Methought they did mee beate and binde,
And tooke my bow mee froe;
If I be Robin alive in this lande,
He be wroken on them towe.
Sweavens are swift, Master, quoth John,
As the wind that blowes ore a hill;
For if itt be never so loude this night,
To-morrow itt may be still.
Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
And John shall goe with mee,
For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen,
In greenwood where the bee.
Then the cast on their gownes of grene,
And tooke theyr bowes each one;
And they away to the greene forrest
A shooting forth are gone;
Until they came to the merry greenwood,
Where they had gladdest bee,
There were the ware of a wight yeoman,
His body leaned to a tree.
A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
Of manye a man the bane;
And he was clad in his capull hyde
Topp and tayll and mayne.
Stand you still, master, quoth Litle John,
Under this tree so grene,
And I will go to yond wight yeoman
To know what he doth meane.
Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,
And that I farley finde:
How offt send I my men beffore
And tarry my selfe behinde?
It is no cunning a knave to ken,
And a man but heare him speake;
And itt were not for bursting of my bowe.
John, I thy head wold breake.
As often wordes they breeden bale,
So they parted Robin and John;
And John is gone to Barnesdale;
The gates he knoweth eche one.