Robyn Hode |
5
10
15 |
Now stand ye forth, my mery men all,
And harke what I shall say;
Of an adventure I shal you tell,
The which befell this other day.
As I went by the hygh way,
With a stout frere I met,
And a quarter-staffe in his hande.
Lyghtely to me he lept,
And styll he bade me stande.
There were strypes two or three,
But I cannot tell who had the worse,
But well I wote the horeson lept within me,
And fro me he toke my purse.
Is there any of my mery men all
That to that frere wyll go,
And bryng hym to me forth withall,
Whether he wyll or no? |
Lytell John |
20 |
Yes, mayster, I make God avowe,
To that frere wyll I go,
And bring him to you,
Whether he wyl or no. |
Fryer Tucke |
25
30
35
40
45 |
Deus hic! deus hic! God be here!
Is not this a holy worde for a frere?
God save all this company!
But am not I a jolly fryer?
For I can shote both farre and nere,
And handle the sworde and buckler,
And this quarter-staffe also.
If I mete with a gentylman or yeman,
I am not afrayde to loke hym upon,
Nor boldly with him to carpe;
If he speake any wordes to me,
He shall have strypes two or thre,
That shal make his body smarte.
But, maisters, to shew you the matter
Wherfore and why I am come hither,
In fayth I wyll not spare.
I am come to seke a good yeman,
In Bernisdale men sai is his habitacion,
His name is Robyn Hode.
And if that he be better man than I,
His servaunt wyll I be, and serve him truely;
But if that I be better man than he,
By my truth my knave shall he be,
And leade dogges all three. |
Robyn Hode |
| |
Yelde the, fryer, in thy long cote. |
Fryer Tucke |
| |
I beshrew thy hart, knave, thou hurtest my throt[e]. |
Robyn Hode |
50 |
I trowe, fryer, thou beginnest to dote;
Who made the so malapert and so bolde
To come into this forest here,
Amonge my falowe dere? |
Fryer |
55 |
Go louse the, ragged knave.
If thou make mani wordes, I will geve the on the eare,
Though I be but a poore fryer.
To seke Robyn Hode I am com here,
And to him my hart to breke. |
Robyn Hode |
| |
Thou lousy frer, what wouldest thou with hym?
He never loved fryer, nor none of freiers kyn. |
Fryer |
60 |
Avaunt, ye ragged knave!
Or ye shall have on the skynne. |
Robyn Hode |
65 |
Of all the men in the morning thou art the worst,
To mete with the I have no lust;
For he that meteth a frere or a fox in the morning,
To spede ill that day he standeth in jeoperdy.
Therfore I had lever mete with the devil of hell,
(Fryer, I tell the as I thinke,)
Then mete with a fryer or a fox
In a mornyng, or I drynk. |
Fryer |
70 |
Avaunt, thou ragged knave! this is but a mock;
If thou make mani words thou shal have a knock. |
Robyn Hode |
| |
Harke, frere, what I say here:
Over this water thou shalt me here,
The brydge is borne away. |
Fryer |
75 |
To say naye I wyll not;
To let the of thine oth it were great pitie and sin;
But up on a fryers backe, and have even in! |
Robyn Hode |
| |
Nay, have over. |
Fryer |
80 |
Now am I, frere, within, and thou, Robin, without,
To lay the here I have no great doubt.
Now art thou, Robyn, without, and I, frere, within,
Lye ther, knave; chose whether thou wilte sinke or swym. |
Fryer |
| |
Mary, set a knave over the shone. |
Robyn Hode |
| |
Therfore thou shalt abye. |
Fryer |
| 85 |
Why, wylt thou fyght a plucke? |
Robyn Hode |
| |
And God send me good lucke. |
Fryer |
| |
Than have a stroke for fryer Tucke. |
Robyn Hode |
| |
Holde thy hande, frere, and here me speke. |
Fryer |
90 |
Say on, ragged knave,
Me semeth ye begyn to swete. |
Robyn Hode |
| |
In this forest I have a hounde,
I wyl not give him for an hundreth pound.
Geve me leve my home to blowe,
That my hounde may knowe. |
Fryer |
| 95 |
Blowe on, ragged knave, without any doubte,
Untyll bothe thyne eyes starte out.
Here be a sorte of ragged knaves come in,
Clothed all in Kendale grene,
And to the they take their way nowe. |
Robyn Hode |
| 100 |
Peradventure they do so. |
Fryer |
| |
I gave the leve to blowe at thy wyll,
Now give me leve to whistell my fyll. |
Robyn Hode |
| |
Whystell, frere, evyl mote thou fare!
Untyll bothe thyne eyes stare. |
Fryer |
| 105 |
Now Cut and Bause!
Breng forth the clubbes and staves,
And down with those ragged knaves! |
Robyn Hode |
110 |
How sayest thou, frere, wylt thou be my man,
To do me the best servyse thou can?
Thou shalt have both golde and fee. |
