What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
What can a young lassie do wi’an auld man?
--BURNS.
“Here is but five shillings and a ring,” said Little John, “and the
young man has spoken true.”
“Then,” said Robin to the stranger, “if want of money be the cause
of your melancholy, speak. Little John is my treasurer, and he shall
disburse to you.”
“It is, and it is not,” said the stranger; “it is, because, had I not
wanted money I had never lost my love; it is not, because, now that I
have lost her, money would come too late to regain her.”
“In what way have you lost her?” said Robin: “let us clearly know that
she is past regaining, before we give up our wishes to restore her to
you.”
“She is to be married this day,” said the stranger, “and perhaps is
married by this, to a rich old knight; and yesterday I knew it not.”
“What is your name?” said Robin.
“Allen,” said the stranger.
“And where is the marriage to take place, Allen?” said Robin.
“At Edwinstow church,” said Allen, “by the bishop of Nottingham.”
“I know that bishop,” said Robin; “he dined with me a month since, and
paid three hundred pounds for his dinner. He has a good ear and loves
music. The friar sang to him to some tune. Give me my harper’s cloak,
and I will play a part at this wedding.
“These are dangerous times, Robin,” said Marian, “for playing pranks out
of the forest.”
“Fear not,” said Robin; “Edwinstow lies not Nottingham-ward, and I will
take my precautions.”
Robin put on his harper’s cloak, while Little John painted his eyebrows
and cheeks, tipped his nose with red, and tied him on a comely beard.
Marian confessed, that had she not been present at the metamorphosis,
she should not have known her own true Robin. Robin took his harp and
went to the wedding.
Robin found the bishop and his train in the church porch, impatiently
expecting the arrival of the bride and bridegroom. The clerk was
observing to the bishop that the knight was somewhat gouty, and that
the necessity of walking the last quarter of a mile from the road to the
churchyard probably detained the lively bridegroom rather longer than
had been calculated upon.
“Oh! by my fey,” said the music-loving bishop, “here comes a harper in
the nick of time, and now I care not how long they tarry. Ho! honest
friend, are you come to play at the wedding?”
“I am come to play anywhere,” answered Robin, “where I can get a cup of
sack; for which I will sing the praise of the donor in lofty verse, and
emblazon him with any virtue which he may wish to have the credit of
possessing, without the trouble of practising.
“A most courtly harper,” said the bishop; “I will fill thee with sack; I
will make thee a walking butt of sack, if thou wilt delight my ears with
thy melodies.”
“That will I,” said Robin; “in what branch of my art shall I exert my
faculty? I am passing well in all, from the anthem to the glee, and from
the dirge to the coranto.”
“It would be idle,” said the bishop, “to give thee sack for playing me
anthems, seeing that I myself do receive sack for hearing them sung.
Therefore, as the occasion is festive, thou shalt play me a coranto.”
Robin struck up and played away merrily, the bishop all the while in
great delight, noddling his head, and beating time with his foot, till
the bride and bridegroom appeared. The bridegroom was richly apparelled,
and came slowly and painfully forward, hobbling and leering, and pursing
up his mouth into a smile of resolute defiance to the gout, and of
tender complacency towards his lady love, who, shining like gold at the
old knight’s expense, followed slowly between her father and mother,
her cheeks pale, her head drooping, her steps faltering, and her eyes
reddened with tears.
Robin stopped his minstrelsy, and said to the bishop, “This seems to me
an unfit match.”
“What do you say, rascal?” said the old knight, hobbling up to him.
“I say,” said Robin, “this seems to me an unfit match. What, in the
devil’s name, can you want with a young wife, who have one foot in
flannels and the other in the grave?”
“What is that to thee, sirrah varlet?” said the old knight; “stand away
from the porch, or I will fracture thy sconce with my cane.”
“I will not stand away from the porch,” said Robin, “unless the bride
bid me, and tell me that you are her own true love.”
“Speak,” said the bride’s father, in a severe tone, and with a look of
significant menace. The girl looked alternately at her father and Robin.
She attempted to speak, but her voice failed in the effort, and she
burst into tears.
“Here is lawful cause and just impediment,” said Robin, “and I forbid
the banns.”
“Who are you, villain?” said the old knight, stamping his sound foot
with rage.
“I am the Roman law,” said Robin, “which says that there shall not be
more than ten years between a man and his wife; and here are five times
ten: and so says the law of nature.”
“Honest harper,” said the bishop, “you are somewhat over-officious here,
and less courtly than I deemed you. If you love sack, forbear; for this
course will never bring you a drop. As to your Roman law, and your law
of nature, what right have they to say any thing which the law of Holy
Writ says not?”
“The law of Holy Writ does say it,” said Robin; “I expound it so to say;
and I will produce sixty commentators to establish my exposition.”
And so saying, he produced a horn from beneath his cloak, and blew three
blasts, and threescore bowmen in green came leaping from the bushes and
trees; and young Allen was the first among them to give Robin his sword,
while Friar Tuck and Little John marched up to the altar. Robin stripped
the bishop and clerk of their robes, and put them on the friar and
Little John; and Allen advanced to take the hand of the bride. Her
cheeks grew red and her eyes grew bright, as she locked her hand in her
lover’s, and tripped lightly with him into the church.
“This marriage will not stand,” said the bishop, “for they have not been
thrice asked in church.”
“We will ask them seven times,” said Little John, “lest three should not
suffice.”
“And in the meantime,” said Robin, “the knight and the bishop shall
dance to my harping.”
So Robin sat in the church porch and played away merrily, while his
foresters formed a ring, in the centre of which the knight and bishop
danced with exemplary alacrity; and if they relaxed their exertions,
Scarlet gently touched them up with the point of an arrow.
The knight grimaced ruefully, and begged Robin to think of his gout.
“So I do,” said Robin; “this is the true antipodagron: you shall dance
the gout away, and be thankful to me while you live. I told you,” he
added to the bishop, “I would play at this wedding; but you did not tell
me that you would dance at it. The next couple you marry, think of the
Roman law.”
The bishop was too much out of breath to reply; and now the young couple
issued from church, and the bride having made a farewell obeisance to
her parents, they departed together with the foresters, the parents
storming, the attendants laughing, the bishop puffing and blowing, and
the knight rubbing his gouty foot, and uttering doleful lamentations for
the gold and jewels with which he had so unwittingly adorned and cowered
the bride.