Litulle Johne spyrred aftur the schereff,
And sone he hym fonde;
He oppyned the kyngus privè seelle,
And gaf hyn in his honde.
When the schereft saw the kyngus seelle,
He did of his hode anon;
“Wher is the munke that bare the letturs?”
He said to Litulle Johne.
“He is so fayn of hym,” seid Litulle Johne,
“For sothe as I yow sey,
He has made hym abot of Westmynster,
A lorde of that abbay.”
The scheref made John gode chere,
And gaf hym wine of the best;
At nyzt thei went to her bedde,
And euery man to his rest.
When the scheref was on-slepe
Dronken of wine and ale,
Litul Johne and Moche for sothe
Toke the way vnto the jale.
Litul Johne callid vp the jayler,
And bade him ryse anon;
He seid Robyn Hode had brokyn preson,
And out of hit was gon.
The portere rose anon sertan,
As sone as he herd John calle;
Litul Johne was redy with a swerd,
And bare hym to the walle.
“Now will I be porter,” seid Litul Johne,
“And take the keyes in honde;”
He toke the way to Robyn Hode,
And sone he hym vnbonde.
He gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond,
His hed with for to kepe,
And ther as the walle was lowyst
Anon down can thei lepe.
Be that the cok began to crow,
The day began to sprynge,
The scheref fond the jaylier ded,
The comyn belle made he rynge.