To se the dere draw to the dale, 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 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 Ze on thynge greves me seid Robyne, Hit is a fourtnet and more, seyd hee, To-day wil I to Notyngham, seid Robyn, Then spake Moche the mylner (s) sune, 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, But euer for on as thou shetes, seid Robyn, Thus shet thei forthe these zemen too Til litulle Johne wan of his maister A ferly strife fel them betwene Litulle John seid he had won v shyllyngs, With that Robyn Hode lyed litul Jone, 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 And litulle Johne to mery Scherewode, Whan Robyn came to Notyngham, He gos into seynt Mary (s) chirche, Beside hym stode a gret hedid munke, Ful sone he knew gode Robyn (Hode) Out at the durre he ran Ful sone and anon, Alle the zatis of Notyngham Rise vp, he seid, thou prowde schereff, I haue spyed the false felone, Hit is longe of the seide the munke, This traytur (s) name is Robyn Hode, Vp then rose this prowd schereff, To the kyrk with hym can fare. In at the durres thei throly thrast 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, Thryes thorow at them he ran, His sworde vpon the schireff hed The smyth that the made, seid Robyn, For now am I weppynlesse, seid Robyne, 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 Let be your rule, seid litulle Jon, Oure maister has bene hard bystode, Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone, He has seruyd our lady many a day, No wycked deth shal he dye. Therfor be glad, seid litul Johne, And I mete hym, seid litull Johne, Loke that ze kepe wel oure tristil tre 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 se wher the munk comys rydyng, |