They hang’d their heads, they drooped down, A word they could not speak. Robin said, Because I fell a-sound, I think ye’ll do the like. Tell on the matter, less or more, And tell me what and how Ye have done with the bold beggàr I sent you for right now. {113} And when they told him to an end, As i have said before, How that the beggar did them blind, What ‘mister’ presses more ? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And how in the thick woods he fled, E’er they a stime could see ; And how they scarcely could win home, Their bones were baste so sore ; Good Robin cry’d, Fy ! out ! for shame ! We’re sham’d for evermore. Altho good Robin would full fain Of his wrath revenged be, He smil’d to see his merry young men Had gotten a taste of the tree. [Illustration] {114} [Illustration] IV. ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE, is reprinted from the “Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,” published by Dr. Percy (vol. i. p. 81), who there gives it from his “folio MS.” as “never before printed, and ‘carrying’ marks of much greater antiquity than any of the common popular songs on this subject.” As for Guy of Gisborne, the only further memorial which has occurred concerning him is in an old satirical piece by William Dunbar, a celebrated Scotish poet of the 15th century, on one “Schir Thomas Nory” (MS. Maitland, p. 3; MSS. More, Ll. 5, 10), where he is named along with our hero, Adam Bell, and other worthies, it is conjectured, of a similar stamp, but whose merits have not, less fortunately, come to the knowledge of posterity. {115} “Was nevir WEILD ROBEINE under bewch, Nor yitt Roger of Clekkinslewch, So bauld a bairne as he ; GY OF GYSBURNE, na Allane Bell, Na Simones sones of Quhynsell, Off thocht war nevir so slie.” Gisborne is a market-town in the West Riding of the county of York, on the borders of Lancashire. In the fourth edition of the publication above referred to, which appeared in July 1795, it is acknowleged that “some liberties were, by the editor, taken with this ballad, which in this edition hath been brought nearer to the folio MS.” The new readings have therefore been introduced into the present text. Whan shaws beene sheene, and shraddes[271] full fayre, And leaves both large and longe, Itt’s merrye walkyng in the fayre forrèst 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 faye, sayd jollye Robìn, A sweaven I had this night ; I dreamt me of tow wighty yemèn, That fast with me can fight. {116} 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, master, quoth John, As the wind that blowes ore a hill ; For iff itt be never so loude this night, To-morrow it may be still.