“Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page!
Ben Hawes, come tell to me,
What manner of man is this burly frere
Who walks the wood so free?”
“My master good!” the little page said,
“His name I wot not well,
But he wears on his head a hat so red,
With a monstrous scallop-shell.
“He says he is Prior of Copmanshurst,
And Bishop of London town,
And he comes with a rope from our father the Pope,
To put the outlaws down.
“I saw him ride but yester-tide,
With his jolly chaplains three;
And he swears that he has an open pass
From Jem of Netherbee!”
Little John has ta’en an arrow so broad,
And broken it o’er his knee;
“Now may I never strike doe again,
But this wrong avenged shall be!
“And has he dared, this greasy frere,
To trespass in my bound,
Nor asked for leave from Little John
To range with hawk and hound?
“And has he dared to take a pass
From Jem of Netherbee,
Forgetting that the Sherwood shaws
Pertain of right to me?
“O were he but a simple man,
And not a slip-shod frere!
I’d hang him up by his own waist-rope
Above yon tangled brere.
“O did he come alone from Jem,
And not from our father the Pope,
I’d bring him into Copmanshurst,
With the noose of a hempen rope!
“But since he has come from our father the Pope,
And sailed across the sea,
And since he has power to bind and lose,
His life is safe for me;
But a heavy penance he shall do
Beneath the greenwood tree!”