Roben Hood was the yemans name,
That was boyt corteys and fre;
For the loffe of owr ladey,
All wemen werschep he.
Bot as the god yemen stod on a day,
Among hes mery manèy,
He was war of a prowd potter,
Cam dryfyng owyr the ley.
“Yonder comet a prod potter,” seyde Roben,
“That long hayt hantyd this wey;
He was never so corteys a man
On peney of pawage to pay.”
“Y met hem bot at Wentbreg,” seyde Lytyll John,
“And therfor yeffell mot he the,
Seche thre strokes he me gafe,
Yet they cleffe by my seydys.
“Y ley forty shillings,” seyde Lytyll John,
“To pay het thes same day,
Ther ys nat a man arnong hus all
A wed schall make hem ley.”
“Her ys forty shillings,” seyde Roben,
“Mor, and thow dar say,
That y schall make that prowde potter,
A wed to me schall he ley.”
Ther thes money they leyde,
They toke bot a yeman to kepe;
Roben befor the potter he breyde,
And bad hem stond stell.
Handys apon hes horse he leyde,
And bad the potter stonde foll stell;
The potter schorteley to hem seyde,
“Felow, what ys they well?”
“All thes thre yer, and mor, potter,” he seyde,
“Thow hast hantyd thes wey,
Yet wer tow never so cortys a man
One peney of pauage to pay.”
“What ys they name,” seyde the potter,
“For pauage thow ask of me?”
“Roben Hod ys mey name,
A wed schall thow leffe me.”