Martin Parker was a great writer of ballads, several of which, with his initials subjoined, are still extant in the Pepysian and other collections. (See “Ancient Songs,” 1829, ii. p. 263.) Dr. Percy mentions a little miscellany intitled, “The garland of withered roses, by Martin Parker, 1656.” The editor has, likewise, seen “The nightingale warbling forth her own disaster, or the rape of Philomela: newly written in English verse by Martin Parker, 1632;” and, on the 24th of November 1640, Mr. Oulton enters at Stationers’ Hall “a book called The true story of Guy earle of Warwicke, in prose, by Martyn Parker.” At the end of this poem the author adds “The epitaph which the prioress of the monastry of Kirkslay in Yorkshire set over Robin Hood, which,” he says, “(as is before mentioned) was to be read within these hundred years, though in old broken English, much to the same sence and meaning.” He gives it thus: “Decembris quarto die, 1198. anno regni Richardi primi 9. “Robert earl of Huntington “Lies under this little stone, “No archer was like him so good; “His wildness named him Robin Hood; “Full thirteen years, and something more, “These northern parts he vexed sore; “Such outlaws as he and his men “May England never know again.” “Some other superstitious words,” he adds, “were in, which I,” says he, “thought fit to leave out.” Now, under this precise gentleman’s favour, one would be glad to know what these same “superstitious words” were; there not being anything of the {128} kind in Dr. Gale’s copy, which seems to be the original, and which is shorter by two lines than the above. Thirteen should be thirty. Both gentlemen, and yeomen bold, Or whatsoever you are, To have a stately story told Attention now prepare : It is a tale of Robin Hood, Which i to you will tell ; Which, being rightly understood, I know will please you well. This Robin (so much talked on) Was once a man of fame, Instiled earl of Huntington, Lord Robin Hood by name. In courtship and magnificence His carriage won him praise, And greater favour with his prince Than any in ‘those’[278] days. In bounteous liberality He too much did excell, And loved men of quality More than exceeding well. {129} His great revenues all he sold For wine and costly chear ; He kept three hundred bow-men bold, He shooting lov’d so dear. No archer living in his time With him might well compare ; He practis’d all his youthful prime That exercise most rare. At last, by his profuse expence, He had consum’d his wealth ; And, being outlaw’d by his prince, In woods he liv’d by stealth. The abbot of Saint Maries rich, To whom he money ought, His hatred to the earl was such That he his downfal wrought. So being outlaw’d (as ’tis told) He with a crew went forth Of lusty cutters stout and bold, And robbed in the North.