Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50) (69 page)

‘Where be thy frendes?’ sayde Robyn:
 
‘Syr, never one wol me knowe;
While I was ryche ynowe at home
 
Great boste than wolde they blowe.
  
235

‘And nowe they renne away fro me,
 
As bestis on a rowe;
They take no more hede of me
 
Thanne they me never sawe.’

For ruthe thanne wept Litell Johnn,
  
240
 
Scarlok and Much in fere;
‘Fyl of the best wyne,’ sayde Robyn,
 
‘For here is a symple chere.

‘Hast thou any frends,’ sayde Robyn,
 
‘Thy borowes that wyll be?’
  
245
‘I have none,’ than sayde the knyght,
 
‘But God that dyed on tree.’

‘Do away thy japis,’ sayde Robyn,
 
‘Thereof wol I right none;
Wenest thou I wolde have God to borowe,
  
250
 
Peter, Poule, or Johnn?

‘Nay, by hym that made me,
 
And shope both sonne and mone,
Fynde me a better borowe,’ sayde Robyn,
 
‘Or money getest thou none.’
  
255

‘I have none other,’ sayde the knyght,
 
‘The sothe for to say,
But yf yt be Our dere Lady;
 
She fayled me never or thys day.’

‘By dere worthy God,’ sayde Robyn,
  
260
 
‘To seche all Englonde thorowe,
Yet fonde I never to my pay
 
A moche better borowe.

‘Come nowe furth, Litell Johnn,
 
And go to my tresourë,
  
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And bringe me foure hundered pound,
 
And loke well tolde it be.’

Furth than went Litell Johnn,
 
And Scarlok went before;
He told oute four hundred pounde
  
270
 
By eight and twenty score.

‘Is thys well tolde?’ sayde litell Much;
 
Johnn sayde: ‘What greveth the?
It is almus to helpe a gentyll knyght
 
That is fal in povertë.
  
275

‘Master,’ than sayde Lityll John,
 
‘His clothinge is full thynne;
Ye must gyve the knight a lyveray,
 
To lappe his body therein.

‘For ye have scarlet and grene, mayster,
  
280
 
And many a riche aray;
Ther is no marchaunt in mery Englond
 
So ryche, I dare well say.’

‘Take hym thre yerdes of every colour,
 
And loke well mete that it be’;
  
285
Lytell Johnn toke none other mesure
 
But his bowë-tree.

And at every handfull that he met
 
He lept over fotes three;
‘What devylles drapar,’ sayd litell Much,
  
290
 
‘Thynkest thou for to be?’

Scarlok stode full stil and loughe,
 
And sayd, ‘By God Almyght,
Johnn may gyve hym gode mesure,
 
For it costeth hym but lyght.’
  
295

‘Mayster,’ than said Litell Johnn
 
All unto Robyn Hode,
‘Ye must give the knight a hors
 
To lede home al this gode.’

‘Take him a gray coursar,’ sayde Robyn,
  
300
 
‘And a saydle newe;
He is Oure Ladye’s messangere;
 
God graunt that he be true.’

‘And a gode palfray,’ sayde lytell Much,
 
‘To mayntene hym in his right’;
  
305
‘And a peyre of botes,’ sayde Scarlok,
 
‘For he is a gentyll knight.’

‘What shalt thou gyve hym, Litell John?’ [said Robyn;]
 
‘Sir, a peyre of gilt sporis clene,
To pray for all this company;
  
310
 
God bringe hym oute of tene.’

‘Whan shal mi day be,’ said the knight,
 
‘Sir, and your wyll be?’
‘This day twelve moneth,’ saide Robyn,
 
‘Under this grene-wode tre.
  
315

‘It were greate shame,’ sayde Robyn,
 
‘A knight alone to ryde,
Withoutë squyre, yoman, or page,
 
To walkë by his syde.

‘I shal the lende Litell Johnn, my man,
  
320
 
For he shalbe thy knave,
In a yeman’s stede he may the stande,
 
If thou greate nedë have.’

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

The Second Fytte

Now is the knight gone on his way;
 
This game hym thought full gode;
Whanne he loked on Bernesdale
 
He blessyd Robyn Hode.

And whanne he thought on Bernysdale,
  
5
 
On Scarlok, Much and Johnn,
He blessyd them for the best company
 
That ever he in come.

Than spake that gentyll knyght,
 
To Lytel Johan gan he saye,
  
10
‘To-morrowe I must to Yorke toune
 
To Saynt Mary abbay.

‘And to the abbot of that place
 
Foure hundred pounde I must pay;
And but I be there upon this nyght
  
15
 
My londe is lost for ay.’

The abbot sayd to his covent,
 
There he stode on grounde,
‘This day twelfe moneth came a knyght
 
And borowed foure hondred pounde.
  
20

[‘He borowed four hondred pounde]
 
Upon his londe and fee;
But he come this ylkë day
 
Disherited shall he be.’

‘It is full erely,’ sayd the pryoure,
  
25
 
The day is not yet ferre gone;
I had lever to pay an hondred pounde,
 
And lay it downe anone.

‘The knyght is ferre beyonde the see,
 
In Englonde is his ryght,
  
30
And suffreth honger and colde
 
And many a sory nyght.

‘It were grete pytë,’ said the pryoure,
 
‘So to have his londe;
And ye be so lyght of your consyence,
  
35
 
Ye do to hym moch wronge.’

‘Thou arte ever in my berde,’ sayd the abbot,
 
‘By God and Saynt Rycharde’;
With that cam in a fat-heded monke,
 
The heygh selerer.
  
40

‘He is dede or hanged,’ sayd the monke,
 
‘By God that bought me dere,
And we shall have to spende in this place
 
Foure hondred pounde by yere.’

The abbot and the hy selerer
  
45
 
Stertë forthe full bolde,
The highe justyce of Englonde
 
The abbot there dyde holde.

The hye justyce and many mo
 
Had taken into theyr honde
  
50
Holy all the knyghtes det,
 
To put that knyght to wronge.

They demed the knyght wonder sore,
 
The abbot and his meynë
‘But he come this ylkë day
  
55
 
Disherited shall he be.’

‘He wyll not come yet,’ sayd the justyce,
 
‘I dare well undertake’;
But in sorowe tymë for them all
 
The knyght came to the gate.
  
60

Than bespake that gentyll knyght
 
Untyll his meynë:
‘Now put on your symple wedes
 
That ye brought fro the see.’

[They put on their symple wedes,]
  
65
 
They came to the gates anone;
The porter was redy hymselfe
 
And welcomed them everychone.

‘Welcome, syr knyght,’ sayd the porter,
 
‘My lorde to mete is he,
  
70
And so is many a gentyll man,
 
For the love of the.’

The porter swore a full grete othe:
 
‘By God that madë me,
Here be the best coresed hors
  
75
 
That ever yet sawe I me.

‘Lede them in to the stable,’ he sayd,
 
‘That eased myght they be’;
‘They shall not come therin,’ sayd the knyght,
 
‘By God that dyed on a tre.’
  
80

Lordës were to mete isette
 
In that abbotes hall;
The knyght went forth and kneled downe,
 
And salued them grete and small.

‘Do gladly, syr abbot,’ sayd the knyght,
  
85
 
‘I am come to holde my day’:
The fyrst word that the abbot spake,
 
‘Hast thou brought my pay?’

‘Not one peny,’ sayd the knyght,
 
‘By God that maked me’;
  
90
‘Thou art a shrewed dettour,’ sayd the abbot;
 
‘Syr justyce, drynke to me.

‘What doost thou here,’ sayd the abbot,
 
‘But thou haddest brought thy pay?’
‘For God,’ than sayed the knyght,
  
95
 
‘To pray of a lenger daye.’

‘Thy daye is broke,’ sayd the justyce,
 
‘Londe gettest thou none’:
‘Now, good syr justyce, be my frende
 
And fende me of my fone!’
  
100

‘I am holde with the abbot,’ sayd the justyce,
 
‘Both with cloth and fee’:
‘Now, good syr sheryf, be my frende!’
 
‘Nay, for God,’ sayd he.

‘Now, good syr abbot, be my frende,
  
105
 
For thy curteysë,
And holde my londës in thy honde
 
Tyll I have made the gree!

‘And I wyll be thy true servaunte,
 
And trewely serve the,
  
110
Tyll ye have foure hondred pounde
 
Of money good and free.’

The abbot sware a full grete othe,
 
‘By God that dyed on a tree,
Get thy londe where thou may,
  
115
 
For thou getest none of me.’

‘By dere worthy God,’ then sayd the knyght,
 
‘That all this worldë wrought,
But I have my londe agayne,
 
Full dere it shall be bought.
  
120

‘God, that was of a mayden borne,
 
Leve us well to spede!
For it is good to assay a frende
 
Or that a man have nede.’

The abbot lothely on hym gan loke,
  
125
 
And vylaynesly hym gan call;
‘Out,’ he sayd, ‘thou false knyght,
 
Spede the out of my hall!’

‘Thou lyest,’ then sayd the gentyll knyght,
 
‘Abbot, in thy hal;
  
130
False knyght was I never,
 
By God that made us all.’

Up then stode that gentyll knyght,
 
To the abbot sayd he,
‘To suffre a knyght to knele so longe,
  
135
 
Thou canst no curteysye.

‘In joustes and in tournaments
 
Full ferre than have I be,
And put myself as ferre in prees
 
As ony that ever I see.’
  
140

‘What wyll ye gyve more,’ sayd the justyce,
 
‘And the knyght shall make a releyse?
And elles dare I safly swere
 
Ye holde never your londe in pees.’

‘An hondred pounde,’ sayd the abbot;
  
145
 
The justice sayd, ‘Gyve hym two’;
‘Nay, be God,’ sayd the knyght,
 
‘Ye get not my land so.

‘Though ye wolde gyve a thousand more,
 
Yet were ye never the nere;
  
150
Shal there never be myn heyre
 
Abbot, justice ne frere.’

He stert hym to a borde anone,
 
Tyll a table rounde,
And there he shoke oute of a bagge
  
155
 
Even four hundred pound.

‘Have here thi golde, sir abbot,’ saide the knight,
 
‘Which that thou lentest me;
Had thou ben curtes at my comynge,
 
I would have rewarded thee.’
  
160

The abbot sat styll, and ete no more,
 
For all his ryall fare;
He cast his hede on his shulder,
 
And fast began to stare.

‘Take me my golde agayne,’ saide the abbot,
  
165
 
‘Sir justice, that I toke the.’
‘Not a peni,’ said the justice,
 
‘Bi God, that dyed on tree.’

‘Sir abbot, and ye men of lawe,
 
Now have I holde my daye;
  
170
Now shall I have my londe agayne,
 
For ought that you can saye.’

The knyght stert out of the dore,
 
Awaye was all his care,
And on he put his good clothynge
  
175
 
The other he lefte there.

He wente hym forth full mery syngynge,
 
As men have told in tale;
His lady met hym at the gate,
 
At home in Verysdale.
  
180

‘Welcome, my lorde,’ sayd his lady;
 
‘Syr, lost is all your good?’
‘Be mery, dame,’ sayd the knyght,
 
‘And pray for Robyn Hode,

‘That ever his soule be in blysse:
  
185
 
He holpe me out of tene;
Ne had be his kyndënesse,
 
Beggers had we bene.

‘The abbot and I accorded ben,
 
He is served of his pay;
  
190
The god yoman lent it me
 
As I cam by the way.’

This knight than dwelled fayre at home,
 
The sothe for to saye,
Tyll he had got four hundred pound,
  
195
 
Al redy for to pay.

He purveyed him an hundred bowes,
 
The strynges well ydyght,
An hundred shefe of arowes gode,
 
The hedys burneshed full bryght;
  
200

And every arowe an ellë longe,
 
With pecok well idyght,
Inocked all with whyte silver;
 
It was a semely syght.

He purveyed him an hondreth men,
  
205
 
Well harnessed in that stede,
And hym selfe in that same suite,
 
And clothed in whyte and rede.

He bare a launsgay in his honde,
 
And a man ledde his male,
  
210
And reden with a lyght songe
 
Unto Bernysdale.

[But at Wentbrydge] there was a wrastelyng,
 
And there taryed was he,
And there was all the best yemen
  
215
 
Of all the west countree.

A full fayre game there was up set,
 
A whyte bulle up i-pyght,
A grete courser, with sadle and brydil,
 
With golde burnyssht full bryght.
  
220

A payre of gloves, a rede golde rynge,
 
A pype of wyne, in fay;
What man that bereth hym best i-wys
 
The pryce shall bere away.

There was a yoman in that place,
  
225
 
And best worthy was he,
And for he was ferre and frembde bested,
 
Slayne he shulde have be.

The knight had ruthe of this yoman,
 
In place where that he stode;
  
230
He sayde that yoman shulde have no harme,
 
For love of Robyn Hode.

The knyght pressed in to the place,
 
An hundreth folowed hym free,
With bowes bent and arowes sharpe,
  
235
 
For to shende that companye.