zitt Roger of Clekkinstewch,
So bauld a bairne as he;
Gy of Gysburne, na Allane Bell,
Na Simones sones of Quhynsell,
Off thocht war neuir so slies."
Gisborne, or Gisburne, is a market town in the west-riding of Yorkshire, on the borders of Lancashire.
The following ballad was first printed in Percy's Reliques in 1765, from his "folio MS."
When shaws[16] beene sheene, and shraddes[17] full fayre,
And leaves both large and longe,
Itt's merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest
To heare the small birdes' songe.
The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
Sitting upon the spraye,
Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,
In the greenwood where he lay.
"Now, by my saye," sayd jollye Robin,
"A sweaven[18] I had this night;
I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen
That fast with me can fight.
"Methought they did me beate and binde,
And tooke my bowe me froe;
Iff I be Robin alive in this lande
Ile be wroken on them towe."
"Sweavens are swift," sayd Little John,
"As the wind blowes over the hill;
For iff itt be never so loude this night,
To morrow it may be still."
"Buske[19] yee, bowne[20] yee, my merry men all,
And John shall goe with mee,
For Ile goe seeke yon wighty[21] yeoman,
In greenwood where they bee."
Then they cast on theyr gownes of grene,
And tooke theyr bowes each one;
And they away to the greene forrest
A shooting forth are gone;
Untill they came to the merry greenwood,
Where they had gladdest to bee,
There they were ware of a wighty yeoman,
That leaned agaynst a tree.
A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
Of manye a man the bane:
And he was clad in his capull[22] hyde
Topp and tayll and mayne.
"Stand still, master," quoth Little John,
"Under this tree so grene,
And I will go to yond wighty yeoman,
To know what he doth meane."
"Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,
And that I farly finde:
How often send I my men before,
And tarry my selfe behinde?
"It is no cunning a knave to ken,
And a man but heare him speake;
And it were not for bursting of my bowe,
John, I thy head wold breake."
As often wordes they breeden bale,[23]
So they parted Robin and John:
And John is gone to Barnesdale;
The gates[24] he knoweth eche one.
But when he came to Barnesdale,
Great heavinesse there he hadd,
For he found tow of his own fellowes
Were slaine both in a slade.[25]
And Scarlette he was flying a-foote
Fast over stocke and stone,
For the proud sheriffe with seven score men
Fast after him is gone.
"One shoote now I will shoote," quoth John,
"With Christ his might and mayne;
Ile make yond sheriffe that wends soe fast,
To stopp he shall be fayne."
Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
And fettled him to shoote:
The bowe was made of tender boughe,
And fell downe at his foote.
"Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
That ever thou grew on a tree!
For now this day thou art my bale,[26]
My boote when thou shold bee."
His shoote it was but loosely shott,
Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
For itt mett one of the sheriffe's men,
And William a Trent was slaine.
It had been better of William a Trent
To have beene abed with sorrowe,
Than to be that day in the greenwood slade
To meet with Little John's arrowe.
But as it is said, when men be mett
Fyve can doe more than three,
The sheriffe hath taken Little John,
And bound him fast to a tree.
"Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
And
