The First Fytte
Lythe and listin, gentilmen,
That be of frebore blode;
I shall you tel of a gode yeman,
His name was Robyn Hode.
Robyn was a prude outlaw,
Whyles he walked on grounde:
So curteyse an outlawe as he was one
Was nevere non founde.
Robyn stode in Bernesdale,
And lenyd hym to a tre,
And bi hym stode Litell Johnn,
A gode yeman was he.
And alsoo dyd gode Scarlok,
And Much, the millers son:
There was none ynch of his bodi
But it was worth a grome.
Than bespake Lytell Johnn
All untoo Robyn Hode:
“Maister, and ye wolde dyne betyme
It wolde doo you moche gode.”
Than bespake hym gode Robyn:
“To dyne have I noo lust,
Till that I have som bolde baron,
Or som unkouth gest.
“Here shal come a lord or sire
That may pay for the best,
Or som knyght or squyer,
That dwelleth here bi west.”
A gode maner than had Robyn;
In londe where that he were,
Every day or he wold dyne
Thre messis wolde he here.
The one in the worship of the Fader,
And another of the Holy Gost,
The thirde of Our dere Lady,
That he loved allther moste.
Robyn loved Oure dere Lady:
For dout of dydly synne,
Wolde he never do compani harme
That any woman was in.
“Maistar,” than sayde Lytil Johnn,
“And we our borde shal sprede,
Tell us wheder that we shal go,
And what life that we shall lede.
“Where we shall take, where we shall leve,
Where we shall abide behynde;
Where we shall robbe, where we shal reve,
Where we shall bete and bynde.”
“Therof no force,” than sayde Robyn;
“We shall do well inowe;
But loke ye do no husbonde harme,
That tilleth with his ploughe.
“No more ye shall no gode yeman
That walketh by grene wode shawe,
Ne no knyght ne no squyer
That wol be a gode felawe.
“These bisshoppes and these archebishoppes,
Ye shall them bete and bynde;
The hye sherif of Notyingham,
Hym holde ye in your mynde.”
“This worde shalbe holde,” sayde Lytell Johnn,
“And this lesson we shall lere;
It is fer dayes, God sende us a gest,
That we were at oure dynere!”
“Take thy gode bowe in thy honde,” sayde Robyn;
“Late Much wende with the:
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,
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.”
They wente up to the Saylis,
These yeman all thre;
They loked est, they loke weest;
They myght no man see.
But as they loked in to Bernysdale,
Bi a derne strete,
Than came a knyght ridinghe,
Full sone they gan hym mete.
All dreri was his semblaunce,
And lytell was his pryde;
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
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.
“Welcom be thou to grene wode,
Hende knyght and fre;
My maister hath abiden you fastinge,
Syr, al these oures thre.”
“Who is thy maister?” sayde the knyght;
Johnn sayde, “Robyn Hode.”
“He is 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;
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,
And fell downe by his lere.
They brought hym to the lodge door,
Whan Robyn hym gan see,
Full curtesly dyd of his hode
And sette hym on his knee.
“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,
With wordes fayre and fre:
“God the save, goode Robyn,
And all thy fayre meyné.”
They wasshed togeder and wyped bothe,
And sette to theyr dynere;
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
That ever was bred on bryre.
“Do gladly, sir knight,” sayde Robyn;
“Gramarcy, sir,” sayde he,
“Such a dinere had I nat
Of all these wekys thre.
“If I come ageyne, Robyn,
Here by thys contré,
As gode a dyner I shall the make
As that thou haest made to me.”
“Gramarcy, knyght,” sayde Robyn,
“My dyner whan that I it have;
I was never so gredy, bi dere worthy God,
My dyner for to crave.
“But pay or ye wende,” sayde Robyn;
“Me thynketh it is gode ryght;
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 Johnn, go loke,” sayde Robyn,
“Ne let nat 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 part of me.”
“If thou hast 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, Littell Johnn,
The truth tell thou me:
If there be no more but ten shelinges,
No peny that I se.”
Lyttell Johnn sprede downe hys mantell
Full fayre upon the grounde,
And there he fonde in the knyghtes cofer
But even halfe pounde.
Littell Johnn let it lye full styll,
And went to hys maysteer lowe;
“What tidynges Johnn?” sayde Robyn;
“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 thin.
“Tell me one worde,” sayde Robyn,
“And counsel shal it be:
I trowe thou warte made a knyght of force,
Or ellys of yemanry.
“Or ellys thou hast bene a sori husbande,
And lyved in stroke and stryfe,
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 made me;
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
May amende his state.
“Withyn this two yere, Robyne,” he sayde,
“My neghbours well it wende,
Foure hundred pounde of gode money
Ful well than myght I spende.
“Nowe have I no gode,” saide the knyght,
“God hath shaped such an ende,
But my chyldren and my wyfe,
Tyll God yt may amende.”
“In what maner,” than sayde Robyn,
“Hast thou lorne thy rychesse?”
“For my greate foly,” he sayde,
“And for my kyndnesse.
“I hade a sone, forsoth, Robyn,
That shulde have ben myn ayre,
Whanne he was twenty wynter olde,
In felde wolde just full fayre.
“He slewe a knyght of Lancaster,
And a squyer bolde;
For to save hym in his ryght
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.”
“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,
“What woll fall of the?”
“Hastely I wol me buske,” sayde the knyght,
“Over the salte see,
“And se where Criste was quyke and dede,
On the mount of Calveré;
Fare wel, frende, and have gode day;
It may no better be.”
Teris fell out of hys iyen two;
He wolde have gone hys way.
“Farewel, frende, and have gode day;
I ne 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.
“And nowe they renne away fro me,
As bestis on a rowe;
They take no more hede of me
Thanne they had me never sawe.”
For ruthe thanne wept Litell Johnn,
Scarlok and Muche in fere;
“Fyl of the best wyne,” sayde Robyn,
“For here is a symple chere.
“Hast thou any frende,” sayde Robyn,
“Thy borowe that wolde be?”
“I have none,” than sayde the knyght,
“But God that dyed on tree.”
“Do away thy japis,” than sayde Robyn,
“Thereof wol I right none;
Wenest thou I wolde have God to borowe,
Peter, Poule, or Johnn?
“Nay, by Hym that me made,
And shope both sonne and mone,
Fynde me a better borowe,” sayde Robyn,
“Or money getest thou none.”
“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,
“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 tresouré,
And bringe me foure hundered pound,
And loke well tolde it be.”
Furth than went Litell Johnn,
And Scarlok went before;
He tolde oute foure hundred pounde
By eightene and two 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 poverté.
“Master,” than sayde Lityll John,
“His clothinge is full thynne;
Ye must gyve the knight a lyveray,
To lappe his body therin.
“For ye have scarlet and grene, mayster,
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.”
Lytell Johnn toke none other mesure
But his bowe-tree.
And at every handfull that he met
He leped footes three.
“What devylles drapar,” sayid litell Muche,
“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.”
“Mayster,” than said Litell Johnn
To gentill Robyn Hode,
“Ye must give the knight a hors,
To lede home this gode.”
“Take hym a gray coursar,” sayde Robyn,
“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.”
“And a peyre of botes,” sayde Scarlock,
“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,
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.
“It were greate shame,” sayde Robyn,
“A knight alone to ryde,
Withoute squyre, yoman, or page,
To walke by his syde.
“I shall the lende Litell John, my man,
For he shalbe thy knave;
In a yemans stede he may the stande,
If thou greate nede have.”
