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Then Robin turned his face to the east, "Fight on, my merry men stout; Our cause is good," quod brave Robin Hood, "And we shall not be beaten out."

The battel grows hot on every side, The Scotchman made great moan: Quoth Jockey, "Gude faith, they fight on each side, Would I were with my wife Joan!"

The enemy compast brave Robin about, 'Tis long ere the battel ends; Ther's neither will yield, nor give up the field, For both are supplied with friends.

This song it was made in Robin Hoods dayes: Let's pray unto Jove above, To give us true peace, that mischief may cease, And war may give place unto love.



Given in Gutch's _Robin Hood_, ii. 392, from an Irish Garland, printed at Monaghan, 1796.

This piece is the same as the fragment usually printed as the Second Part of _Robin Hood and the Stranger_, (see p. 409,) and both are undoubtedly relics of some older ballad.

Now bold Robin Hood to the north would go With valour and mickle might; With sword by his side, which oft had been try'd, To fight and recover his right.

The first that he met was a jolly stout Scot, 5 His servant he said he would be; "No," quoth Robin Hood, "it cannot be good, For thou wilt prove false unto me.

"Thou has not been true to sire or cuz;"

"Nay, marry," the Scot he said, 10 "As true as your heart, I never will part; Good master, be not afraid."

"But e'er I employ you," said bold Robin Hood, "With you I must have a bout;"

The Scotchman reply'd, "Let the battle be try'd, 15 For I know I will beat you out."

Thus saying, the contest did quickly begin, Which lasted two hours and more; The blows Sawney gave bold Robin so brave, The battle soon made him give o'er. 20

"Have mercy, thou Scotchman," bold Robin Hood cry'd, "Full dearly this boon have I bought; We will both agree, and my man you shall be, For a stouter I never have fought."

Then Sawny consented with Robin to go, 25 To be of his bowmen so gay; Thus ended the fight, and with mickle delight To Sherwood they hasted away.


From Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 192.

Printed by Copland at the end of his edition of the _Lytell Geste_.

The whole title runs: _Here beginnethe the playe of Robyn Hoode, very proper to be played in Maye games_. A few corrections were made by Ritson from White's edition of 1634.

The fragment here preserved is founded upon the ballads of _Robin Hood and the Curtall Fryer_, (p. 271,) and _Robin Hood and the Potter_ (p.

17.) Were the whole play recovered, we should probably find it a _pot pourri_ of the most favorite stories of Robin Hood.


Now stand ye forth, my mery men all, And harke what I shall say; Of an adventure I shal you tell, The which befell this other day.

As I went by the hygh way, With a stout frere I met, And a quarter-staffe in his hande.

Lyghtely to me he lept, And styll he bade me stande.

There were strypes two or three, 10 But I cannot tell who had the worse, But well I wote the horeson lept within me, And fro me he toke my purse.

Is there any of my mery men all, That to that frere wyll go, And bryng hym to me forth withall, Whether he wyll or no?


Yes, mayster, I make god a vowe, To that frere wyll I go, And bring him to you, 20 Whether he wyl or no.


_Deus hic, deus hic_, god be here!

Is not this a holy worde for a frere?

God save all this company!

But am not I a jolly fryer?

For I can shote both farre and nere, And handle the sworde and buckler, And this quarter-staffe also.

If I mete with a gentylman or yeman, I am not afrayde to loke hym upon, 30 Nor boldly with him to carpe; If he speake any wordes to me, He shall have strypes two or thre, That shal make his body smarte.

But, maisters, to shew you the matter,[L35]

Wherfore and why I am come hither, In fayth I wyl not spare.

I am come to seke a good yeman, In Bernisdale men sai is his habitacion, His name is Robyn Hode. 40 And if that he be better man than I, His servaunt wyll I be, and serve him truely; But if that I be better man than he, By my truth my knave shall he be, And leade these dogges all three.


Yelde the, fryer, in thy long cote.


I beshrew thy hart, knave, thou hurtest my throt.


I trowe, fryer, thou beginnest to dote; Who made the so malapert and so bolde, To come into this forest here, 50 Amonge my falowe dere?


Go louse the, ragged knave.

If thou make mani wordes, I will geve the on the eare, Though I be but a poore fryer.

To seke Robyn Hode I am com here, And to him my hart to breke.


Thou lousy frer, what wouldest thou with hym?

He never loved fryer, nor none of freiers kyn.


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