Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50)
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Lytell Johan was hurte full sore, 85
With an arowe in his kne,
That he myght neyther go nor ryde;
It was full grete pytë.
‘Mayster,’ then sayd Lytell Johan,
‘If ever thou lovedst me, 90
And for that ylkë lordës love
That dyed upon a tre,
‘And for the medes of my servyce,
That I have served the,
Lete never the proud sheryf 95
Alyve now fyndë me.
‘But take out thy browne swerde,
And smyte all of my hede,
And gyve me woundës depe and wyde;
No lyfe on me be lefte.’ 100
‘I wolde not that,’ sayd Robyn,
‘Johan, that thou were slawe,
For all the golde in merry Englonde,
Though it lay now on a rawe.’
‘God forbede,’ sayd Lytell Much, 105
‘That dyed on a tre,
That thou sholdest, Lytell Johan,
Parte our company.’
Up he toke hym on his backe,
And bare hym well a myle; 110
Many a tyme he layd him downe,
And shot another whyle.
Then was there a fayre castell,
A lytell within the wode;
Double-dyched it was about, 115
And walled, by the rode.
And there dwelled that gentyll knyght,
Syr Rychard at the Lee,
That Robyn had lent his good,
Under the grene-wode tree. 120
In he toke good Robyn,
And all his company:
‘Welcome be thou, Robyn Hode,
Welcome art thou to me;
‘And moche I thanke the of thy comfort, 125
And of thy curteysye,
And of thy grete knydnesse,
Under the grene-wode tre.
‘I love no man in all this worlde
So much as I do the; 130
For all the proud sheryf of Notyngham,
Ryght here shalt thou be.
‘Shutte the gates, and drawe the brydge,
And let no man come in,
And arme you well, and make you redy, 135
And to the walles ye wynne.
‘For one thynge, Robyn, I the behote;
I swere by Saynt Quyntyne,
These forty dayes thou wonnest with me,
To soupe, ete, and dyne.’ 140
Bordes were layde, and clothes were spredde,
Redely and anone;
Robyn Hode and his merry men
To metë can they gone.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
The Sixth Fytte
Lythe and lysten, gentylmen,
And herkyn to your songe;
Howe the proude shyref of Notyngham,
And men of armys stronge,
Full fast cam to the hye shyref, 5
The contrë up to route,
And they besette the knyghtes castell,
The wallës all aboute.
The proude shyref loude gan crye,
And sayde, ‘Thou traytour knight, 10
Thou kepest here the kynges enemys,
Agaynst the lawe and right.’
‘Sir, I wyll avow that I have done,
The dedys that here be dyght,
Upon all the landës that I have, 15
As I am a trewe knyght.
‘Wende furth, sirs, on your way,
And do no more to me
Tyll ye wyt oure kyngës wille,
What he wyll say to the.’ 20
The shyref thus had his answere,
Without any lesynge;
Forth he yede to London towne,
All for to tel our kinge.
Ther he telde him of that knight, 25
And eke of Robyn Hode,
And also of the bolde archars,
That were soo noble and gode.
‘He wyll avowe that he hath done,
To mayntene the outlawes stronge; 30
He wyll be lorde, and set you at nought,
In all the northe londe.’
‘I wil be at Notyngham,’ saide our kynge,
‘Within this fourteenyght,
And take I wyll Robyn Hode 35
And so I wyll that knight.
‘Go nowe home, shyref,’ sayde our kynge,
‘And do as I byd the;
And ordeyn gode archers ynowe,
Of all the wyde contrë.’ 40
The shyref had his leve i-take,
And went hym on his way,
And Robyn Hode to grene wode,
Upon a certen day.
And Lytel John was hole of the arowe 45
That shot was in his kne,
And dyd hym streyght to Robyn Hode,
Under the grene wode tree.
Robyn Hode walked in the forest,
Under the levys grene; 50
The proude shyref of Notyngham
Thereof he had grete tene.
The shyref there fayled of Robyn Hode,
He myght not have his pray;
Than he awayted this gentyll knyght, 55
Bothe by nyght and day.
Ever he wayted the gentyll knyght,
Syr Richarde at the Lee,
As he went on haukynge by the ryver-syde,
And lete his haukës flee. 60
Toke he there this gentyll knight,
With men of armys stronge,
And led hym to Notynghamwarde,
Bound bothe fote and hande.
The shyref sware a full grete othe, 65
Bi him that dyed on rode,
He had lever than an hundred pound
That he had Robyn Hode.
This harde the knyghtës wyfe,
A fayr lady and a free; 70
She set hir on a gode palfrey,
To grene wode anone rode she.
Whanne she cam in the forest,
Under the grene wode tree,
Fonde she there Robyn Hode, 75
And al his fayre menë.
‘God the save, gode Robyn,
And all thy company;
For Our dere Ladyes sake,
A bone graunte thou me. 80
‘Late never my wedded lorde
Shamefully slayne be;
He is fast bound to Notinghamwarde,
For the love of the.’
Anone than saide goode Robyn 85
To that lady so fre,
‘What man hath your lorde ytake?’
‘The proude shirife,’ than sayd she.
. . . . . . .
‘For soth as I the say;
He is nat yet thre mylës 90
Passed on his way.’
Up than sterte gode Robyn,
As man that had ben wode:
‘Buske you, my mery men,
For hym that dyed on rode. 95
‘And he that this sorowe forsaketh,
By hym that dyed on tre,
Shall he never in grene wode
No lenger dwel with me.’
Sone there were gode bowës bent, 100
Mo than seven score;
Hedge ne dyche spared they none
That was them before.
‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayde Robyn
‘The sherif wolde I fayne see; 105
And if I may him take,
I-quyt then shall he be.’
And when they came to Notingham,
They walked in the strete;
And with the proude sherif i-wys 110
Sonë can they mete.
‘Abyde, thou proude sherif,’ he sayde,
‘Abyde, and speke with me;
Of some tidinges of oure kinge
I wolde fayne here of the. 115
‘This seven yere, by dere worthy God,
Ne yede I this fast on fote;
I make myn avowe to God, thou proude sherif,
It is not for thy gode.’
Robyn bent a full goode bowe, 120
An arrowe he drowe at wyll;
He hit so the proude sherife
Upon the grounde he lay full still.
And or he myght up aryse,
On his fete to stonde, 125
He smote of the sherifs hede
With his bright bronde.
‘Lye thou there, thou proude sherife;
Evyll mote thou thryve:
There myght no man to the truste 130
The whyles thou were a lyve.’
His men drewe out theyr bryght swerdes,
That were so sharpe and kene,
And layde on the sheryves men,
And dryved them downe bydene. 135
Robyn stert to that knyght,
And cut a two his bonde,
And toke hym in his hand a bowe,
And bad hym by hym stonde.
‘Leve thy hors the behynde, 140
And lerne for to renne;
Thou shalt with me to grene wode,
Through myre, mosse, and fenne.
‘Thou shalt with me to grene wode,
Without ony leasynge, 145
Tyll that I have gete us grace
Of Edwarde, our comly kynge.’
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
The Seventh Fytte
The kynge came to Notynghame,
With knyghtes in grete araye,
For to take that gentyll knyght
And Robyn Hode, and yf he may.
He asked men of that countrë, 5
After Robyn Hode,
And after that gentyll knyght,
That was so bolde and stout.
Whan they had tolde hym the case
Our kynge understode ther tale, 10
And seased in his honde
The knyghtës londës all.
All the passe of Lancasshyre
He went both ferre and nere,
Tyll he came to Plomton Parke; 15
He faylyd many of his dere.
There our kynge was wont to se
Herdës many one,
He coud unneth fynde one dere,
That bare ony good horne. 20
The kynge was wonder wroth with all,
And swore by the Trynytë,
‘I wolde I had Robyn Hode,
With eyen I myght hym se.
‘And he that wolde smyte of the knyghtës hede, 25
And brynge it to me,
He shall have the knyghtës londes,
Syr Rycharde at the Le.
‘I gyve it hym with my charter,
And sele it with my honde, 30
To have and holde for ever more,
In all mery Englonde.’
Than bespake a fayre olde knyght,
That was treue in his fay:
‘A, my leegë lorde the kynge, 35
One worde I shall you say.
‘There is no man in this countrë
May have the knyghtës londes,
Whyle Robyn Hode may ryde or gone,
And bere a bowe in his hondes. 40
‘That he ne shall lese his hede,
That is the best ball in his hode:
Give it no man, my lorde the kynge,
That ye wyll any good.’
Half a yere dwelled our comly kynge 45
In Notyngham, and well more;
Coude he not here of Robyn Hode,
In what countrë that he were.
But alway went good Robyn
By halke and eke by hyll, 50
And alway slewe the kyngës dere,
And welt them at his wyll.
Than bespake a proude fostere,
That stode by our kyngës kne:
‘Yf ye wyll see good Robyn, 55
Ye must do after me.
‘Take fyve of the best knyghtes
That be in your lede,
And walke downe by yon abbay,
And gete you monkës wede. 60
And I wyll be your ledes-man,
And lede you the way,
And or ye come to Notyngham,
Myn hede then dare I lay,
That ye shall mete with good Robyn, 65
On lyve yf that he be;
Or ye come to Notyngham,
With eyen ye shall hym se.
Full hastely our kynge was dyght,
So were his knyghtës fyve, 70
Everych of them in monkës wede,
And hasted them thyder blyve.
Our kynge was grete above his cole,
A brode hat on his crowne,
Ryght as he were abbot-lyke, 75
They rode up into the towne.
Styf botes our kynge had on,
Forsoth as I you say;
He rode syngynge to grene wode,
The covent was clothed in graye. 80
His male-hors and his grete somers
Folowed our kynge behynde,
Tyll they came to grene wode,
A myle under the lynde.
There they met with good Robyn, 85
Stondynge on the waye,
And so dyde many a bolde archere,
For soth as I you say.
Robyn toke the kyngës hors,
Hastely in that stede, 90
And sayd, Syr abbot, by your leve,
A whyle ye must abyde.
‘We be yemen of this foreste,
Under the grene-wode tre;
We lyve by our kyngës dere, 95
Other shift have not wee.
‘And ye have chyrches and rentës both,
And gold full grete plentëe
Gyve us some of your spendynge,
For saynt charytë.’ 100
Than bespake our cumly kynge,
Anone than sayd he;
‘I brought no more to grene-wode
But forty pounde with me.
‘I have layne at Notyngham, 105
This fourtynyght with our kynge,
And spent I have full moche good
On many a grete lordynge.
‘And I have but forty pounde,
No more than have I me: 110
But if I had an hondred pounde,
I would give it to thee.’
Robyn toke the forty pounde,
And departed it in two partye;
Halfendell he gave his mery men, 115
And bad them mery to be.
Full curteysly Robyn gan say;
‘Syr, have this for your spendyng;
We shall mete another day;’
‘Gramercy,’ than sayd our kynge. 120
‘But well the greteth Edwarde, our kynge,
And sent to the his seale,
And byddeth the com to Notyngham,
Both to mete and mele.’
He toke out the brode targe, 125
And sone he lete hym se;
Robyn coud his courteysy,
And set hym on his kne.
‘I love no man in all the worlde
So well as I do my kynge; 130
Welcome is my lordës seale;
And, monke, for thy tydynge,
‘Syr abbot, for thy tydynges,
To day thou shalt dyne with me,
For the love of my kynge, 135
Under my trystell-tre.’
Forth he lad our comly kynge,
Full fayre by the honde;
Many a dere there was slayne,
And full fast dyghtande. 140
Robyn toke a full grete horne,
And loude he gan blowe;
Seven score of wyght yonge men
Came redy on a rowe.
All they kneled on theyr kne, 145
Full fayre before Robyn:
The kynge sayd hym selfe untyll,
And swore by Saynt Austyn,
‘Here is a wonder semely sight;
Me thynketh, by Goddës pyne, 150
His men are more at his by
ddynge
Then my men be at myn.’
Full hastely was theyr dyner idyght,
And therto gan they gone;
They served our kynge with all theyr myght, 155
Both Robyn and Lytell Johan.
Anone before our kynge was set
The fattë venyson,
The good whyte brede, the good rede wyne,
And therto the fyne ale and browne. 160
‘Make good chere,’ said Robyn,
‘Abbot, for charytë
And for this ylkë tydynge,
Blyssed mote thou be.
‘Now shalte thou se what lyfe we lede, 165
Or thou hens wende;
Than thou may enfourme our kynge,
Whan ye togyder lende.’
Up they sterte all in hast,
Theyr bowes were smartly bent; 170
Our kynge was never so sore agast,
He wende to have be shente.
Two yerdes there were up set,
Thereto gan they gange;
By fyfty pase, our kynge sayd, 175
The merkës were to longe.
On every syde a rose-garlonde,
They shot under the lyne:
‘Who so fayleth of the rose-garlonde,’ sayd Robyn,
‘His takyll he shall tyne. 180
‘And yelde it to his mayster,
Be it never so fyne;
For no man wyll I spare,
So drynke I ale or wyne;
‘And bere a buffet on his hede, 185
I-wys ryght all bare’:
And all that fell in Robyns lote,
He smote them wonder sare.
Twyse Robyn shot aboute,