When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre,
And leaves both large and longe,
Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrest
To heare the small birdes songe.
The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
Sitting upon the spraye,
Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,
In the greenwood where he lay.
Now by my faye, sayd jollye Robin,
A sweaven I had this night;
I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,
That fast with me can fight.
Methought they did mee beate and binde,
And tooke my bow mee froe;
If I be Robin alive in this lande,
He be wroken on them towe.
Sweavens are swift, Master, quoth John,
As the wind that blowes ore a hill;
For if itt be never so loude this night,
To-morrow itt may be still.
Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
And John shall goe with mee,
For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen,
In greenwood where the bee.
Then the cast on their gownes of grene,
And tooke theyr bowes each one;
And they away to the greene forrest
A shooting forth are gone;
Until they came to the merry greenwood,
Where they had gladdest bee,
There were the ware of a wight yeoman,
His body leaned to a tree.
A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
Of manye a man the bane;
And he was clad in his capull hyde
Topp and tayll and mayne.
Stand you still, master, quoth Litle John,
Under this tree so grene,
And I will go to yond wight yeoman
To know what he doth meane.
Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,
And that I farley finde:
How offt send I my men beffore
And tarry my selfe behinde?
It is no cunning a knave to ken,
And a man but heare him speake;
And itt were not for bursting of my bowe.
John, I thy head wold breake.
As often wordes they breeden bale,
So they parted Robin and John;
And John is gone to Barnesdale;
The gates he knoweth eche one.
But when he came to Barnesdale,
Great heavinesse there hee hadd,
For he found tow of his owne fellòwes
Were slaine both in a slade.
And Scarlette he was flyinge a-foote
Fast over stocke and stone,
For the sheriffe with seven score men
Fast after him is gone.
One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John,
With Christ his might and mayne:
Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,
To stopp he shall be fayne.
Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
And fetteled him to shoote:
The bow was made of a tender boughe,
And fell down to his foote.
Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
That ere thou grew on a tree;
For now this day thou art my bale,
My boote when thou shold bee.
His shoote it was but loosely shott,
Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
For itt mett one of the sheriffes men,
Good William a Trent was slaine.
It had bene better of William a Trent
To have bene abed with sorrowe,
Than to be that day in the green wood slade
To meet with Little Johns arrowe.
But as it is said, when men be mett
Fyve can doe more than three,
The sheriffe hath taken little John,
And bound him fast to a tree.
Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
And hanged hye on a hill.
But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John,
If itt be Christ his will.
Let us leave talking of Little John,
And thinke of Robin Hood,
How he is gone to the wight yeoman,
Where under the leaves he stood.
Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre,
Good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he:
Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande
A good archere thou sholdst bee.
I am wilfull of my waye, quo' the yeman,
And of my morning tyde.
He lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin;
Good fellow, He be thy guide.
I seeke an outlàwe, the straunger sayd,
Men call him Robin Hood;
Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe,
Than fortye pound so good.
Now come with me, thou wighty yeman,
And Robin thou soone shalt see:
But first let us some pastime find
Under the greenwood tree.
First let us some masterye make
Among the woods so even,
Wee may chance to meet with Robin Hood
Here att some unsett steven.
They cut them downe two summer shroggs,
That grew both under a breere,
And sett them threescore rood in twaine
To shoot the prickes y-fere:
Lead on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood,
Lead on, I doe bidd thee.
Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,
My leader thou shalt bee.
The first time Robin shot at the pricke,
He mist but an inch it froe:
The yeoman he was an archer good,
But he cold never shoote soe.
The second shoote had the wightye yeman,
He shote within the garlànde:
But Robin he shott far better than hee,
For he clave the good pricke wande.
A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd;
Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;
For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
Thou wert better then Robin Hoode.
Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he,
Under the leaves of lyne.
Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robin,
Till thou have told me thine.
I dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee,
And Robin to take Ime sworne;
And when I am called by my right name
I am Guye of good Gisborne.
My dwelling is in this wood, sayes Robin,
By thee I set right nought:
I am Robin Hood of Barnèsdale,
Whom thou so long hast sought.
He that hath neither beene kithe nor kin,
Might have scene a full fayre sight,
To see how together these yeomen went
With blades both browne and bright.
To see how these yeomen together they fought
Two howres of a summers day:
Yet neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy
Them fettled to flye away.
Robin was reachles on a roote,
And stumbled at that tyde;
And Guy was quick and nimble with-all,
And hitt him ore the left side.
Ah deere Lady, sayd Robin Hood, 'thou
That art both mother and may,'
I think it was never mans destinye
To dye before his day.
Robin thought on our ladye deere,
And soone leapt up againe,
And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke,
And he Sir Guy hath slayne.
He took Sir Guys head by the hayre,
And sticked itt on his bowes end:
Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe,
Which thing must have an ende.
Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,
And nicked Sir Guy in the face,
That he was never on woman born,
Cold tell whose head it was.
Saies, Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guye,
And with me be not wrothe,
If thou have had the worst stroked at my hand,
Thou shalt have the better clothe.
Robin did off his gowne of greene,
And on Sir Guy did it throwe,
And hee put on that capull hyde,
That cladd him topp to toe.
The bowe, the arrowes, and litle home,
Now with me I will beare;
For I will away to Barnesdale,
To see how my men doe fare.
Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth.
And a loud blast in it did blow.
That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
As he leaned under a lowe.
Hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe,
I heare now tydings good,
For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blowe,
And he hath slaine Robin Hoode.
Yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blowe,
Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,
Cladd in his capull hyde.
Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy,
Aske what thou wilt of mee.
O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin,
Nor I will none of thy fee:
But now I have slaine the master, he sayes,
Let me go strike the knave;
This is all the rewarde I aske;
Nor noe other will I have.
Thou art a madman, said the sheriffe,
Thou sholdest have had a knights fee:
But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
Well granted it shale be.
When Litle John heard his master speake,
Well knewe he it was his steven:
Now shall I be looset, quoth Litle John,
With Christ his might in heaven.
Fast Robin hee hyed him to Litle John,
He thought to loose him belive;
The sheriffe and all his companye
Fast after him did drive.
Stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robin;
Why draw you mee soe neere?
Itt was never the use in our countrye,
Ones shrift another shold heere.
But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe,
And losed John hand and foote,
And gave him Sir Guyes bow into his hand,
And bade it be his boote.
Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand,
His boltes and arrowes eche one:
When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,
He fettled him to be gone.
Towards his house in Nottingham towne
He fled full fast away;
And soe did all his companye:
Not one behind wold stay.
But he cold neither runne soe fast,
Nor away soe fast cold ryde,
But Litle John with an arrowe soe broad
He shott him into the 'back'-syde.