by Homer
The hye sherif of Notyngham,
Hym holde ye in your mynde.’
‘This worde shalbe holde,’ sayde Lytell Johnn, 60
‘And this lesson we shall lere;
It is fer dayes; God sende us a gest,
That we were at our dynere.’
‘Take thy gode bowe in thy honde,’ sayde Robyn;
‘Late Much wende with the; 65
And so shal Willyam Scarlok,
And no man abyde with me.
‘And walke up to the Saylis
And so to Watlinge Strete,
And wayte after some unkuth gest, 70
Up chaunce ye may them mete.
‘Be he erle, or ani baron,
Abbot, or ani knyght,
Bringhe hym to lodge to me;
His dyner shall be dight.’ 75
They wente up to the Saylis,
These yemen all three;
They loked est, they loked weest,
They myght no man see.
But as they loked in to Bernysdale, 80
Bi a dernë strete,
Than came a knyght ridinghe;
Full sone they gan hym mete.
All dreri was his semblaunce,
And lytell was his pryde; 85
His one fote in the styrop stode,
That othere wavyd beside.
His hode hanged in his iyn two;
He rode in symple aray;
A soriar man than he was one 90
Rode never in somer day.
Litell Johnn was full curteyes,
And sette hym on his kne:
‘Welcom be ye, gentyll knyght,
Welcom ar ye to me. 95
‘Welcom be thou to grenë wode,
Hendë knyght and fre;
My maister hath abiden you fastinge,
Syr, al these oures thre.’
‘Who is thy maister?’ sayde the knyght; 100
Johnn sayde, ‘Robyn Hode’;
‘He is a gode yoman,’ sayde the knyght,
‘Of hym I have herde moche gode.
‘I graunte,’ he sayde, ‘with you to wende,
My bretherne, all in fere; 105
My purpos was to have dyned to day
At Blith or Dancastere.’
Furth than went this gentyl knight,
With a carefull chere;
The teris oute of his iyen ran, 110
And fell downe by his lere.
They brought him to the lodgë-dore;
Whan Robyn gan hym see,
Full curtesly dyd of his hode
And sette hym on his knee. 115
‘Welcome, sir knight,’ than sayde Robyn,
‘Welcome art thou to me;
I have abyden you fastinge, sir,
All these ouris thre.’
Than answered the gentyll knight, 120
With wordes fayre and fre:
‘God the save, goode Robyn,
And all thy fayre meyne.’
They wasshed togeder and wyped bothe,
And sette to theyr dynere; 125
Brede and wyne they had right ynoughe,
And noumbles of the dere.
Swannes and fessauntes they had full gode,
And foules of the ryvere;
There fayled none so litell a birde 130
That ever was bred on bryre.
‘Do gladly, sir knight,’ sayde Robyn;
‘Gramarcy, sir,’ sayde he;
‘Suche a dinere had I nat
Of all these wekys thre. 135
‘If I come ageyne, Robyn,
Here by thys contrë,
As gode a dyner I shall the make
As thou haest made to me.’
‘Gramarcy, knyght,’ sayde Robyn; 140
‘My dyner whan I have,
I was never so gredy, by dere worthi God,
My dyner for to crave.
‘But pay or ye wende,’ sayde Robyn;
‘Me thynketh it is gode ryght; 145
It was never the maner, by dere worthi God,
A yoman to pay for a knyght.’
‘I have nought in my coffers,’ saide the knyght,
‘That I may profer for shame’:
‘Litell John, go loke,’ sayde Robyn, 150
‘Ne lat not for no blame.
‘Tel me truth,’ than saide Robyn,
‘So God have parte of the’:
‘I have no more but ten shelynges,’ sayde the knyght,
‘So God have parte of me.’ 155
‘If thou have no more,’ sayde Robyn,
‘I woll nat one peny;
And yf thou have nede of any more,
More shall I lend the.
‘Go nowe furth, Litell Johnn, 160
The truth tell thou me;
If there be no more but ten shelinges,
No peny that I se.’
Lytell Johnn sprede downe hys mantell
Full fayre upon the grounde, 165
And there he fonde in the knyghtes cofer
But even halfe a pounde.
Litell Johnn let it lye full styll,
And went to hys maysteer full lowe;
‘What tydynges, Johnn?’ sayde Robyn; 170
‘Sir, the knyght is true inowe.’
‘Fyll of the best wine,’ sayde Robyn,
‘The knyght shall begynne;
Moche wonder thinketh me
Thy clothynge is so thinne. 175
‘Tell me one worde,’ sayde Robyn,
‘And counsel shal it be;
I trowe thou wert made a knyght of force,
Or ellys of yemanry.
‘Or ellys thou hast been a sori husbande, 180
And lyved in stroke and strife;
An okerer, or ellis a lechoure,’ sayde Robyn,
‘Wyth wronge hast led thy lyfe.’
‘I am none of those,’ sayde the knyght,
‘By God that madë me; 185
An hundred wynter here before
Myn auncetres knyghtes have be.
‘But oft it hath befal, Robyn,
A man hath be disgrate;
But God that sitteth in heven above 190
May amende his state.
‘Withyn this two yere, Robyne,’ he sayde,
‘My neghbours well it knowe,
Foure hundred pounde of gode money
Ful well than myght I spende. 195
‘Nowe have I no gode,’ saide the knyght,
‘God hath shapen such an ende,
But my chyldren and my wyfe,
Tyll God yt may amende.’
‘In what maner,’ than sayde Robyn, 200
‘Hast thou lorne thy rychesse?’
‘For my greate foly,’ he sayde,
‘And for my kyndenesse.
‘I had a sone, forsoth, Robyn,
That shulde have ben myn ayre, 205
Whanne he was twenty wynterolde,
In felde wolde just full fayre.
‘He slewe a knyght of Lancashire,
And a squyer bolde;
For to save him in his ryght 210
My godes beth sette and solde.
‘My londes beth sette to wedde, Robyn,
Untyll a certayn day,
To a ryche abbot here besyde
Of Seynt Mari Abbey.’ 215
‘What is the som?’ sayde Robyn;
‘Trouth than tell thou me’;
‘Sir,’ he sayde, ‘foure hundred pounde;
The abbot told it to me.’
‘Nowe and thou lese thy lond,’ sayde Robyn, 220
‘What shall fall of the?’
‘Hastely I wol me buske [sayd the knyght]
Over the saltë see,
‘And se where Criste was quyke and dede,
On the mount of Calverë 225
Fare wel, frende, and have gode day;
It may not better be.’
Teris fell out of hys eyen two;
He wolde have gone hys way;
‘Farewel, frendes,
and have gode day, 230
I have no more to pay.’
‘Where be thy frendes?’ sayde Robyn:
‘Syr, never one wol me knowe;
While I was ryche ynowe at home
Great boste than wolde they blowe. 235
‘And nowe they renne away fro me,
As bestis on a rowe;
They take no more hede of me
Thanne they me never sawe.’
For ruthe thanne wept Litell Johnn, 240
Scarlok and Much in fere;
‘Fyl of the best wyne,’ sayde Robyn,
‘For here is a symple chere.
‘Hast thou any frends,’ sayde Robyn,
‘Thy borowes that wyll be?’ 245
‘I have none,’ than sayde the knyght,
‘But God that dyed on tree.’
‘Do away thy japis,’ sayde Robyn,
‘Thereof wol I right none;
Wenest thou I wolde have God to borowe, 250
Peter, Poule, or Johnn?
‘Nay, by hym that made me,
And shope both sonne and mone,
Fynde me a better borowe,’ sayde Robyn,
‘Or money getest thou none.’ 255
‘I have none other,’ sayde the knyght,
‘The sothe for to say,
But yf yt be Our dere Lady;
She fayled me never or thys day.’
‘By dere worthy God,’ sayde Robyn, 260
‘To seche all Englonde thorowe,
Yet fonde I never to my pay
A moche better borowe.
‘Come nowe furth, Litell Johnn,
And go to my tresourë, 265
And bringe me foure hundered pound,
And loke well tolde it be.’
Furth than went Litell Johnn,
And Scarlok went before;
He told oute four hundred pounde 270
By eight and twenty score.
‘Is thys well tolde?’ sayde litell Much;
Johnn sayde: ‘What greveth the?
It is almus to helpe a gentyll knyght
That is fal in povertë. 275
‘Master,’ than sayde Lityll John,
‘His clothinge is full thynne;
Ye must gyve the knight a lyveray,
To lappe his body therein.
‘For ye have scarlet and grene, mayster, 280
And many a riche aray;
Ther is no marchaunt in mery Englond
So ryche, I dare well say.’
‘Take hym thre yerdes of every colour,
And loke well mete that it be’; 285
Lytell Johnn toke none other mesure
But his bowë-tree.
And at every handfull that he met
He lept over fotes three;
‘What devylles drapar,’ sayd litell Much, 290
‘Thynkest thou for to be?’
Scarlok stode full stil and loughe,
And sayd, ‘By God Almyght,
Johnn may gyve hym gode mesure,
For it costeth hym but lyght.’ 295
‘Mayster,’ than said Litell Johnn
All unto Robyn Hode,
‘Ye must give the knight a hors
To lede home al this gode.’
‘Take him a gray coursar,’ sayde Robyn, 300
‘And a saydle newe;
He is Oure Ladye’s messangere;
God graunt that he be true.’
‘And a gode palfray,’ sayde lytell Much,
‘To mayntene hym in his right’; 305
‘And a peyre of botes,’ sayde Scarlok,
‘For he is a gentyll knight.’
‘What shalt thou gyve hym, Litell John?’ [said Robyn;]
‘Sir, a peyre of gilt sporis clene,
To pray for all this company; 310
God bringe hym oute of tene.’
‘Whan shal mi day be,’ said the knight,
‘Sir, and your wyll be?’
‘This day twelve moneth,’ saide Robyn,
‘Under this grene-wode tre. 315
‘It were greate shame,’ sayde Robyn,
‘A knight alone to ryde,
Withoutë squyre, yoman, or page,
To walkë by his syde.
‘I shal the lende Litell Johnn, my man, 320
For he shalbe thy knave,
In a yeman’s stede he may the stande,
If thou greate nedë have.’
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
The Second Fytte
Now is the knight gone on his way;
This game hym thought full gode;
Whanne he loked on Bernesdale
He blessyd Robyn Hode.
And whanne he thought on Bernysdale, 5
On Scarlok, Much and Johnn,
He blessyd them for the best company
That ever he in come.
Than spake that gentyll knyght,
To Lytel Johan gan he saye, 10
‘To-morrowe I must to Yorke toune
To Saynt Mary abbay.
‘And to the abbot of that place
Foure hundred pounde I must pay;
And but I be there upon this nyght 15
My londe is lost for ay.’
The abbot sayd to his covent,
There he stode on grounde,
‘This day twelfe moneth came a knyght
And borowed foure hondred pounde. 20
[‘He borowed four hondred pounde]
Upon his londe and fee;
But he come this ylkë day
Disherited shall he be.’
‘It is full erely,’ sayd the pryoure, 25
The day is not yet ferre gone;
I had lever to pay an hondred pounde,
And lay it downe anone.
‘The knyght is ferre beyonde the see,
In Englonde is his ryght, 30
And suffreth honger and colde
And many a sory nyght.
‘It were grete pytë,’ said the pryoure,
‘So to have his londe;
And ye be so lyght of your consyence, 35
Ye do to hym moch wronge.’
‘Thou arte ever in my berde,’ sayd the abbot,
‘By God and Saynt Rycharde’;
With that cam in a fat-heded monke,
The heygh selerer. 40
‘He is dede or hanged,’ sayd the monke,
‘By God that bought me dere,
And we shall have to spende in this place
Foure hondred pounde by yere.’
The abbot and the hy selerer 45
Stertë forthe full bolde,
The highe justyce of Englonde
The abbot there dyde holde.
The hye justyce and many mo
Had taken into theyr honde 50
Holy all the knyghtes det,
To put that knyght to wronge.
They demed the knyght wonder sore,
The abbot and his meynë
‘But he come this ylkë day 55
Disherited shall he be.’
‘He wyll not come yet,’ sayd the justyce,
‘I dare well undertake’;
But in sorowe tymë for them all
The knyght came to the gate. 60
Than bespake that gentyll knyght
Untyll his meynë:
‘Now put on your symple wedes
That ye brought fro the see.’
[They put on their symple wedes,] 65
They came to the gates anone;
The porter was redy hymselfe
And welcomed them everychone.
‘Welcome, syr knyght,’ sayd the porter,
‘My lorde to mete is he, 70
And so is many a gentyll man,
For the love of the.’
The porter swore a full grete othe:
‘By God that madë me,
Here be the best coresed hors 75
That ever yet sawe I me.
‘Lede them in to the stable,’ he sayd,
‘That eased myght they be’;
‘They shall not come therin,’ sayd the knyght,
‘By God that dyed on a tre.’ 80
Lordës were to mete isette
In that abbotes hall;
The knyght went forth and kneled downe,
And salued them grete and small.
‘Do gladly, syr abbot,’ sayd the knyght, 85
‘I am come to holde my day’:
The fyrst word that the abbot spake,
‘Hast thou brought my pay?’
‘Not one peny,’ sayd the knyght,
‘By God that maked me’; 90
‘Thou art a shrewed dettour,’ sayd the abbot;
‘Syr justyce, drynke to me.
‘What doost thou here,’ sayd the abbot,
‘But thou haddest brought thy pay?’
‘For God,’ than sayed the knyght, 95
‘To pray of a lenger daye.’
‘Thy daye is broke,’ sayd the justyce,
‘Londe gettest thou none’:
‘Now, good syr justyce, be my frende
And fende me of my fone!’ 100
‘I am holde with the abbot,’ sayd the justyce,
‘Both with cloth and fee’:
‘Now, good syr sheryf, be my frende!’
‘Nay, for God,’ sayd he.
‘Now, good syr abbot, be my frende, 105
For thy curteysë,
And holde my londës in thy honde
Tyll I have made the gree!
‘And I wyll be thy true servaunte,
And trewely serve the, 110
Tyll ye have foure hondred pounde
Of money good and free.’
