Mrz 142012
Mrz 092012
The Fyfth Fytte
Now hath the knyght his leve i-take,
And wente hym on his way;
Robyn Hode and his mery men
Dwelled styll full many a day.
Lyth and lysten, gentil men,
And herken what I shall say,
How the proud sheryfe of Notyngham
Dyde crye a full fayre play,
That all the best archers of the north
Sholde come upon a day,
And that shoteth allther best
The game shall bere away.
He that shoteth allther best,
Furthest, fayre and lowe,
At a payre of fynly buttes,
Under the grene wode shawe,
A ryght good arowe he shall have,
The shaft of sylver whyte,
The hede and the feders of ryche rede golde,
In Englond is none lyke.
This than herde good Robyn,
Under his trystell-tre:
“Make you redy, ye wyght yonge men;
That shotynge wyll I se.
“Buske you, my mery yonge men,
Ye shall go with me,
And I wyll wete the shryves fayth,
Trewe and yf he be.”
Whan they had theyr bowes i-bent,
Theyr takles fedred fre,
Seven score of wyght yonge men
Stode by Robyns kne.
Whan they cam to Notyngham,
The buttes were fayre and longe,
Many was the bolde archere
That shot with bowes stronge.
“There shall but syx shote with me;
The other shal kepe my hede,
And stande with good bowes bent,
That I be not desceyved.”
The fourth outlawe his bowe gan bende,
And that was Robyn Hode,
And that behelde the proud sheryfe,
All by the but he stode.
Thryes Robyn shot a bout,
And alway he slist the wand,
And so dyde good Gylberte
Wyth the Whyte Hande.
Lytell Johan and good Scatheloke
Were archers good and fre;
Lytell Much and good Reynolde,
The worste wolde they not be.
Whan they had shot a boute,
These archours fayre and good,
Evermore was the best,
For soth, Robyn Hode.
Hym was delyvered the good arowe,
For best worthy was he;
He toke the yeft so curteysly,
To grene wode wolde he.
They cryed out on Robyn Hode,
And grete hornes gan they blowe:
“Wo worth the, treason!” sayd Robyn,
“Full evyl thou art to knowe.
“And wo be thou! thou proude sheryf,
Thus gladdynge thy gest;
Other wyse thou behote me
In yonder wylde forest.
“But had I the in grene wode,
Under my trystell-tre,
Thou sholdest leve me a better wedde
Than thy trewe lewté
Full many a bowe there was bent,
And arowes let they glyde;
Many a kyrtell there was rent,
And hurt many a syde.
The outlawes shot was so stronge
That no man myght them dryve,
And the proud sheryfes men,
They fled away full blyve.
Robyn sawe the busshement to-broke,
In grene wode he wolde have be;
Many an arowe there was shot
Amonge that company.
Lytell Johan was hurte full sore,
With an arowe in his kne,
That he myght neyther go nor ryde;
It was full grete pyté.
“Mayster,” then sayd Lytell Johan,
“If ever thou lovest me,
And for that ylke Lordes love
That dyed upon a tre,
“And for the medes of my servyce,
That I have served the,
Lete never the proude sheryf
Alyve now fynde me.
“But take out thy browne swerde,
And smyte all of my hede,
And gyve me woundes depe and wyde,
No lyfe on me be lefte.”
“I wolde not that,” sayd Robyn,
“Johan, that thou were slawe,
For all the golde in mery Englonde,
Though it lay now on a rawe.”
“God forbede,” sayd Lytell Much,
“That dyed on a tre,
That thou sholdest, Lytell Johan,
Parte our company.”
Up he toke hym on his backe,
And bare hym well a myle;
Many a tyme he layd hym downe,
And shot another whyle.
Then was there a fayre castell,
A lytell within the wode;
Double-dyched it was about,
And walled, by the Rode.
And there dwelled that gentyll knyght,
Syr Rychard at the Lee,
That Robyn had lent his good,
Under the grene wode tree.
In he toke good Robyn,
And all his company:
“Welcome be thou, Robyn Hode,
Welcome arte thou to me,
“And moche I thanke the of thy confort,
And of thy curteysye,
And of thy grete kyndenesse,
Under the grene wode tre.
“I love no man in all this worlde
So much as I do the;
For all the proud sheryf of Notyngham,
Ryght here shalt thou be.
“Shyt the gates, and drawe the brydge,
And let no man come in,
And arme you well, and make you redy,
And to the walles ye wynne.
“For one thynge, Robyn, I the behote;
I swere by Saynt Quyntyne,
These forty dayes thou wonnest with me,
To soupe, ete, and dyne.”
Bordes were layde, and clothes were spredde,
Redely and anone;
Robyn Hode and his mery men
To mete can they gone.
Mrz 082012
Gabriele Riedle: Überflüssige Menschen
Im Diesseits jedoch kann wahrscheinlich kein Mensch einfach zum Bahnhof gehen und irgendeinen anderen abholen, denn da herrscht doch schon immer ein ungeheuerliches Gedrängel, von Verlockungen, von Versprechen, von Wünschen, das ganze bisherige Leben ist im Spiel, die flauschige Abhängigkeit der frühesten Jahre, die Mutter, der Vater, die gesamte Kindheit, alles, was falsch lief, und alles, was seither fehlt, und was es sonst nirgendwo mehr gibt, noch nicht einmal mehr in den abgelegensten Provinzen.
Gabriele Riedle, 1958 in Stuttgart geboren, lebt seit 1979 in Berlin; sie hat als Reporterin u.a. aus Libyen und Liberia berichtet, hat 1998 zusammen mit Victor Jerofejew den Roman »Fluß« veröffentlicht und 2004 den Roman »Versuch über das wüste Leben«. Ihr neuer Roman »Überflüssige Menschen« (Die Andere Bibliothek) entwirft in philosophisch räsonierender Weise das Porträt jener Generation, die stets die Veränderung des Großen Ganzen im Blick hatte und sich selbst mit dem Eintritt in die Sozialdemokratie zu erschrecken meinte. Nun aber soll die Erzählerin Tschechows Komödie »Drei Schwestern« übersetzen und erkennt in Irina, Olga und Mascha, den hoffnungslos in einem russischen Provinznest von ihrer Moskau-Sehnsucht schwadronierenden Frauen, sich selbst.
Gabriele Riedle liest aus ihrem Roman und spricht mit dem Literaturkritiker Harald Jähner.
Zur Begrüßung spricht Christian Döring, Herausgeber und Lektor der Anderen Bibliothek, die seit dem 1. November 2011 als Teil der Aufbau-Gruppe in Berlin erscheint.
Literaturhaus Berlin, Fasanenstraße 23, Donnerstag, 8. März, 20 Uhr
Mrz 042012
W. B. Yeats auf The Poetry Archive mit Audiofile einer Lesung von The Lake Isle of Innisfree und zwei weiteren Gedichten.
“This recording, one of a handful he made for the BBC, dates from 1932. ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’, first published in his second collection The Rose, is an example of his early lyric style. Written in a yearning voice, the poem draws on one of Yeats’ talismanic landscapes, that of Co. Sligo. He was prompted to write the poem in London where he felt exiled from the rural beauty he captures so brilliantly in the poem. In his autobiography Yeats identifies the poem as a significant one, “my first lyric with anything in its rhythm of my own music”. It’s a music that’s proved popular ever since as Yeats concedes in the introduction to his reading, though he criticises his use of the archaism “arise and go” and the inversion of the final stanza, the kind of poetic flourishes he learned to banish from later work. The poem, written largely in hexameters, has a tranquil rhythm, something Yeats emphasises in his reading. This is somewhat at odds with more contemporary vocal styles which favour a more conversational tone, but Yeats’ quavering incantation has a unique power of its own.”
William Butler Yeats
Zeichnung von John Singer Sargent
Bild: gemeinfrei
Feb 292012
The Fourth Fytte
The sherif dwelled in Notingham
He was fayne he was agone,
And Robyn and his mery men
Went to wode anone.
“Go we to dyner,” sayde Littell Johnn,
Robyn Hode sayde, “Nay,
For I drede Our Lady be wroth with me,
For she sent me nat my pay.”
“Have no doute, maister,” sayde Litell Johnn,
“Yet is nat the sonne at rest;
For I dare say, and savely swere,
The knight is true and truste.”
“Take thy bowe in thy hande,” sayde Robyn,
“Late Much wende with the,
And so shal Wyllyam Scarlok,
And no man abyde with me.
“And walke up under the Sayles,
And to Watlynge-strete,
And wayte after such unketh gest;
Up-chaunce ye may them mete.
“Whether he be messengere,
Or a man that myrthes can,
Of my good he shall have some,
Yf he be a pore man.”
Forth then stert Lytel Johan,
Half in tray and tene,
And gyrde hym with a full good swerde,
Under a mantel of grene.
They went up to the Sayles,
These yemen all thre;
They loked est, they loked west,
They myght no man se.
But as they loked in Bernysdale,
By the hye waye,
Than were they ware of two blacke monkes,
Eche on a good palferay.
Then bespake Lytell Johan,
To Much he gan say,
“I dare lay my lyfe to wedde,
The monkes have brought our pay.
“Make glad chere,” sayd Lytell Johan,
“And drese our bowes of ewe,
And loke your hertes be seker and sad,
Your strynges trusty and trewe.
“The monke hath two and fifty
And seven somers full stronge;
There rydeth no bysshop in this londe
So ryally, I understond.
“Brethern,” sayd Lytell Johan,
“Here are no more but we thre;
But we brynge them to dyner,
Our mayster dare we not se.
“Bende your bowes,” sayd Lytell Johan,
“Make all yon prese to stonde;
The formost monke, his lyfe and his deth,
Is closed in my honde.
“Abyde, chorle monke,” sayd Lytell Johan,
“No ferther that thou gone;
Yf thou doost, by dere worthy God,
Thy deth is in my honde.
“And evyll thryfte on thy hede,” sayd Litell Johan,
“Ryght under thy hattes bonde,
For thou hast made our mayster wroth,
He is fastynge so longe.”
“Who is your mayster?” sayd the monke;
Lytell Johan sayd, “Robyn Hode.”
“He is a stronge thefe,” sayd the monke,
“Of hym herd I never good.”
“Thou lyest,” than sayd Lytell Johan,
“And that shall rewe the;
He is a yeman of the forest,
To dyne he hath bode the.”
Much was redy with a bolte,
Redly and anone;
He set the monke to-fore the brest,
To the grounde that he can gone.
Of two and fyfty wyght yonge yemen
There abode not one,
Saf a lytell page and a grome,
To lede the somers with Lytel Johan.
They brought the monke to the lodge dore,
Whether he were loth or lefe,
For to speke with Robyn Hode,
Maugré in theyr tethe.
Robyn dyde adowne his hode,
The monke whan that he se;
The monke was not so curteyse,
His hode then let he be.
“He is a chorle, mayster, by dere worthy God,”
Than sayd Lytell Johan.
“Thereof no force,” sayd Robyn,
“For curteysy can he none.
“How many men,” sayd Robyn,
“Had this monke, Johan?”
“Fyfty and two whan that we met,
But many of them be gone.”
“Let blowe a horne,” sayd Robyn,
“That felaushyp may us knowe.”
Seven score of wyght yemen
Came pryckynge on a rowe.
And everych of them a good mantell
Of scarlet and of raye,
All they came to good Robyn,
To wyte what he wolde say.
They made the monke to wasshe and wype,
And syt at his denere,
Robyn Hode and Lytell Johan
They served him both in fere.
“Do gladly, monke,” sayd Robyn.
“Gramercy, syr,” sayd he.
“Where is your abbay, whan ye are at home,
And who is your avowé?”
“Saynt Mary abbay,” sayd the monke,
“Though I be symple here.”
“In what offyce?” sayd Robyn,
“Syr, the hye selerer.”
“Ye be the more welcome,” sayd Robyn,
“So ever mote I the.
Fyll of the best wyne,” sayd Robyn,
“This monke shall drynke to me.
“But I have grete mervayle,” sayd Robyn,
“Of all this longe day,
I drede Our Lady be wroth with me,
She sent me not my pay.”
“Have no doute, mayster,” sayd Lytell Johan,
“Ye have no nede, I saye;
This monke it hath brought, I dare well swere,
For he is of her abbay.”
“And she was a borowe,” sayd Robyn,
“Betwene a knyght and me,
Of a lytell money that I hym lent,
Under the grene wode tree.
“And yf thou hast that sylver i-brought,
I pray the let me se,
And I shall helpe the eftsones,
Yf thou have nede to me.”
The monke swore a full grete othe,
With a sory chere,
“Of the borowehode thou spekest to me,
Herde I never ere.”
“I make myn avowe to God,” sayd Robyn,
“Monke, thou art to blame,
For God is holde a ryghtwys man,
And so is His dame.
“Thou toldest with thyn owne tonge,
Thou may not say nay,
How thou arte her servaunt,
And servest her every day.
“And thou art made her messengere,
My money for to pay;
Therfore I cun the more thanke
Thou arte come at thy day.
“What is in your cofers?” sayd Robyn,
“Trewe than tell thou me.”
“Syr,” he sayd, “twenty marke,
Al so mote I the.”
“Yf there be no more,” sayd Robyn,
“I wyll not one peny;
Yf thou hast myster of ony more,
Syr, more I shall lende to the.
“And yf I fynde more,” sayd Robyn,
“Iwys thou shalte it for gone,
For of thy spendynge sylver, monke,
Thereof wyll I ryght none.
“Go nowe forthe, Lytell Johan,
And the trouth tell thou me;
If there be no more but twenty marke,
No peny that I se.”
Lytell Johan spred his mantell downe,
As he had done before,
And he tolde out of the monkes male
Eyght hundred pounde and more.
Lytell Johan let it lye full styll,
And went to his mayster in hast.
“Syr,” he sayd, “the monke is trewe ynowe,
Out Lady hath doubled your cast.”
“I make myn avowe to God,” sayd Robyn,
“Monke, what tolde I the?
Our Lady is the trewest woman
That ever yet founde I me.
“By dere worthy God,” sayd Robyn,
“To seche all Englond thorowe,
Yet founde I never to my pay
A moche better borowe.
“Fyll of the best wyne, and do hym drynke,” sayd Robyn,
“And grete well thy lady hende,
And yf she have nede to Robyn Hode,
A frende she shall hym fynde.
“And yf she nedeth ony more sylver,
Come thou agayne to me,
And, by this token she hath me sent,
She shall have such thre.”
The monke was goynge to London-ward,
There to holde grete mote,
The knyght that rode so hye on hors,
To brynge hym under fote.
“Whether be ye away?” sayd Robyn.
“Syr, to maners in this londe,
Too reken with our reves,
That have done moch wronge.
“Come now forth, Lytell Johan,
And harken to my tale;
A better yeman I knowe none,
To seke a monkes male.
“How moch is in yonder other corser?” sayd Robyn,
“The soth must we see.”
“By Our Lady,” than sayd the monke,
“That were no curteysye,
“To bydde a man to dyner,
And syth hym bete and bynde.”
“It is our olde maner,” sayd Robyn,
“To leve but lytell behynde.”
The monke toke the hors with spore,
No lenger wolde he abyde:
“Aske to drynke,” than sayd Robyn,
“Or that ye forther ryde.”
“Nay, for God,” than sayd the monke,
“Me reweth I cam so nere;
For better chepe I myght have dyned
In Blythe or in Dankestere.”
“Grete well your abbot,” sayd Robyn,
“And your pryour, I you pray,
And byd hym send me such a monke
To dyner every day.”
Now lete we that monke be styll,
And speke we of that knyght:
Yet he came to holde his day,
Whyle that it was lyght.
He dyde him streyt to Bernysdale,
Under the grene wode tre,
And he founde there Robyn Hode,
And all the mery meyné.
The knyght lyght doune of his good palfray;
Robyn whan he gan see,
So curteysly he dyde adoune his hode,
And set hym on his knee.
“God the save, Robyn Hode,
And all this company.”
“Welcome be thou, gentyll knyght,
And ryght welcome to me.”
Than bespake hym Robyn Hode,
To that knyght so fre:
“What nede dryveth the to grene wode?
I praye the, syr knyght, tell me.
“And welcome be thou, gentyll knyght,
Why hast thou be so longe?”
“For the abbot and the hye justyce
Wolde have had my londe.”
“Hast thou thy londe agayne?” sayd Robyn;
“Treuth than tell thou me.”
“Ye, for God,” sayd the knyght,
“And that thanke I God and the.
“But take not a grefe, that I have be so longe;
I came by a wrastelynge,
And there I holpe a pore yeman,
With wronge was put behynde.”
“Nay, for God,” sayd Robyn,
“Syr knyght, that thanke I the;
What man that helpeth a good yeman,
His frende than wyll I be.”
“Have here foure hondred pounde,” than sayd the knyght,
“The whiche ye lent to me,
And here is also twenty marke
For your curteysy.”
“Nay, for God,” than sayd Robyn,
“Thou broke it well for ay,
For Our Lady, by her selerer,
Hath sent to me my pay.
“And yf I toke it i-twyse,
A shame it were to me,
But trewely, gentyll knyght,
Welcom arte thou to me.”
Whan Robyn had tolde his tale,
He leugh and had good chere:
“By my trouthe,” then sayd the knyght,
“Your money is redy here.”
“Broke it well,” sayd Robyn,
“Thou gentyll knyght so fre,
And welcome be thou, gentyll knyght,
Under my trystell-tre.
“But what shall these bowes do?” sayd Robyn,
And these arowes ifedred fre?”
“By God,” than sayd the knyght,
“A pore present to the.”
“Come now forth, Lytell Johan,
And go to my treasuré,
And brynge me there foure hondred pounde;
The monke over-tolde it me.
“Have here foure hondred pounde,
Thou gentyll knyght and trewe,
And bye hors and harnes good,
And gylte thy spores all newe.
“And yf thou fayle ony spendynge,
Com to Robyn Hode,
And by my trouth thou shalt none fayle,
The whyles I have any good.
“And broke well thy foure hondred pound,
Whiche I lent to the,
And make thy selfe no more so bare,
By the counsell of me.”
Thus than holpe hym good Robyn,
The knyght all of his care:
God, that syt in heven hye,
Graunte us well to fare!
Feb 222012
von Robert Burns
There was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o’ whatna style,
I doubt it’s hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi’ Robin.
Chor. – Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’, rovin’, rantin’, rovin’,
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’, rovin’, Robin!
Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
‘Twas then a blast o’ Janwar’ win’
Blew hansel in on Robin.
Robin was, &c.
The gossip keekit in his loof,
Quo’ scho, “Wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae coof:
I think we’ll ca’ him Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
“He’ll hae misfortunes great an’ sma’,
But aye a heart aboon them a’,
He’ll be a credit till us a’-
We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
“But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin’,
So leeze me on thee! Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
“Guid faith,” quo’, scho, “I doubt you gar
The bonie lasses lie aspar;
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur
So blessins on thee! Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
Feb 222012
Kleiner Hinweis auf den Fiction-Podcast des New Yorker: “A monthly reading and conversation with The New Yorker’s fiction editor, Deborah Treisman.”
Feb 162012
The Thirde Fytte
Lyth and lystyn, gentilmen,
All that nowe be here,
Of Litell Johnn, that was the knightes man,
Goode myrth ye shall here.
It was upon a mery day
That yonge men wolde go shete,
Lytell Johnn fet his bowe anone,
And sayde he wolde them mete.
Thre tymes Litell Johnn shet aboute,
And alwey he slet the wande:
The proude sherif of Notingham
By the markes can stande.
The sherif swore a full greate othe:
“By Hym that dyede on a tre,
This man is the best arschere
That ever yet sawe I me.
“Say me nowe, wight yonge man,
What is nowe thy name?
In what countré were thou borne,
And where is thy wonynge wane?”
“In Holdernes, sir, I was borne,
Iwys al of my dame;
Men cal me Reynolde Grenelef
Whan I am at hame.”
“Sey me, Reynolde Grenelefe,
Wolde thou dwell with me?
And every yere I woll the gyve
Twenty marke to thy fee.”
“I have a maister,” sayde Litell Johnn,
“A curteys knight is he;
May ye leve gete of hym,
The better may it be.”
The sherif gate Litell John
Twelve monethes of the knight;
Therefore he gave him right anone
A gode hors and a wight.
Nowe is Litell John the sherifes man
God lende us well to spede!
But alwey thought Lytell John
To quyte hym wele his mede.
“Nowe so God me helpe,” sayde Litell John,
“And by my true leutye,
I shall be the worst servaunt to hym
That ever yet had he.”
It fell upon a Wednesday
The sherif on huntynge was gone,
And Litel John lay in his bed,
And was foriete at home.
Therefore he was fastinge
Til it was past the none.
“God sir stuarde, I pray to the,
Gyve me my dynere,” saide Litell John.
“It is longe for Grenelefe
Fastinge thus for to be;
Therfor I pray the, sir stuarde,
Mi dyner gif thou me.”
“Shalt thou never ete ne drynke,” saide the stuarde,
“Tyll my lorde be come to towne.”
“I make myn avowe to God,” saide Litell John,
“I had lever to crake thy crowne.”
The boteler was full uncurteys,
There he stode on flore;
He start to the botery
And shet fast the dore.
Lytell Johnn gave the boteler suche a tap
His backe were nere in two;
Though he lived an hundred ier,
The wors shuld he go.
He sporned the dore with his fote,
It went open wel and fyne,
And there he made large lyveray,
Bothe of ale and of wyne.
“Sith ye wol nat dyne,” sayde Litell John,
“I shall gyve you to drinke,
And though ye lyve an hundred wynter,
On Lytel Johnn ye shall thinke.”
Litell John ete, and Litel John drank,
The while that he wolde;
The sherife had in his kechyn a coke,
A stoute man and a bolde.
“I make myn avowe to God,” saide the coke,
“Thou arte a shrewde hynde
In ani hous for to dwel,
For to aske thus to dyne.”
And there he lent Litell John
God strokis thre;
“I make myn avowe to God,” sayde Lytell John,
“These strokis lyked well me.
“Thou arte a bolde man and hardy,
And so thinketh me;
And or I pas fro this place
Assayed better shalt thou be.”
Lytell Johnn drew a ful gode sworde,
The coke toke another in hande;
They thought no thynge for to fle,
But stifly for to stande.
There they faught sore togedere
Two myle way and well more;
Myght neyther other harme done,
The mountnaunce of an owre.
“I make myn avowe to God,” sayde Litell Johnn,
“And by my true lewté,
Thou art one of the best swordemen
That ever yit sawe I me.
“Cowdest thou shote as well in a bowe,
To grene wode thou shuldest with me,
And two times in the yere thy clothinge
Chaunged shulde be,
“And every yere of Robyn Hode
Twenty merke to thy fe.”
“Put up thy swerde,” saide the coke,
“And felowes woll we be.”
Thanne he fet to Lytell Johnn,
The nowmbles of a do,
Gode brede, and full gode wyne;
They ete and drank theretoo.
And when they had dronkyn well,
Theyre trouthes togeder they plight,
That they wolde be with Robyn
That ylke same nyght.
They dyd them to the tresoure hows,
As fast as they myght gone;
The lokkes, that were of full gode stele,
They brake them everichone.
They toke away the silver vessell,
And all that thei might get;
Pecis, masars, ne sponis,
Wolde thei not forget.
Also they toke the gode pens,
Three hundred pounde and more,
And did them streyte to Robyn Hode,
Under the grene wode hore.
“God the save, my dere mayster,
And Criste the save and se!”
And thanne sayde Robyn to Litell Johnn,
“Welcome myght thou be.”
“Also be that fayre yeman
Thou bryngest there with the;
What tydynges fro Notyngham?
Lytill Johnn, tell thou me.”
“Well the gretith the proude sheryf,
And sende the here by me
His coke and his silver vessell,
And thre hundred pounde and thre.”
“I make myne avowe to God,” sayde Robyn,
“And to the Trenyté,
It was never by his gode wyll
This gode is come to me.”
Lytyll Johnn there hym bethought
On a shrewde wyle;
Fyve myle in the forest he ran;
Hym happed all his wyll.
Than he met the proude sheref,
Huntynge with houndes and horne;
Lytell Johnn coude of curtesye,
And knelyd hym beforne.
“God the save, my dere mayster,
And Criste the save and se!”
“Reynolde Grenelefe,” sayde the shyref,
“Where hast thou nowe be?”
“I have be in this forest;
A fayre syght can I se;
It was one of the fayrest syghtes
That ever yet sawe I me.
“Yonder I sawe a ryght fayre harte,
His coloure is of grene;
Seven score of dere upon a herde
Be with hym all bydene.
“Their tyndes are so sharpe, maister,
Of sexty, and well mo,
That I durst not shote for drede,
Lest they wolde me slo.”
“I make myn avowe to God,” sayde the shyref,
“That syght wolde I fayne se.”
“Buske you thyderwarde, mi dere mayster,
Anone, and wende with me.”
The sherif rode, and Litell Johnn
Of fote he was full smerte,
And whane they came before Robyn,
“Lo, sir, here is the mayster-herte.”
Still stode the proude sherief,
A sory man was he;
“Wo the worthe, Raynolde Grenelefe,
Thou hast betrayed nowe me.”
“I make myn avowe to God,” sayde Litell Johnn,
“Mayster, ye be to blame;
I was mysserved of my dynere
Whan I was with you at home.”
Sone he was to souper sette,
And served well with silver white,
And whan the sherif sawe his vessell,
For sorowe he myght nat ete.
“Make glad chere,” sayde Robyn Hode,
“Sherif, for charité,
And for the love of Litill Johnn
Thy lyfe I graunt to the.”
Whan they had souped well,
The day was al gone;
Robyn commaunded Litell Johnn
To drawe of his hosen and his shone,
His kirtell, and his cote of pie,
That was fured well and fine,
And toke hym a grene mantel,
To lap his body therin.
Robyn commaundyd his wight yonge men,
Under the grene wode tree,
They shulde lye in that same sute,
That the sherif myght them see.
All nyght lay the proude sherif
In his breche and in his schert;
No wonder it was, in grene wode,
Though his sydes gan to smerte.
“Make glade chere,” sayde Robyn Hode,
“Sheref, for charité,
For this is our ordre iwys,
Under the grene wode tree.”
“This is harder order,” sayde the sherief,
“Than any ankir or frere;
For all the golde in mery Englonde
I wolde nat longe dwell her.”
“All this twelve monthes,” sayde Robyn,
“Thou shalt dwell with me;
I shall the teche, proude sherif,
An outlawe for to be.”
“Or I be here another nyght,” sayde the sherif,
“Robyn, nowe pray I the,
Smythe of mijn hede rather to-morowe,
And I forgyve it the.
“Lat me go,” than sayde the sherif,
“For saynte charité,
And I woll be thy best frende
That ever yet had ye.”
“Thou shalt swere me an othe,” sayde Robyn,
“On my bright bronde:
Shalt thou never awayte me scathe,
By water ne by lande.”
“And if thou fynde any of my men,
By nyght or day,
Upon thyn othe thou shalt swere
To helpe them that thou may.”
Now hathe the sherif sworne his othe,
And home he began to gone;
He was as full of grene wode
As ever was hepe of stone.
Feb 132012
Flieder
Bild: Magnus Manske (CC BY-SA 3.0)
Feb 122012
Balsamine
Bild: ArtMechanic (CC BY-SA 3.0)
Feb 112012
Hortensie
Bild: Vonundzu (CC BY-SA 3.0)
Feb 102012
Nelke
Bild (gemeinfrei): Karthäusernelke
Aus: Johann Georg Sturm: Deutschlands Flora in Abbildungen nach der Natur mit Beschreibungen (1796-1862) mit 2 472 Illustrationen zu Texten von Johann Christian Daniel von Schreber, David Heinrich Hoppe, Heinrich Gottlieb Ludwig Reichenbach und anderen.
Übersetzer als Urheber
Arbeit / Leben, Literatur, Sprache
Kommentare deaktiviert
Feb 082012
Lesenswerter Beitrag von Andrea Kamphuis auf iRights.info.
Zum Blauen Affen
Lesung, Literatur, Veranstaltung
Kommentare deaktiviert
Feb 072012
Der “Blaue Affe” wird demnächst – schätzungsweise im März oder April – als Lesereihe in der Staatsgalerie Prenzlauer Berg neu gegründet. Der Titel stammt vom großartigen Walter Serner, der einen sehr eigenwilligen Beitrag zur deutschen Kurzgeschichte (und zur Berliner Mythologie) geleistet hat. Heute, wo sich alles am amerikanischen Erzählmodell orientiert, ist das jeder Erinnerung wert. Namen und Termine folgen bald.
Feb 072012
Cinerarie
Bild: brewbooks (CC BY-SA 2.0)
Feb 052012
Lindenblüten
Bild: 3268zauber (CC BY-SA 3.0)
Feb 042012
Weiße Seerose
Bild: Climbertobby (CC BY-SA 3.0)