Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
And hanged hye on a hill.

But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John,
If itt be Christ his will.

Let us leave talking of Little John,

And thinke of Robin Hood,

How he is gone to the wight yeoman,

Where under the leaves he stood.

Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre,
Good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he:
Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande
A good archere thou sholdst bee.

I am wilfulle of my waye, quo' the yeman,
And of my morning tyde.

Ile lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin;
Good fellow, Ile be thy guide.

I seeke an outlawe, the straunger sayd,
Men call him Robin Hood;

Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe
Than fortye pound soe good.

Now come with me, thou wighty yeman,
And Robin thou soone shalt see:
But first let us some pastime find
Under the greenwood tree.

First let us some masterye make

Among the woods so even,

We may chance to meet with Robin Hood
Here att some unsett steven.

They cutt them down two summer shroggs,
That grew both under a breere,

And sett them threescore rood in twaine
To shoote the prickes y-fere.

Leade on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood,
Leade on, I doe bidd thee.

Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,
My leader thou shalt bee.

The first time Robin shot at the pricke,
He mist but an inch it froe;

The yeoman he was an archer good,
But he cold never shoote soe.

The second shoote had the wightye yeman,
He shot within the garlande;

But Robin he shott far better than hee,
For he clave the good pricke wande.

A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd;
Goode fellowe, thy shooting is goode;
For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
Thou wert better than Robin Hoode.

Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he,
Under the leaves of lyne.

Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robin,
Till thou have told me thine.

I dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee,
And Robin to take Ime sworne;
And when I am called by my right name
I am Guy of good Gisborne.

My dwelling is in this wood, sayes Robin,
By thee I set right nought:

I am Robin Hood of Barnèsdale,
Whom thou so long hast sought.

He that had neyther beene kithe nor kin,
Might have seen a full fayre sight,
To see how together these yeomen went
With blades both browne and bright.

To see how these yeomen together they fought
Two howres of a summers day:
Yett neither Robin Hood nor sir Guy
Them fettled to flye away.

Robin was reachles on a roote,

And stumbled at that tyde;

And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all,
And hitt him ore the left side.

Ah deere Lady, sayd Robin Hood thou,
Thou art but mother and may',

I think it was never mans destinye
To dye before his day.

Robin thought on our lady deere,

And soone leapt up againe,

And strait he came with a backward' stroke,

He took sir Guys head by the hayre,
And stuck itt upon his bowes end;
Thou hast beene a traytor all thy life,
Which thing must have an ende.

Robin pulled forth an Irish knife,

And nicked sir Guy in the face,
That he was never on woman born,
Cold tell whose head it was.

Saies, Lye there, lye there, now sir Guye,
And with me be not wrothe;

If thou have had the worst strokes at my hand,
Thou shalt have the better clothe.

Robin did off his gowne of greene,
And on sir Guy did throwe,
And hee put on that capull hyde,
That cladd him topp to toe.

The bowe, the arrowes, and little horne,
Now with me I will beare;

For I will away to Barnèsdale,

To see how my men doe fare.

Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth,
And a loud blast in it did blow,
That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
As he leaned under a lowe.

Hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe,
I heare nowe tydings good,

For yonder I heare sir Guyes horne blowe,
And he hath slayne Robin Hoode.

Yonder I heare sir Guyes horne blowe,

Itt blowes soe well in tyde,

And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,

Cladd in his capull hyde.

Come hyther, come hyther, thou good sir Guy,

Aske what thou wilt of mee.

OI will none of thy gold, sayd Robin,

Nor I will none of thy fee:

But now I have slaine the master, he sayes,

Let me goe strike the knave;

For this is all the rewarde I aske;

Nor noe other will I have.

Thou art a madman, said the sheriffe,
Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee:
But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
Well granted it shale be.

When Little John heard his master speake,
Well knewe he it was his steven:
Now shall I be looset, quoth Little John,
With Christ his might in heaven.

Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John,
He thought to loose him belive:
The sheriffe and all his companye
Fast after him can drive.

Stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robin;
Why draw you mee so neere?
Itt was never the use in our countryè,
Ones shrift another shold heere.

But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife,
And losed John hand and foote,

And gave him sir Guyes bow into his hand,
And bade it be his boote.

Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand,
His boltes and arrowes eche one:

When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,
He fettled him to be gone.

Towards his house in Nottingh am

towne,

He fled full fast away;

And soe did all the companye:

Not one behind wold stay.

But he cold neither runne soe fast,
Nor away soe fast cold ryde,

But Little John with an arrowe soe

broad,

He shott him into the backe-syde.

[This ballad is taken from Ritson's Robin Hood,' where it was given from an edition in black letter, printed for I. Clarke, W. Thackeray, and T. Passenger, 1686, remaining in the curious library left by Anthony à Wood.' It was written by Martin Parker, a great writer of ballads,' or, as Ritson calls him in another place, ('Ancient Songs, &c., ii. 263), 'a Grub-street scribbler, and great balladmonger of Charles the First's time.' Several of his ballads, Ritson remarks, are still extant in the Pepysian and other collections. The full title of the present ballad, as given by Ritson, is as follows:-'A true tale of Robin Hood; or, A briefe touch of the life and death of that renowned outlaw Robert Earl of Huntingdon, vulgarly called Robin Hood, who lived and dyed in A.D. 1198, being the 9th year of King Riehard the First, commonly called Richard Cœur de Lyon. Carefully collected out of the truest writers of our English chronicles; and published for the satisfaction of those who desire truth from falshood. With regard to the manner of the hero's death, a more particular and somewhat different account is given in another ballad, entitled 'Robin Hood's Death and Burial,'

OTH gentlemen and yeomen bold,

Or whatsoever you are,

To have a stately story told