2 The woodweele sang, and wold not cease, Amongst the leaues a lyne: And it is by two wight yeomen, By deare God, _tha_t I meane. * * * * * 3 ‘Me thought they did mee beate and binde, And tooke my bow mee froe; If I bee Robin a-liue in this lande, I’le be wrocken on both them towe.’ 4 ‘Sweauens are swift, m_aster_,’ q_uo_th Iohn, ‘As the wind _tha_t blowes ore a hill; Ffor if itt be neu_er_ soe lowde this night, To-morrow it may be still.’ 5 ‘Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, Ffor Iohn shall goe w_i_th mee; For I’le goe seeke yond wight yeomen In greenwood where the bee.’ 6 Thé cast on their gowne of greene, A shooting gone are they, Vntill 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. 7 A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, Had beene many a mans bane, And he was cladd in his capull-hyde, Topp, and tayle, and mayne. 8 ‘Stand you still, m_aster_,’ q_uo_th Litle Iohn, ‘Vnder this trusty tree, And I will goe to yond wight yeoman, To know his meaning trulye.’ 9 ‘A, Iohn, by me thou setts noe store, And _tha_t’s a ffarley thinge; How offt send I my men beffore, And tarry my-selfe behinde? 10 ‘It is noe cunning a knaue to ken, And a man but heare him speake; And itt were not for bursting of my bowe, Iohn, I wold thy head breake.’ 11 But often words they breeden bale, _Tha_t p_ar_ted Robin and Iohn; Iohn is gone to Barn[e]sdale, The gates he knowes eche one. 12 And when hee came to Barnesdale, Great heauinesse there hee hadd; He ffound two of his fellowes Were slaine both in a slade, 13 And Scarlett a ffoote flyinge was, Ou_er_ stockes and stone, For the sheriffe w_i_th seuen score men Fast after him is gone. 14 ‘Yett one shoote I’le shoote,’ sayes Litle Iohn, ‘W_i_th Crist his might and mayne; I’le make yond fellow _tha_t flyes soe fast To be both glad and ffaine.’ 15 Iohn bent vp a good veiwe bow, And ffetteled him to shoote; The bow was made of a tender boughe, And fell downe to his foote. 16 ‘Woe worth thee, wicked wood,’ sayd Litle Iohn, ‘_Tha_t ere thou grew on a tree! Ffor this day thou art my bale, My boote when thou shold bee!’ 17 This shoote it was but looselye shott, The arrowe flew in vaine, And it mett one of the sheriffes men; Good W_illia_m a Trent was slaine. 18 It had beene better for W_illia_m a Trent To hange vpon a gallowe Then for to lye in the greenwoode, There slaine w_i_th an arrowe. 19 And it is sayd, when men be mett, Six can doe more then three: And they haue tane Litle Iohn, And bound him ffast to a tree.