Our kynge and Robyn rode togyder,
For soth as I you say,
And they shote plucke-buffet,
As they went by the way.
And many a buffet our kynge wan
Of Robyn Hode that day,
And nothynge spared good Robyn
Our kynge when he did pay.
'So God me helpë,' sayd our kynge,
'Thy game is nought to lere;
I sholde not get a shote of the,
Though I shote all this yere.'
All the people of Notyngham
They stode and behelde;
They sawe nothynge but mantels of grene
That covered all the felde.
Than every man to other gan say,
'I drede our kynge be slone*;
Come Robyn Hode to the towne, i-wys
On lyve he lefte never one.'
Full hastely they began to fle,.
Both yemen and knaves,
And olde wyves that myght evyll goo,
They hypped on theyr staves.
The kynge loughe full fast,
And commaunded theym agayne;
When they se our comly kynge,
I-wys they were full fayne.
They ete and dranke, and made them glad,
And sange with notës hye;
Than bespake our comly kynge
To Syr Richarde at the Lee.
You do not need to learn your game.
He gave hym there his londe agayne,
A good man he bad hym be;
Robyn thanked our comly kynge,
And set hym on his kne.
Had Robyn dwelled in the kynges courte
But twelve monethes and thre,
That he had spent an hondred pounde,
And all his mennes fe.
'I made a chapell in Bernysdale,
That semely is to se,
It is of Mary Magdaleyne,
And thereto wolde I be.
'I myght never in this seven nyght
No tyme to slepe ne wynke,
Nother all these seven dayes
Nother ete ne drynke.
'Me longeth sore to Bernysdale,
I may not be therfro;
Barefote and wolwarde I have hyght'
Thyder for to go.'
'Yf it be so,' than sayd our kynge,
'It may no better be; Seven nyght I gyve the leve,
No lengre, to dwell fro me.'
Gramercy, lorde,' then sayd Robyn,
And set hym on his kne;
He toke his leve full courteysly,
To grene wode then went he.
Robyn slewe a full grete harte;
His horne than gan he blow,
That all the outlawes of that forest
That horne coud they knowe,
'Doing penance by wearing wool next her skin. Promised. It pleases me.
And gadred them togyder,
In a lytell throwe.
Seven score of wyght yonge men
Came redy on a rowe,
And fayre dyde of theyr hodes,
And set them on theyr kne:
'Welcome,' they sayd, 'our mayster.
Under this grene-wode tre.'
Robyn dwelled in grene wode
Twenty yere and two;
For all drede of Edwarde our kynge,
Agayne wolde he not goo.
Yet he was begyled, i-wys,
Through a wycked woman,
The pryoresse of Kyrkësly,
That nye was of hys kynne:
For the love of a knyght,
Syr Roger of Donkesly,
That was her ownë speciall;
Full evyll mote they the!"
They toke togyder theyr counsell
Robyn Hode for to sle,
And how they myght best do that dede,
His banis for to be.
Than bespake good Robyn,
In place where as he stode, 'To morow I muste to Kyrke[s]ly, Craftely" to be leten blode.'
Syr Roger of Donkestere,
By the pryoresse he lay,
And there they betrayed good Robyn Hode, Through theyr falsë playe.
May they thrive! 10 Murderer.
Cryst have mercy on his soule,
That dyed on the rode!
For he was a good outlawe,
And dyde pore men moch god.
BALOW, my babe, lie still and sleep!
It grieves me sore to see thee weep.
Wouldst thou be quiet I'se be glad,
Thy mourning makes my sorrow sad:
Balow my boy, thy mother's joy,
Thy father breeds me great annoy-
Balow, la-low!
When he began to court my love,
And with his sugred words me move,
His faynings false and flattering cheer
To me that time did not appear:
But now I see most cruellye.
He cares ne for my babe nor me-
Balow, la-low!
Lie still, my darling, sleep awhile,
And when thou wak'st thou❜le sweetly smile:
But smile not as thy father did,
To cozen maids: nay, God forbid!
But yet I fear thou wilt go near
Thy father's heart and face to bear—
Balow, la-low!
I cannot choose but ever will
Be loving to thy father still;
Where'er he go, where'er he ride,
My love with him doth still abide;
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