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

by Homer

  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.

  They shulderd all and made hym rome,

  To wete what he wolde say;

  He toke the yeman bi the hande,

  And gave hym al the play. 240

  He gave hym five marke for his wyne,

  There it lay on the molde,

  And bad it shulde be set a broche,

  Drynkë who so wolde.

  Thus longe taried this gentyll knyght, 245

  Tyll that play was done;

  So longe abode Robyn fastinge

  Thre houres after the none.

  List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

  List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

  The Thirde Fytte

  Lyth and lystyn, gentilmen,

  All that nowe be here;

  Of Litell Johnn, that was the knightes man,

  Goode myrth ye shall here.

  It was upon a mery day 5

  That yonge men wolde go shete;

  Lytell Johnn fet his bowe anone,

  And sayde he wolde them mete.

  Thre tymes Litell Johnn shet aboute,

  And alway cleft the wande; 10

  The proude sherif of Notingham

  By the markes gan stande.

  The sherif swore a full greate othe:

  By hym that dyede on a tre,

  This man is the best arschere 15

  That ever I dyd see.

  ‘Say me nowe, wight yonge man,

  What is nowe thy name?

  In what countre were thou borne,

  And where is thy wonynge wane?’ 20

  ‘In Holdernes, sir, I was borne,

  I-wys al of my dame;

  Men cal me Reynolde Grenelef

  Whan I am at home.’

  ‘Sey me, Reynolde Grenelefe, 25

  Wolde thou dwell with me?

  And every yere I woll the gyve

  Twenty marke to thy fee.’

  ‘I have a maister,’ sayde Litell Johnn,

  ‘A curteys knight is he; 30

  May ye levë gete of hym,

  The better may it be.’

  The sherif gate Litell John

  Twelve moneths of the knight;

  Therefore he gave him right anone 35

  A gode hors and a wight.

  Nowe is Litell John the sherifes man,

  God lende us well to spe
de!

  But alwey thought Lytell John

  To quyte hym wele his mede. 40

  ‘Nowe so God me helpe,’ sayde Litell John,

  ‘And by my true leutye,

  I shall be the worst servaunt to hym

  That ever yet had he.’

  It fell upon a Wednesday 45

  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; 50

  ‘Gode sir stuarde, I pray to the,

  Gyve me my dynere,’ saide Litell John.

  ‘It is to longe for Grenelefe

  Fastinge thus for to be;

  Therfor I pray the, sir stuarde, 55

  Mi dyner gif thou me.’

  ‘Shalt thou never ete ne drynke,’ saide the stuarde,

  ‘Tyll my lorde be come to towne’:

  ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ saide Litell John,

  ‘I had lever to crake thy crowne.’ 60

  The boteler was full uncurteys,

  There he stode on flore;

  He start to the botery

  And shet fast the dore.

  Lytell Johnn gave the boteler suche a tap 65

  His backe went nere in two;

  Though he liveth an hundred wynter,

  The wors he still shall goe.

  He sporned the dore with his fote;

  It went open wel and fyne; 70

  And there he made large lyveray,

  Bothe of ale and of wyne.

  ‘Sith ye wol nat dyne,’ sayde Litell John,

  ‘I shall gyve you to drinke;

  And though ye lyve an hundred wynter, 75

  On Lytel Johnn ye shall thinke.’

  Litell John ete, and Litel John drank,

  The whilë that he wolde;

  The sherife had in his kechyn a coke,

  A stoute man and a bolde. 80

  ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ saide the coke,

  ‘Thou arte a shrewde hyne

  In ani householde for to dwel,

  For to aske thus to dyne.’

  And there he lent Litell John 85

  Godë strokis thre;

  ‘I make myn avowe,’ sayde Lytell John,

  ‘These strokis lyked well me.

  ‘Thou arte a bolde man and a hardy,

  And so thinketh me; 90

  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, 95

  But stifly for to stande.

  There they faught sore togedere

  Two mylë way and more;

  Myght neyther other harme done,

  The mountnaunce of an owre. 100

  ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayde Litell Johnn,

  ‘And by my true lewtë;

  Thou art one of the best sworde-men

  That ever yit sawe I me.

  ‘Cowdest thou shote as well in a bowe, 105

  To grene wode thou shuldest with me,

  And two times in the yere thy clothinge

  Chaunged shuldë be;

  ‘And every yere of Robyn Hode

  Twenty merke to thy fe;’ 110

  ‘Put up 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; 115

  They ete and drank theretoo.

  And when they had dronkyn well,

  Theyre trouthes togeder they plight

  That they wolde by with Robyn

  That ylkë samë nyght. 120

  They dyd them to the tresoure-hows,

  As fast as they myght gone;

  The lokkes, that were of full gode stele,

  They brake them everichone.

  They toke away the silver vessell, 125

  And all that thei might get;

  Pecis, masars, ne sponis,

  Wolde thei not forget.

  Also they toke the gode pens,

  Thre hundred pounde and more, 130

  And did them streyte to Robyn Hode,

  Under the grene wode hore.

  ‘God the save, my dere mayster,

  And Criste the save and se!’

  And thanne sayde Robyn to Litell Johnn 135

  ‘Welcome myght thou be.

  ‘Also be that fayre yeman

  Thou bryngest there with the;

  What tydynges fro Notyngham?

  Lytill Johnn, tell thou me.’ 140

  ‘Well the gretith the proude sheryf.

  And sendeth the here by me

  His cok and his silver vessell,

  And thre hundred pounde and thre.’

  ‘I make myne avowe to God,’ sayde Robyn, 145

  ‘And to the Trenytë,

  It was never by his gode wyll

  This gode is come to me.’

  Lytyll Johnn there hym bethought

  On a shrewde wyle; 150

  Fyve myle in the forest he ran,

  Hym happed all his wyll.

  Than he met the proude sheref,

  Huntynge with houndes and horne;

  Lytell Johnn coude of curtesye, 155

  And knelyd hym beforne.

  ‘God the save, my dere mayster,

  And Criste the save and se!’

  ‘Reynolde Grenelefe,’ sayde the shyref,

  ‘Where hast thou nowe be?’ 160

  ‘I have be in this forest;

  A fayre syght can I se;

  It was one of the fayrest syghtes

  That ever yet sawe I me.

  ‘Yonder I sawe a ryght fayre harte, 165

  His coloure is of grene;

  Seven score of dere upon a herde

  Be with hym all bydene.

  ‘Their tyndes are so sharp, maister,

  Of sexty, and well mo, 170

  That I durst not shote for drede,

  Lest they wolde me slo.

  ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayde the shyref,

  ‘That syght wolde I fayne se’:

  ‘Buske you thyderwarde, mi dere mayster, 175

  Anone, and wende with me.’

  The sherif rode, and Litell Johnn

  Of fote he was full smerte,

  And whane they came before Robyn,

  ‘Lo, here is the mayster-herte.’ 180

  Still stode the proude sherief,

  A sory man was he;

  ‘Wo the worthe, Raynolde Grenelefe,

  Thou hast betrayed me.’

  ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayde Litell Johnn, 185

  ‘Mayster, ye be to blame;

  I was mysserved of my dynere

  When I was with you at home.’

  Sone he was to souper sette,

  And served with silver white, 190

  And when the sherif sawe his vessell,

  For sorowe he myght nat ete.

  ‘Make glad chere,’ sayde Robyn Hode,

  ‘Sherif, for charitë,

  And for the love of Litill Johnn 195

  Thy lyfe I graunt to the.’

  Whan they had souped well,

  The day was al gone;

  Robyn commaunded Litell Johnn

  To drawe of his hose and shone; 200

  His kirtell, and his cote a pye,

  That was fured well and fine

  And toke hym a grene mantel,

  To lap his body therein.

  Robyn commaundyd his wight yonge men, 205

  Under the grene wode tree,

  They shulde lye in that same sute

  That the sherif myght them see.

  All nyght lay the proude sherif

  In his breche and in his schert; 210

  No wonder it was, in grene wode;

  Though his sydes gan to smerte.

  ‘Make glad chere
,’ sayde Robyn Hode,

  ‘Sheref, for charitë

  For this is our ordre i-wys 215

  Under 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.’ 220

  ‘All this twelve monthes,’ sayde Robin,

  ‘Thou shalt dwell with me;

  I shall the teche, proude sherif,

  An outlawe for to be.’

  ‘Or I here another nyght lye,’ sayde the sherif, 225

  ‘Robyn, nowe pray I the,

  Smyte of mijn hede rather to-morowe,

  And I forgyve it the.

  ‘Lat me go,’ than sayde the sherif,

  ‘For sayntë charitë, 230

  And I woll be the best frende

  That ever yet had ye.’

  ‘Thou shalt swere me an othe,’ sayde Robyn,

  ‘On my bright bronde;

  Shalt thou never awayte me scathe 235

  By water ne by lande.

  ‘And if thou fynde any of my men,

  By nyght or by day,

  Upon thyn othe thou shalt swere

  To helpe them that thou may.’ 240

  Nowe hathe the sherif sworne his othe,

  And home he began to gone;

  He was as full of grene wode

  As ever was hepe of stone.

  List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

  List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

  The Fourth Fytte

  The sherif dwelled in Notingham;

  He was fayne he was agone;

  And Robyn and his mery men