Ballads of Robin Hood and other Outlaws Part 17

'And I wyll be your ledes-man, And lede you the way, And or ye come to Notyngham, Myn hede then dare I lay,

370.

'That ye shall mete with good Robyn, On lyve yf that he be; Or ye come to Notyngham, With eyen ye shall hym se.'

371.

Full hastely our kynge was dyght, were his knyghtes fyve, Everych of them in monkes wede, And hasted them thyder blyve.

372.

Our kynge was grete above his cole, A brode hat on his crowne, Ryght as he were abbot-lyke, They rode up into the towne.

373.

Styf botes our kynge had on, Forsoth as I you say; He rode syngynge to grene wode; The covent was clothed in graye.

374.

His male-hors and his grete somers Folowed our kynge behynde, Tyll they came to grene wode, A myle under the lynde.

375.

There they met with good Robyn, Stondynge on the waye, And so dyde many a bolde archere, For soth as I you say.

376.

Robyn toke the kynges hors, Hastely in that stede, And sayd, 'Syr abbot, by your leve, A whyle ye must abyde.

377.

'We be yemen of this foreste, Under the grene-wode tre; We lyve by our kynges dere, Other shyft have not we.

378.

'And ye have chyrches and rentes both, And gold full grete plente; Gyve us some of your spendynge, For saynt charyte.'

379.

Than bespake our c.u.mly kynge, Anone than sayd he; 'I brought no more to grene-wode But forty pounde with me.

380.

'I have layne at Notyngham, This fourtynyght with our kynge, And spent I have full moche good On many a grete lordynge.

381.

'And I have but forty pounde, No more than have I me: But if I had an hondred pounde, I wolde vouch it safe on thee.'

382.

Robyn toke the forty pounde, And departed it in two partye; Halfendell he gave his mery men, And bad them mery to be.

383.

Full curteysly Robyn gan say; 'Syr, have this for your spendyng; We shall mete another day'; 'Gramercy,' than sayd our kynge.

384.

'But well thee greteth Edwarde our kynge, And sent to thee his seale, And byddeth thee com to Notyngham, Both to mete and mele.'

385.

He toke out the brode targe, And sone he lete hym se; Robyn coud his courteysy, And set hym on his kne.

386.

'I love no man in all the worlde So well as I do my kynge; Welcome is my lordes seale; And, monke, for thy tydynge,

387.

'Syr abbot, for thy tydynges, To day thou shalt dyne with me, For the love of my kynge, Under my trystell-tre.'

388.

Forth he lad our comly kynge, Full fayre by the honde; Many a dere there was slayne, And full fast dyghtande.

389.

Robyn toke a full grete home, And loude he gan blowe; Seven score of wyght yonge men Came redy on a rowe.

390.

All they kneled on theyr kne, Full fayre before Robyn: The kynge sayd hymselfe untyll, And swore by Saynt Austyn,

391.

'Here is a wonder semely sight; Me thynketh, by G.o.ddes pyne, His men are more at his byddynge Then my men be at myn.'

392.

Full hastely was theyr dyner i-dyght, And therto gan they gone; They served our kynge with all theyr myght, Both Robyn and Lytell Johan.

393.

Anone before our kynge was set The fatte venyson, The good whyte brede, the good rede wyne, And therto the fyne ale and browne.

394.

'Make good chere,' said Robyn, 'Abbot, for charyte; And for this ylke tydynge, Blyssed mote thou be.

395.

'Now shalte thou se what lyfe we lede, Or thou hens wende; Than thou may enfourme our kynge, Whan ye togyder lende.'

396.

Up they sterte all in hast, Theyr bowes were smartly bent; Our kynge was never so sore agast, He wende to have be shente.

397.

Two yerdes there were up set, Thereto gan they gange; By fyfty pase, our kynge sayd, The merkes were to longe.

398.

On every syde a rose-garlonde, They shot under the lyne: 'Who so fayleth of the rose-garlonde,' sayd Robyn, 'His takyll he shall tyne,

399.

'And yelde it to his mayster, Be it never so fyne; For no man wyll I spare, So drynke I ale or wyne;

400.

'And bere a buffet on his hede, I-wys ryght all bare': And all that fell in Robyns lote, He smote them wonder sare.

401.

Twyse Robyn shot aboute, And ever he cleved the wande, And so dyde good Gylberte With the Whyte Hande.

402.

Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke, For nothynge wolde they spare; When they fayled of the garlonde, Robyn smote them full sore.