“He that shoteth ‘alder’[178] best Furthest fayre and lowe, At a payre of fynly buttes, Under the grene wode shawe, A ryght good arowe he shall have, The shaft of sylver whyte, The heade and the feders of ryche red golde, In Englond is none lyke.” This then herde good Robyn, Under his trystell tre : “Make you redy, ye wyght yonge men, That shotynge wyll I se. Buske you, my mery yonge men, Ye shall go with me ; And I wyll wete the shryves fayth, Trewe and yf he be.” Whan they had theyr bowes ibent, Theyr takles fedred fre, Seven score of wyght yonge men Stode by Robyns kne. {52} Whan they cam to Notyngham, The buttes were fayre and longe, Many was the bolde archere That shoted with bowes stronge. “There shall but syx shote with me, The other shal kepe my hede, And stande with good bowes bent That I be not desceyved.” The fourth outlawe his bowe gan bende, And that was Robyn Hode, And that behelde the proude sheryfe, All by the but he stode. Thryes Robyn shot about, And alway he slist[179] the wand, And so dyde good Gylberte, With the whyte hande. Lytell Johan and good Scatheloke Were archers good and fre ; Lytell Much and good Reynolde, The worste wolde they not be. Whan they had shot aboute, These archours fayre and good, Evermore was the best, Forsoth, Robyn Hode. {53} Hym was delyvered the goode aròw, For best worthy was he ; He toke the yeft so curteysly, To grene wode wolde he. They cryed out on Robyn Hode, And great hornes gan they blowe. Wo worth the, treason ! sayd Robyn, Full evyl thou art to knowe. And we be thou, thou proud sheryf, Thus gladdynge thy gest, Other wyse thou behote me In yonder wylde forest ; But had I the in grene wode, Under my trystell tre, Thou sholdest leve me a better wedde Than thy trewe lewtè. Full many a bowe there was bent, And arowes let they glyde, Many a kyrtell there was rent, And hurt many a syde. The outlawes shot was so stronge, That no man myght them dryve, And the proud sheryfes men They fled away full blyve.[180] {54} Robyn sawe the busshement to-broke, In grene wode he wolde have be, Many an arowe there was shot Amonge that company. Lytell Johan was hurte full sore, With an arowe in his kne, That he myght neyther go nor ryde ; It was full grete pytè. Mayster, then sayd Lytell Johan, If ever thou lovest me, And for that ylke lordes love, That dyed upon a tre, And for the medes of my servyce That I have served the, Lete never the proude sheryf Alyve now fynde me ; But take out thy browne swerde, And smyte all of my hede, And gyve me woundes dede and wyde, No lyfe on me be lefte.[181] I wolde not that, sayd Robyn, Johan, that thou were slawe, For all the golde in mery Englond, Though it lay now on a rawe {55}