Classic Poem

It fell upon a Wednesday
The sherif on huntynge was gone,
And Litel John lay in his bed
And was foriete at home.

Therfore he was fastinge
Til it was past the none:
Gode sir stuarde, I pray to the,
Gyue 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 me.

Shalt thou neuer ete ne drynke, saide the stuarde,
Tyll my lorde be come to towne;
I make myn auowe to God, saide Litell John,
I had leuer to crake thy crowne.

The boteler was full vncurteys
There he stode on flore;
He start to the botery
And shet fast the dore.

Lytell Johnn gaue the boteler suche a tap
His backe went nere in two;
Thoug[h] he liued an hundred ier
The wors shuld he be go.

He sporned the dore with his fote,
It went open wel and fyne;
And therfore he made large lyueray
Bothe of ale and of wyne.

Sith ye wol nat dyne, sayde Litell John,
I shall gyue you to drinke;
And though ye lyue 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 auowe to God, saide the coke,
Thou arte a shrewde hyne
In ani hous for to dwel
For to aske thus to dyne.

And there he lent Litell John
God[e] strokis thre;
I make myn auowe to God, sayde Lytell John,
These strokis lyked well me.

Thou arte a bold 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 auowe to God, sayde Litell Johnn,
And by my true lewte,
Thou art on of the best sworde men
That euer 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 euery yere of Robyn Hode
Twenty merke to thy fe.
Put vp 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 wo[l]de be with Robyn
That ylke same nyght.

They dyd them to the tresoure hows
As fast as they myght gone;
The lokkis, that were of full gode stele,
They brake them euerichone.

They toke away the siluer vessell
And all that thei mig[h]t get;
Pecis, [m]asars, ne sponis
Wolde thei not forget.

Also [they] toke the gode pens,
Thre hundred pounde and more,
And did them st[r]eyte to Robyn Hode
Under the grene wode hore.

God the saue, my dere mayster,
And Criste the saue 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 Noty[n]gham?
Lytill Johnn, tell thou me.

Well the gretith the proude sheryf,
And sen[t]e the here by me
His coke and his siluer vessell
And thre hundred pounde and thre.

I make myn auowe to God, sayde Robyn,
And to the Trenyte,
It was neuer by his gode wyll
This gode is come to me.

Lytyll Johnn there hym bethought
On a shrewde wyle;
Fyue myle in the forest he ran,
Hym happed all his wyll.

Than he met the proude sheref
Hyntynge with houndes and horne;
Lytell Johnn coude of Curtesye,
And knelyd hym beforne.

God the saue, my dere mayster,
And Criste the saue and se!
Reynolde Grenelefe, sayde the shyref,
Where hast thou nowe be?

I haue be in this forest;
A fayre syght can I se;
It was one of the fayrest syghtes
That euer yet sawe I me.

Yonder I sawe a ryght fayre harte,
His coloure is of grene;
Seuen score of dere vpon 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 auowe to God, sayde the shyre[f],
That syght wolde I fayne se.
Buske you thyderwarde, my 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 auowe to God, sayde Litell Johnn,
Mayster, ye be to blame;
I was mysserued of my dynere
Whan I was with you at home.

Sone he was to souper sette
And serued well with siluer white,
And whan the sherif sawe his vessell
For sorowe he myght nat ete.

Make glad chere, sayde Robyn Hode,
Sherif, for charite,
And for the loue of Litill Johnn
Thy lyfe I graunt to the.

Whan they had souped well
The day was al gone;
Robyn commaunde[d] Litell Johnn
To drawe of his hosen and his shone,

His kirtell, and his cote of pie
That was fured well and fine,
And to[ke] hym a grene mantel
To lap his body therin.

Robyn commaundyd his wight yonge men
Vnder the grene wode tree,
They shulde lye in that same sute
That the sherife myght them see.

All nyght lay the proude sherif
In his breche and in his [s]chert;
No wonder it was in grene wode
Though his sydes gan to smerte.

Make glade chere, sayde Robyn Hode,
Sheref, for charite;
For this is our ordre iwys
Vnder 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[e].