11 Forth then shotten these children two, And they did neuer lin, Vntill they came to merry Churchlees, To merry Churchlee[s] w_i_th-in. 12 And when they came to mer_r_y Churchlees, They knoced vpon a pin; Vpp then rose dame prioresse, And lett good Robin in. 13 Then Robin gaue to dame prioresse Twenty pound in gold, And bad her spend while that wold last, And shee shold haue more when shee wold. 14 And downe then came dame prioresse, Downe she came in that ilke, W_i_th a p_air_ off blood-irons in her hands, Were wrapped all in silke. 15 ‘Sett a chaffing-dish to the fyer,’ s_ai_d dame prioresse, ‘And stripp thou vp thy sleeue:’ I hold him but an vnwise man _Tha_t will noe warning leeve. 16 Shee laid the blood-irons to Ro_bin_ Hoods vaine, Alacke, the more pitye! And pearct the vaine, and let out the bloode, That full red was to see. 17 And first it bled, the thicke, thicke bloode, And afterwards the thinne, And well then wist good Robin Hoode Treason there was within. 18 ‘What cheere my m_aster_?’ said Litle Iohn; ‘In faith, Iohn, litle goode;’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . * * * * * 19 ‘I haue upon a gowne of greene, Is cut short by my knee, And in my hand a bright browne brand _Tha_t will well bite of thee.’ 20 But forth then of a shot-windowe Good Ro_bin_ Hood he could glide; Red Roger, w_i_th a grounden glaue, Thrust him through the milke-white side. 21 But Ro_bin_ was light and nimble of foote, And thought to abate his pride, Ffor betwixt his head and his shoulders He made a wound full wide. 22 Says, Ly there, ly there, Red Roger, The doggs they must thee eate; ‘For I may haue my houzle,’ he said, ‘For I may both goe and speake. 23 ‘Now giue me mood,’ Robin said to Litle Iohn, ‘Giue me mood w_i_th thy hand; I trust to God in heauen soe hye My houzle will me bestand.’ 24 ‘Now giue me leaue, giue me leaue, m_aster_,’ he said, ‘For Christs loue giue leaue to me, To set a fier within this hall, And to burne vp all Churchlee.’ 25 ‘That I reade not,’ said Ro_bin_ Hoode then, ‘Litle Iohn, for it may not be; If I shold doe any widow hurt, at my latter end, God,’ he said, ‘wold blame me; 26 ‘But take me vpon thy backe, Litle Iohn, And beare me to yonder streete, And there make me a full fayre graue, Of grauell and of greete. 27 ‘And sett my bright sword at my head, Mine arrowes at my feete, And lay my vew-bow by my side, My met-yard wi . . . . B #a.# The English Archer, Paisley, printed by John Neilson for George Caldwell, Bookseller, near the Cross, 1786, p. 81, No 24. #b.# The English Archer, York, printed by N. Nickson, in Feasegate, n. d., p. 70.