's hark! hark! hark!
To the joyous lark
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
For the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill
And I'll be thine own true love_."
So they sang together, for the stout Friar did not seem to have heard
Robin's laughter, neither did he seem to know that the yeoman had joined
in with the song, but, with eyes half closed, looking straight before
him and wagging his round head from side to side in time to the music,
he kept on bravely to the end, he and Robin finishing up with a mighty
roar that might have been heard a mile. But no sooner had the last word
been sung than the holy man seized his steel cap, clapped it on his
head, and springing to his feet, cried in a great voice, "What spy have
we here? Come forth, thou limb of evil, and I will carve thee into as
fine pudding meat as e'er a wife in Yorkshire cooked of a Sunday."
Hereupon he drew from beneath his robes a great broadsword full as stout
as was Robin's.
"Nay, put up thy pinking iron, friend," quoth Robin, standing up with
the tears of laughter still on his cheeks. "Folk who have sung so
sweetly together should not fight thereafter." Hereupon he leaped down
the bank to where the other stood. "I tell thee, friend," said he, "my
throat is as parched with that song as e'er a barley stubble in October.
Hast thou haply any Malmsey left in that stout pottle?"
"Truly," said the Friar in a glum voice, "thou dost ask thyself freely
where thou art not bidden. Yet I trust I am too good a Christian to
refuse any man drink that is athirst. Such as there is o't thou art
welcome to a drink of the same." And he held the pottle out to Robin.
Robin took it without more ado and putting it to his lips, tilted his
head back, while that which was within said "glug! lug! glug!" for more
than three winks, I wot. The stout Friar watched Robin anxiously the
while, and when he was done took the pottle quickly. He shook it, held
it betwixt his eyes and the light, looked reproachfully at the yeoman,
and straightway placed it at his own lips. When it came away again there
was nought within it.
"Doss thou know the country hereabouts, thou good and holy man?" asked
Robin, laughing.
"Yea, somewhat," answered the other dryly.
"And dost thou know of a certain spot called Fountain Abbey?"
"Yea, somewhat."
"Then perchance thou knowest also of a certain one who goeth by the name
of the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey."
"Yea, somewhat."
"Well then, good fellow, holy father, or whatever thou art," quoth
Robin, "I would know whether this same Friar is to be found upon this
side of the river or the other."
"That," quoth the Friar, "is a practical question upon which the cunning
rules appertaining to logic touch not. I do advise thee to find that out
by the aid of thine own five senses; sight, feeling, and what not."
"I do wish much," quoth Robin, looking thoughtfully at the stout priest,
"to cross yon ford and strive to find this same good Friar."
"Truly," said the other piously, "it is a goodly wish on the part of one
so young. Far be it from me to check thee in so holy a quest. Friend,
the river is free to all."
"Yea, good father," said Robin, "but thou seest that my clothes are of
the finest and I fain would not get them wet. Methinks thy shoulders are
stout and broad; couldst thou not find it in thy heart to carry me
across?"
"Now, by the white hand of the holy Lady of the Fountain!" burst forth
the Friar in a mighty rage, "dost thou, thou poor puny stripling, thou
kiss-my-lady-la poppenjay; thou--thou What shall I call thee? Dost thou
ask me, the holy Tuck, to carry thee? Now I swear--" Here he paused
suddenly, then slowly the anger passed from his face, and his little
eyes twinkled once more. "But why should I not?" quoth he piously.
"Did not the holy Saint Christopher ever carry the stranger across the
river? And should I, poor sinner that I am, be ashamed to do likewise?
Come with me, stranger, and I will do thy bidding in an humble frame of
mind." So saying, he clambered up the bank, closely followed by Robin,
and led the way to the shallow pebbly ford, chuckling to himself the
while as though he were enjoying some goodly jest within himself.
Having come to the ford, he girded up his robes about his loins, tucked
his good broadsword beneath his arm, and stooped his back to take Robin
upon it. Suddenly he straightened up. "Methinks," quoth he, "thou'lt
get thy weapon wet. Let me tuck it beneath mine arm along with mine
own."
"Nay, good father," said Robin, "I would not burden thee with aught of
mine but myself."
"Dost thou think," said the Friar mildly, "that the good Saint
Christopher would ha' sought his own ease so? Nay, give me thy tool as
I bid thee, for I would carry it as a penance to my pride."
Upon this, without more ado, Robin Hood unbuckled his sword from his
side and handed it to the other, who thrust it with his own beneath his
arm. Then once more the Friar bent his back, and, Robin having mounted
upon it, he stepped sturdily into the water and so strode onward,
splashing in the shoal, and breaking all the smooth surface into ever-
widening rings. At last he reached the other side and Robin leaped
lightly from his back.
"Many thanks, good father," quoth he. "Thou art indeed a good and holy
man. Prythee give me my sword and let me away, for I am in haste."
At this the stout Friar looked upon Robin for a long time, his head on
one side, and with a most waggish twist to his face; then he slowly
winked his right eye. "Nay, good youth," said he gently, "I doubt not
that thou art in haste with thine affairs, yet thou dost think nothing
of mine. Thine are of a carnal nature; mine are of a spiritual nature,
a holy work, so to speak; moreover, mine affairs do lie upon the other
side of this stream. I see by thy quest of this same holy recluse that
thou art a good young man and most reverent to the cloth. I did get wet
coming hither, and am sadly afraid that should I wade the water again I
might get certain cricks and pains i' the joints that would mar my
devotions for many a day to come. I know that since I have so humbly
done thy bidding thou wilt carry me back again. Thou seest how Saint
Godrick, that holy hermit whose natal day this is, hath placed in my
hands two swords and in thine never a one. Therefore be persuaded, good
youth, and carry me back again."
Robin Hood looked up and he looked down, biting his nether lip. Quoth
he, "Thou cunning Friar, thou hast me fair and fast enow. Let me tell
thee that not one of thy cloth hath so hoodwinked me in all my life
before. I might have known from thy looks that thou wert no such holy
man as thou didst pretend to be."
"Nay," interrupted the Friar, "I bid thee speak not so scurrilously
neither, lest thou mayst perchance feel the prick of an inch or so of
blue steel."
"Tut, tut," said Robin, "speak not so, Friar; the loser hath ever the
right to use his tongue as he doth list. Give me my sword; I do promise
to carry thee back straightway. Nay, I will not lift the weapon against
thee."
"Marry, come up," quoth the Friar, "I fear thee not, fellow. Here is thy
skewer; and get thyself presently ready, for I would hasten back."
So Robin took his sword again and buckled it at his side; then he bent
his stout back and took the Friar upon it.
Now I wot Robin Hood had a heavier load to carry in the Friar than the
Friar had in him. Moreover he did not know the ford, so he went
stumbling among the stones, now stepping into a deep hole, and now
nearly tripping over a boulder, while the sweat ran down his face in
beads from the hardness of his journey and the heaviness of his load.
Meantime, the Friar kept digging his heels into Robin's sides and
bidding him hasten, calling him many ill names the while. To all this
Robin answered never a word, but, having softly felt around till he
found the buckle of the belt that held the Friar's sword, he worked
slyly at the fastenings, seeking to loosen them. Thus it came about
that, by the time he had reached the other bank with his load, the
Friar's sword belt was loose albeit he knew it not; so when Robin stood
on dry land and the Friar leaped from his back, the yeoman gripped hold
of the sword so that blade, sheath, and strap came away from the holy
man, leaving him without a weapon.
"Now then," quoth merry Robin, panting as he spake and wiping the sweat
from his brow, "I have thee, fellow. This time that same saint of whom
thou didst speak but now hath delivered two swords into my hand and hath
stripped thine away from thee. Now if thou dost not carry me back, and
that speedily, I swear I will prick thy skin till it is as full of holes
as a slashed doublet."
The good Friar said not a word for a while, but he looked at Robin with
a grim look. "Now," said he at last, "I did think that thy wits were of
the heavy sort and knew not that thou wert so cunning. Truly, thou hast
me upon the hip. Give me my sword, and I promise not to draw it against
thee save in self-defense; also, I promise to do thy bidding and take
thee upon my back and carry thee."
So jolly Robin gave him his sword again, which the Friar buckled to his
side, and this time looked to it that it was more secure in its
fastenings; then tucking up his robes once more, he took Robin Hood upon
his back and without a word stepped into the water, and so waded on in
silence while Robin sat laughing upon his back. At last he reached the
middle of the ford where the water was deepest. Here he stopped for a
moment, and then, with a sudden lift of his hand and heave of his
shoulders, fairly shot Robin over his head as though he were a sack of
grain.
Down went Robin into the water with a mighty splash. "There," quoth the
holy man, calmly turning back again to the shore, "let that cool thy hot
spirit, if it may."
Meantime, after much splashing, Robin had gotten to his feet and stood
gazing about him all bewildered, the water running from him in pretty
little rills. At last he shot the water out of his ears and spat some
out of his mouth, and, gathering his scattered wits together, saw the
stout Friar standing on the bank and laughing. Then, I wot, was Robin
Hood a mad man. "Stay, thou villain!" roared he, "I am after thee
straight, and if I do not carve thy brawn for thee this day, may I never
lift finger again!" So saying, he dashed, splashing, to the bank.
"Thou needst not hasten thyself unduly," quoth the stout Friar. "Fear
not; I will abide here, and if thou dost not cry 'Alack-a-day' ere long
time is gone, may I never more peep through the brake at a fallow deer."
And now Robin, having reached the bank, began, without more ado, to roll
up his sleeves above his wrists. The Friar, also, tucked his robes more
about him, showing a great, stout arm on which the muscles stood out
like humps of an aged tree. Then Robin saw, what he had not wotted of
before, that the Friar had also a coat of chain mail beneath his gown.
"Look to thyself," cried Robin, drawing his good sword.
"Ay, marry," quoth the Friar, who held his already in his hand. So,
without more ado, they came together, and thereupon began a fierce and
mighty battle. Right and left, and up and down and back and forth they
fought. The swords flashed in the sun and then met with a clash that
sounded far and near. I wot this was no playful bout at quarterstaff,
but a grim and serious fight of real earnest. Thus they strove for an
hour or more, pausing every now and then to rest, at which times each
looked at the other with wonder, and thought that never had he seen so
stout a fellow; then once again they would go at it more fiercely than
ever. Yet in all this time neither had harmed the other nor caused his
blood to flow. At last merry Robin cried, "Hold thy hand, good friend!"
whereupon both lowered their swords.
"Now I crave a boon ere we begin again," quoth Robin, wiping the sweat
from his brow; for they had striven so long that he began to think that
it would be an ill-done thing either to be smitten himself or to smite
so stout and brave a fellow.
"What wouldst thou have of me?" asked the Friar.
"Only this," quoth Robin; "that thou wilt let me blow thrice upon my
bugle horn."
The Friar bent his brows and looked shrewdly at Robin Hood. "Now I do
verily think that thou hast some cunning trick in this," quoth he.
"Ne'ertheless, I fear thee not, and will let thee have thy wish,
providing thou wilt also let me blow thrice upon this little whistle."
"With all my heart," quoth Robin, "so, here goes for one." So saying, he
raised his silver horn to his lips and blew thrice upon it, clear and
high.
Meantime, the Friar stood watching keenly for what might come to pass,
holding in his fingers the while a pretty silver whistle, such as
knights use for calling their hawks back to their wrists, which whistle
always hung at his girdle along with his rosary.
Scarcely had the echo of the last note of Robin's bugle come winding
back from across the river, when four tall men in Lincoln green came
running around the bend of the road, each with a bow in his hand and an
arrow ready nocked upon the string.
"Ha! Is it thus, thou traitor knave!" cried the Friar. "Then, marry,
look to thyself!" So saying, he straightway clapped the hawk's whistle
to his lips and blew a blast that was both loud and shrill. And now
there came a crackling of the bushes that lined the other side of the
road, and presently forth from the covert burst four great, shaggy
hounds. "At 'em, Sweet Lips! At 'em, Bell Throat! At 'em, Beauty! At
'em, Fangs!" cried the Friar, pointing at Robin.
And now it was well for that yeoman that a tree stood nigh him beside
the road, else had he had an ill chance of it. Ere one could say "Gaffer
Downthedale" the hounds were upon him, and he had only time to drop his
sword and leap lightly into the tree, around which the hounds gathered,
looking up at him as though he were a cat on the eaves. But the Friar
quickly called off his dogs. "At 'em!" cried he, pointing down the road
to where the yeomen were standing stock still with wonder of what they
saw. As the hawk darts down upon its quarry, so sped the four dogs at
the yeomen; but when the four men saw the hounds so coming, all with one
accord, saving only Will Scarlet, drew each man his goose feather to his
ear and let fly his shaft.
And now the old ballad telleth of a wondrous thing that happened, for
thus it says, that each dog so shot at leaped lightly aside, and as the
arrow passed him whistling, caught it in his mouth and bit it in twain.
Now it would have been an ill day for these four good fellows had not
Will Scarlet stepped before the others and met the hounds as they came
rushing. "Why, how now, Fangs!" cried he sternly. "Down, Beauty! Down,
sirrah! What means this?"
At the sound of his voice each dog shrank back quickly and then
straightway came to him and licked his hands and fawned upon him, as is
the wont of dogs that meet one they know. Then the four yeomen came
forward, the hounds leaping around Will Scarlet joyously. "Why, how
now!" cried the stout Friar, "what means this? Art thou wizard to turn
those wolves into lambs? Ha!" cried he, when they had come still
nearer, "can I trust mine eyes? What means it that I see young Master
William Gamwell in such company?"
"Nay, Tuck," said the young man, as the four came forward to where Robin
was now clambering down from the tree in which he had been roosting, he
having seen that all danger was over for the time; "nay, Tuck, my name
is no longer Will Gamwell, but Will Scarlet; and this is my good uncle,
Robin Hood, with whom I am abiding just now."
"Truly, good master," said the Friar, looking somewhat abashed and
reaching out his great palm to Robin, "I ha' oft heard thy name both
sung and spoken of, but I never thought to meet thee in battle. I crave
thy forgiveness, and do wonder not that I found so stout a man against
me."
"Truly, most holy father," said Little John, "I am more thankful than
e'er I was in all my life before that our good friend Scarlet knew thee
and thy dogs. I tell thee seriously that I felt my heart crumble away
from me when I saw my shaft so miss its aim, and those great beasts of
thine coming straight at me."
"Thou mayst indeed be thankful, friend," said the Friar gravely. "But,
Master Will, how cometh it that thou dost now abide in Sherwood?"
"Why, Tuck, dost thou not know of my ill happening with my father's
steward?" answered Scarlet.
"Yea, truly, yet I knew not that thou wert in hiding because of it.
Marry, the times are all awry when a gentleman must lie hidden for so
small a thing."
"But we are losing time," quoth Robin, "and I have yet to find that same
Curtal Friar."
"Why, uncle, thou hast not far to go," said Will Scarlet, pointing to
the Friar, "for there he stands beside thee."
"How?" quoth Robin, "art thou the man that I have been at such pains to
seek all day, and have got such a ducking for?"
"Why, truly," said the Friar demurely, "some do call me the Curtal Friar
of Fountain Dale; others again call me in jest the Abbot of Fountain
Abbey; others still again call me simple Friar Tuck."
"I like the last name best," quoth Robin, "for it doth slip more glibly
off the tongue. But why didst thou not tell me thou wert he I sought,
instead of sending me searching for black moonbeams?"
"Why, truly, thou didst not ask me, good master," quoth stout Tuck; "but
what didst thou desire of me?"
"Nay," quoth Robin, "the day groweth late, and we cannot stand longer
talking here. Come back with us to Sherwood, and I will unfold all to
thee as we travel along."
So, without tarrying longer, they all departed, with the stout dogs at
their heels, and wended their way back to Sherwood again; but it was
long past nightfall ere they reached the greenwood tree.
Now listen, for next I will tell how Robin Hood compassed the happiness
of two young lovers, aided by the merry Friar Tuck of Fountain Dale.