Classic Poem

But how many merry monthes be in the yeere?
 There are thirteen, I say;
The midsum m er moone is the merryest of all,
 Next to the merry month of May.

In May, when mayds beene fast weepand,
 Young men their hands done wringe,

*****

‘I'le . . pe . . . . .
 Over may noe man for villanie:’
‘I'le never eate nor drinke,’ Ro bin Hood sa[id],
 ‘Till I that cutted friar see.’

He builded his men in a brake of fearne,
 A litle from that nunery;
Sayes, If you heare my litle horne blow,
 Then looke you come to me.

When Robin came to Fontaines Abey,
 Wheras that fryer lay,
He was ware of the fryer where he stood,
 And to him thus can he say.

A payre of blacke breeches the yeoman had on,
 His coppe all shone of steele,
A fayre sword and a broad buckeler
 Beseemed him very weell.

‘I am a wet weary man,’ said Robin Hood,
 ‘Good fellow, as thou may see;
Wilt beare [me] over this wild water,
 Ffor sweete S ain t Charity?’

The fryer bethought him of a good deed;
 He had done none of long before;
He hent up Robin Hood on his backe,
 And over he did him beare.

But when he came over tha t wild water,
 A longe sword there he drew:
‘Beare me backe againe, bold outlawe,
 Or of this thou shalt have enoughe.’

Then Robin Hood hent the fryar on his back,
 And neither sayd good nor ill;
Till he came ore that wild water,
 The yeoman he walked still.

Then Robin Hood wett his fayre greene hoze,
 A span aboue his knee;
S[ay]s, Beare me ore againe, thou cutted f[ryer]

*****

. . . . . . .
 . . . . . . .
. . . . . good bowmen
 [C]ame raking all on a rowe.

‘I beshrew thy head,’ said the cutted ffriar,
 ‘Thou thinkes I shall be shente;
I thought thou had but a man or two,
 And thou hast [a] whole conuent.

‘I lett thee haue a blast on thy horne,
 Now giue me leaue to whistle another;
I cold not bidd thee noe better play
 And thou wert my owne borne brother.’

‘Now fute on, fute on, thou cutted fryar,
 I pray God thou neere be still;
It is not the futing in a fryers fist
  Tha t can doe me any ill.’

The fryar sett his neave to his mouth,
 A loud blast he did blow;
Then halfe a hundred good bandoggs
 Came raking all on a rowe.

. . . . . . .
 . . . . . . .
‘Euery dogg to a man,’ said the cutted fryar,
 ‘And I my selfe to Robin Hood.’

‘Over God's forbott,’ said Robin Hood,
 ‘ Tha t euer tha t soe shold bee;
I had rather be mached w i th three of the tikes
 Ere I wold be matched on thee.

‘But stay thy tikes, thou fryar,’ he said,
 ‘And friendshipp I 'le haue w i th thee;
But stay thy tikes, 'thou fryar,’ he said,
 ‘And saue good yeomanry.’

The fryar he sett his neave to his mouth,
 A lowd blast he did blow;
The doggs the coucht downe euery one,
 They couched downe on a rowe.

‘What is thy will, thou yeoman?’ he said,
 ‘Haue done and tell it me;’
‘If that thou will goe to merry greenwood,

*****

But how many merry monthes be in the yeere?
 There are thirteen, I say;
The midsum m er moone is the merryest of all,
 Next to the merry month of May.

In May, when mayds beene fast weep-and,
 Young men their hands done wringe,

*****

‘I 'le . . pe . . . . .
 Over may noe man for villanie:’
‘I 'le never eate nor drinke,’ Ro bin Hood sa[id],
 ‘Till I that cutted friar see.’

He builded his men in a brake of fearne,
 A litle from that nunery;
Sayes, If you heare my litle horne blow,
 Then looke you come to me.

When Robin came to Fontaines Abey,
 Wheras that fryer lay,
He was ware of the fryer where he stood,
 And to him thus can he say.

A payre of blacke breeches the yeoman had on,
 His coppe all shone of steele,
A fayre sword and a broad buckeler
 Beseemed him very weell.

‘I am a wet weary man,’ said Robin Hood,
 ‘Good fellow, as thou may see;
Wilt beare [me] over this wild water,
 Ffor sweete S ain t Charity?’

The fryer bethought him of a good deed;
 He had done none of long before;
He hent up Robin Hood on his backe,
 And over he did him beare.

But when he came over tha t wild water,
 A longe sword there he drew:
‘Beare me backe againe, bold outlawe,
 Or of this thou shalt have enoughe.’

Then Robin Hood hent the fryar on his back,
 And neither sayd good nor ill;
Till he came ore that wild water,
 The yeoman he walked still.

Then Robin Hood wett his fayre greene hoze,
 A span aboue his knee;
S[ay]s, Beare me ore againe, thou cutted f[ryer]

*****

. . . . . . . .
 . . . . . . .
. . . . good bowmen
 [C]ame raking all on a rowe.

‘I beshrew thy head,’ said the cutted ffriar,
 ‘Thou thinkes I shall be shente;
I thought thou had but a man or two,
 And thou hast [a] whole conuent.

‘I lett thee haue a blast on thy horne,
 Now giue me leaue to whistle another;
I cold not bidd thee noe better play
 And thou wert my owne borne brother.’

‘Now fute on, fute on, thou cutted fryar,
 I pray God thou neere be still;
It is not the futing in a fryers fist
  Tha t can doe me any ill.’

The fryar sett his neave to his mouth,
 A loud blast he did blow;
Then halfe a hundred good bandoggs
 Came raking all on a rowe.

. . . . . . .
 . . . . . . .
‘Euery dogg to a man,’ said the cutted fryar,
 ‘And I my selfe to Robin Hood.’

‘Over God's forbott,’ said Robin Hood,
 ‘ Tha t euer tha t soe shold bee;
I had rather be mached w i th three of the tikes
 Ere I wold be matched on thee.

‘But stay thy tikes, thou fryar,’ he said,
 ‘And freindshipp I 'le haue w i th thee;
But stay thy tikes, thou fryar,’ he said,
 ‘And saue good yeomanry.’

The fryar he sett his neave to his mouth,
 A lowd blast he did blow;
The doggs the coacht downe euery one,
 They couched downe on a rowe.

‘What is thy will, thou yeoman?’ he said,
 ‘Haue done and tell it me;’
‘If that thou will goe to merry greenwood,