Classic Poem

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 p[ro]ude outlaw
[Whyles he walked on grounde;
So curteyse an outlawe] as he was one
Was neuer 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 go[d]e Scarlok
And Much, the mil[l]er's son;
There was none ynch of his bodi
But it was worth a grome.

Than bespake Lytell Johnn
All vntoo Robyn Hode:
Maister, and ye wolde dyne betyme
It wolde doo you moche gode.

Than Bespake hym gode Robyn:
To dyne haue I noo lust,
Till that I haue som bolde baron
Or som vnkout[h] gest;

[Till that I haue som ryche abbot]
That may pay for the best,
Or som knyght or [som] squyer
That dwelleth here bi west.

A gode maner than had Robyn;
In londe where that he were,
Euery 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 loued all ther moste.

Robyn loued Our dere Lady;
For dout of dydly synne
Wolde he neuer do compani harme
That any woman was in.

Maistar, than sayde Lytil Johnn,
And we our borde shal sprede,
Tell vs wheder that we shal go
And what life that we shall lede.

Where we shall take, where we shall leue,
Where we shall abide behynde,
Where we shall robbe, where we shal reue,
Where we shal bete and bynde.

Therof no force, than sayde Robyn,
We shall do well inowe;
But loke ye do no husbonde harme
That tillet[h] 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 an these archebishoppes,
Ye shall them bete and bynde;
The hye sherif of Notyingham,
Hym holde ye in your myn[d]e.

This worde shalbe holde, sayde Lytell Johnn,
And this lesson we shall lere;
It is fer dayes, God sende vs a gest,
That we were at oure dynere!