“Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, And John shall goe with mee, For Ile goe seeke yond wighty yeomèn, In greenwood where they bee.” Then they cast on theyr gownes of grene, And tooke theyr bowes each one ; And they away to the greene forrèst A shooting forth are gone ; Untill they came to the merry greenwood, Where they had gladdest to bee, There they were ware of a wight yeomàn, 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. {117} Stand you still, master, quoth Little John, Under this tree so grene, And I will go to yond wight yeomàn, 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 before, And tarry my selfe behinde ? It is no cunning a knave to ken, And a man but heare him speake ; And it 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 he hadd, For he found tow of his own fellòwes, Were slaine both in a slade. And Scarlette he was flying a-foote Fast over stocke and stone, For the proud sheriffe with seven score men Fast after him is gone. {118} One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John, With Christ his might and mayne ; Ile make yond sheriffe 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 tender boughe, And fell downe at his foote. “Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, That ever 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 greenwood 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. {119} “Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, And hanged hye on a hill.” But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John, If it be Christ his will. Lett us leave talking of Little John, And thinke of Robin Hood, How he is gone to the wight yeomàn, Where under the leaves he stood. Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre, Good morrowe, good fellow, quo’ he :[272] Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande, A good archere thou sholdst bee. I am wilfulle of my waye, quo’ the yemàn, And of my morning tyde. Ile lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin ; Good fellow, Ile be thy guide.