He heard the rustling of the boughs,
As Little John drew near;
But never a single word he spoke,
Of welcome or of cheer:
Less stir he made than a pedlar would
For a small gnat in his ear!
I like not his looks! thought Little John,
Nor his staff of the oaken tree.
Now may our Lady be my help,
Else beaten I well may be!
“What dost thou here, thou strong Friar,
In Sherwood’s merry round,
Without the leave of Little John,
To range with hawk and hound?”
“Small thought have I,” quoth the Red Friar,
“Of any leave, I trow;
That Little John is an outlawed thief,
And so, I ween, art thou!
“Know, I am Prior of Copmanshurst,
And Bishop of London town,
And I bring a rope from our father the Pope,
To put the outlaws down.”
Then out spoke Little John in wrath,
“I tell thee, burly frere,
The Pope may do as he likes at home,
But he sends no Bishops here!
“Up, and away, Red Friar!” he said,
“Up, and away, right speedilie;
An it were not for that cowl of thine,
Avenged on thy body I would be!”
“Nay, heed not that,” said the Red Friar,
“And let my cowl no hindrance be;
I warrant that I can give as good
As ever I think to take from thee!”
Little John he raised his quarter-staff,
And so did the burly priest,
And they fought beneath the greenwood tree
A stricken hour at least.