But Robyne toke out a too-hond sworde
That hangit down be his kne;
Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust,
Thidurward wold he.
Thryes thorow at them he ran,
Then for sothe as I yow say,
And woundyt many a modur sone,
And xii he slew that day.
Hys sworde vpon the schireff hed
Sertanly he brake in too;
“The smyth that the made,” seid Robyn,
“I pray God wyrke him woo.
“For now am I weppynlesse,” seid Robyne,
“Alasse, agayn my wylle;
But if I may fle these traytors fro,
I wot thei wil me kylle.”
Robyns men to the churche ran
Throout hem euerilkon;
Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede,
And lay still as any stone.
* * * * *
Non of theym were in her mynde
But only Litulle Jon.
“Let be your dule,” seid Litulle Jon,
“For his luf that dyed on tre;
Ze that shulde be duzty men,
Hit is gret shame to se.
“Oure maister has bene hard bystode,
And zet scapyd away;
Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone,
And herkyn what I shal say.
“He has seruyd our lady many a day,
And zet wil securly;
Therefore I trust in her specialy
No wycked deth shal he dye.