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To se the dere draw to the dale,
And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow hem in the leves grene
Vndur the grene wode tre.

Hit befel on whitsontide,

Erly in a may mornyng, The son up fayre can shyne,

And the briddis mery can syng.

This is a mery mornyng, seid litulle Johne
Be hym that dyed on tre,

A more mery man then I am one

Lyves not in cristianté.

Pluk thi hert vp

my

dere mayster,

Litulle Johne can sey,

And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme
In a mornynge of may.

Ze on thynge greves me seid Robyne,
And does my hert myche woo,
That I may not so solem day
To mas nor matyns goo.

Hit is a fourtnet and more, seyd hee,
Syn I my sauyour see;

To-day wil I to Notyngham, seid Robyn,
With the myght of mylde Mary.

Then spake Moche the mylner (s) sune,
Euer more wel hym betyde,

Take xii of thi wyght zemen

Welle weppynd be ther side.

Such on wolde thi selfe slon

That xii dar not abyde,

Off alle my mery men,

seid Robyne,

Be my feithe I wil non haue.

But litulle Johne shall beyre my bow

:

Til that me list to drawe

Thou shalle beyre thin own said Litulle Jon, Maister & I will beyre myne,

And we wille shete a peny, seid litulle Jon, Vnder the grene wode lyne.

I wil not shete a peny, seyd Robyn Hode,
In feith litulle Johne with thee,

But euer for on as thou shetes, seid Robyn,
In feith I holde the thre.

Thus shet thei forthe these zemen too
Bothe at buske and brome,

Til litulle Johne wan of his maister
Vs. to hose and shone.

A ferly strife fel them betwene
As they went bi the way;

Litulle John seid he had won v shyllyngs,
And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.

With that Robyn Hode lyed litul Jone,
And smote hym with his honde,
Litul John waxed wroth therwith,

And pulled out his bright bronde.

Were thou not my maister, seid litulle Johne, Thou shuldis by hit ful sore,

Get the a man where thou wilt Robyn,

For thou getes me no more.

Then Robyn goes to Notyngham
Hymselfe mornynge allone,

And litulle Johne to mery Scherewode,
The pathes he knowe alkone.

Whan Robyn came to Notyngham,
Sertenly withoutene layne,
He prayed to God and myld Mary
To brynge hym out saue agayne.

He gos into seynt Mary (s) chirche,
And knelyd downe before the rode,
Alle that euer were the churche within
Beheld wel Robyne Hode.

Beside hym stode a gret hedid munke,
I pray to God woo he be,

Ful sone he knew gode Robyn (Hode)
As sone as he hym se.

Out at the durre he ran

Ful sone and anon,

Alle the zatis of Notyngham

Rise vp, he seid, thou prowde schereff,
Buske the and make the bowne,
I haue spyed the kynges felone,
For sothe he is in this towne.

I haue spyed the false felone,
As he stondes at his masse,

Hit is longe of the seide the munke,
And euer he fro vs passe.

This traytur (s) name is Robyn Hode,
Vndur the grene wode lynde,
He robbyt me onys of a C pound,
Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde.

Vp then rose this prowd schereff,
And zade toward hym zare;
Many was the modur son,

To the kyrk with hym can fare.

In at the durres thei throly thrast
With staves ful gode ilkone,
Alas, alas, seid Robyn Hode,

Now mysse I litulle Joline.

But Robyne toke out a too-hond sworde,

That hangit down be his kne,

Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust,
Thidurward wold he.

Thryes thorow at them he ran,
Ther for sothe as I yow say,
And woundyt many a modur sone,
And xii he slew that day.

His sworde vpon the schireff hed
Sertanly he brake in too;

The smyth that the made, seid Robyn,
I pray God wyrke hym woo.

For now am I weppynlesse, seid Robyne,
Alasse agayn my wylle;

But if I may fle these traytors fro,

I wot thei wil me kylle.

Robyns men to the churche ran

Throout hem euer ilkon,

Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede,

Non of theym were in her mynde
But only litulle Jon.

Let be your rule, seid litulle Jon,
For his luf that dyed on tre,
Ze that shulde be duzty men
Hit is gret shame to se.

Oure maister has bene hard bystode,
And zet scapyd away,

Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone,
And herkyn what I shal say.

He has seruyd our lady many a day,
And zet wil securly,
Therfore I trust in her specialy

No wycked deth shal he dye.

Therfor be glad, seid litul Johne,
And let this mournyng be,
And I shall be the munkes gyde
With the myght of mylde Mary.

And I mete hym, seid litull Johne,
We wille go but we too

Loke that ze kepe wel oure tristil tre
Vndur the levys smale,

And spare non of this venyson

That gose in thys vale.

Forche thei went these zemen too,

Litul Johne and Moche onfere,

And lokid on Moche emys hows

The hyeway lay fulle nere.

Litul John stode at a window in the mornynge,

And lokid forth at a stage,

He was war wher the munke came ridynge,

And with hym a litul

page.

Be my feith, seid Litul Johne to Moche,
I can the tel tithyngus gode;

I se wher the munk comys rydyng,

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