’Tis merry, ’tis merry in gay greenwood,
When the little birds are singing,
When the buck is belling in the fern,
And the hare from the thicket springing!
’Tis merry to hear the waters clear,
As they splash in the pebbly fall;
And the ouzel whistling to his mate,
As he lights on the stones so small.
But small pleasaunce took Little John
In all he heard and saw;
Till he reached the cave of a hermit old
Who wonned within the shaw.
“Ora pro nobis!” quoth Little John—
His Latin was somewhat rude—
“Now, holy father, hast thou seen
A frere within the wood?
“By his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nose,
I guess you may know him well;
And he wears on his head a hat so red,
And a monstrous scallop-shell.”
“I have served Saint Pancras,” the hermit said,
“In this cell for thirty year,
Yet never saw I, in the forest bounds,
The face of such a frere!
“An’ if ye find him, master mine,
E’en take an old man’s advice,
An’ raddle him well, till he roar again,
Lest ye fail to meet him twice!”
“Trust me for that!” quoth Little John—
“Trust me for that!” quoth he, with a laugh;
“There never was man of woman born,
That asked twice for the taste of my quarter-staff!”
Then Little John, he strutted on,
Till he came to an open bound,
And he was aware of a Red Friar,
Was sitting upon the ground.
His shoulders they were broad and strong,
And large was he of limb;
Few yeomen in the north countrie
Would care to mell with him.