Now by my faye, sayd jollye Robin, A sweaven I had this night; I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen, That fast with me can fight. Methought they did mee beate and binde, And tooke my bow mee froe; If I be Robin alive in this lande, He be wroken on them towe. Sweavens are swift, Master, quoth John, As the wind that blowes ore a hill; For if itt be never so loude this night, To-morrow itt may be still. Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, And John shall goe with mee, For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen, In greenwood where the bee. Then the cast on their gownes of grene, And tooke theyr bowes each one; And they away to the greene forrest A shooting forth are gone; Until they came to the merry greenwood, Where they had gladdest bee, There were the ware of a wight yeoman, His body leaned to 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 hyde Topp and tayll and mayne. Stand you still, master, quoth Litle John, Under this tree so grene, And I will go to yond wight yeoman To know what he doth meane. Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store, And that I farley finde: How offt send I my men beffore And tarry my selfe behinde? It is no cunning a knave to ken, And a man but heare him speake; And itt were not for bursting of my bowe. John, I thy head wold breake. As often wordes they breeden bale, So they parted Robin and John; And John is gone to Barnesdale; The gates he knoweth eche one. But when he came to Barnesdale, Great heavinesse there hee hadd, For he found tow of his owne fellòwes Were slaine both in a slade. And Scarlette he was flyinge a-foote Fast over stocke and stone, For the 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 fellow that flyes soe fast, To stopp he shall be fayne. Then John bent up his long bende-bowe, And fetteled him to shoote: The bow was made of a tender boughe, And fell down to his foote. Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, That ere thou grew on a tree; For now this day thou art my bale, 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 sheriffes men, Good William a Trent was slaine. It had bene better of William a Trent To have bene abed with sorrowe, Than to be that day in the green wood slade To meet with Little Johns 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 hanged hye on a hill. But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John, If itt be Christ his will.