But Little John was weak of fence,
And his strength began to fail;
Whilst the Friar’s blows came thundering down,
Like the strokes of a threshing-flail.
“Now hold thy hand, thou stalwart Friar,
Now rest beneath the thorn,
Until I gather breath enow,
For a blast at my bugle-horn!”
“I’ll hold my hand,” the Friar said,
“Since that is your propine,
But, an you sound your bugle-horn,
I’ll even blow on mine!”
Little John he wound a blast so shrill,
That it rang o’er rock and linn,
And Charlie Wood, and his merry men all,
Came lightly bounding in.
The Friar he wound a blast so strong
That it shook both bush and tree,
And to his side came witless Will,
And Jem of Netherbee;
With all the worst of Robin’s band,
And many a Rapparee!
Little John he wist not what to do,
When he saw the others come;
So he twisted his quarter-staff between
His fingers and his thumb.
“There’s some mistake, good Friar!” he said,
“There’s some mistake ’twixt thee and me;
I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst,
But not beneath the greenwood tree.
“And if you will take some other name,
You shall have ample leave to bide;
With pasture also for your Bulls,
And power to range the forest wide.”
“There’s no mistake!” the Friar said;
“I’ll call myself just what I please.
My doctrine is that chalk is chalk,
And cheese is nothing else than cheese.”
“So be it, then!” quoth Little John;
“But surely you will not object,
If I and all my merry men
Should treat you with reserved respect?