Nay, by my faith! quoth bold Robin,
Till thou have told me thine.

I dwell by dale and down, quoth he,
And Robin to take I am sworn;
And when I am called by my right name,
I am Guye of good Gisborne.

My dwelling is in this wood, says Robin,
By thee I set right nought,—
I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale,
Whom thou so long hast sought!

He that had neither been kith ner kin,
Might have seen a full fair sight,
To see how together these yeomen went,
With blades both brown and bright.

To see how these yeomen together they fought,
Two hours of a summer's day,

Yet neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy,
Them settled to fly away.

Robin was reckless of a root,

And stumbled at that tide;

And Guy was quick and nimble withal,
And hit him in the left side.

Ah! dear Lady, said Robin Hood, thou
That art both Mother and May,
I think it was never man's destiny,
To die before his day.

Robin thought on our Lady dear,

And soon leapt up again,

And straight he came with a backward stroke,

And he Sir Guy hath slain.

He took Sir Guy's head by the hair,

And sticked it on his bow's end:

Thou hast been a traitor all thy life,
Which thing must have an end.

Robin pulled forth an Irish knife,
And nicked Sir Guy in the face,
That he was never of woman born,
Could tell whose head it was.

Says, Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guy,
And with me be not wroth,

If thou have had the worse strokes at my hand,
Thou shalt have the better cloth.

Robin did off his gown of green,
And on Sir Guy did it throw,
And he put on that capull-hide,
That clad him top to toe.

The bow, the arrows, and little horn,
Now with me I will bear,

For I will away to Barnesdale,
To see how my men do fare.

Robin Hood set Guy's horn to his mouth,
And a loud blast in it did blow,
That beheard the sheriff of Nottingham,
As he leaned under a lowe.*

Hearken! hearken! said the sheriff,
I hear now tidings good,

For yonder I hear Sir Guy's horn blow,
And he hath slain Robin Hood.

Yonder I hear Sir Guy's horn blow,
It blows so well in tide,

And yonder comes that mighty yeoman,
Clad in his capull-hide.

* Little hill.-PERCY.

Come hither, come hither, thou good Sir Guy,

Ask what thou wilt of me :

o I will none of thy gold, said Robin,
Nor I will none of thy fee.

But now I have slain the master, he says,
Let me go strike the knave;

This is all the reward I ask,

Nor no other will I have.

Thou art a madman, said the sheriff,

Thou shouldest have had a knight's fee *
But, seeing thy asking hath been so bad,
Well-granted it shall be.

When little John heard his master speak,
Well knew he it was his steven; †
Now shall I be loosed, quoth little John,
With Christ his might in Heaven.

Fast Robin he hied him to little John
He thought to loose him belive :
The sheriff and all his company,
Fast after him did drive.

Stand back! stand back! said Robin,
Why draw you me so near;

It was never the use in our country,
One's shrift another should hear.

But Robin pulled forth an Irish knife
And loosed John hand and foot,

And

gave him Sir Guy's bow into his hand And bade it be his boot.

Then John he took Guy's bow in his hand

His bolts and arrows each one,

* This was of different value in different king's reigns, perhaps it may be computed on an average at 400 acres.

+ Voice.

When the sheriff saw little John bend his bow,

He settled him to be gone.

Towards his house, in Nottingham town,

He fled full fast away,

And so did all his company,

Not one behind would stay.

But he could neither run so fast,
Nor away so fast could ride,

But little John with an arrow so broad,
He shot him into the side.

PERCY.

ROBIN HOOD

AND

The Curtal Friar of Fountain-Dale.

In summer-time, when leaves grow green,
And flowers are fresh and gay,
Robin Hood and his merry men
Were all disposed to play.

Then some would leap, and some would run,

And some would use artillery,—
Which of you can a good bow draw,
A good archer for to be?

Which of you can kill a buck,
Or who can kill a doe?

Or who can kill a hart of grease, †
Five hundred feet him fro'?

Will Scarlet he did kill a buck,
And Midge did kill a doe,
And little John killed a hart of grease

Five hundred feet him fro'.

God's blessing on thy heart! said Robin Hood,

That shot such a shot for me,

I would ride my horse a hundred miles,

To find one could match thee.

* Ritson derives this epithet from the dogs by which he was attendedcurtails, or curs.

+ Hart of greece, or grease,-a technical appellation, given to a deer of a particular age and size.