He made a crye thoroowt al the tow[n],
Whedur he be zoman or knave,
That cowthe brynge hyrn Robyn Hode,
His warisone he shuld haue.
“For I dar neuer,” said the scheref,
“Cum before oure kynge,
For if I do, I wot serten,
For sothe he wil me henge.”
The scheref made to seke Notyngham,
Bothe be strete and stye,
And Robyn was in mery Scherwode
As lizt as lef on lynde.
Then bespake gode Litulle Johne,
To Robyn Hode can he say,
“I haue done the a gode turne for an euylle,
Quyte me whan thou may.
“I haue done the a gode turne,” said Litulle Johne,
“For sothe as I you saie;
I haue brouzt the vnder grene wode lyne;
Fare wel, and haue gode day.”
“Nay, be my trouthe,” seid Robyn Hode,
“So shalle hit neuer be;
I make the maister,” seid Robyn Hode,
“Off alle my men and me.”
“Nay, be my trouthe,” seid Litulle Johne,
“So shall hit neuer be,
But lat me be a felow,” seid Litulle Johne,
“Non odur kepe I’ll be.”
Thus Johne gate Robyn Hode out of prisone,
Sertan withoutyn layne;
When his men saw hym hol and sounde,
For sothe they were ful fayne.
They filled in wyne, and made him glad,
Vnder the levys smale,
And zete pastes of venysone,
That gode was with ale.
Than worde came to oure kynge,
How Robyn Hode was gone,
And how the scheref of Notyngham
Durst neuer loke hyme vpone.