One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John,
With Christ his might and mayne:
Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,
To stopp he shall be fayne.
Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
And fetteled him to shoote:
The bow was made of a tender boughe,
And fell down to his foote.
Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
That ere thou grew on a tree;
For now this day thou art my bale,
My boote when thou shold bee.
His shoote it was but loosely shott,
Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
For itt mett one of the sheriffes men,
Good William a Trent was slaine.
It had bene better of William a Trent
To have bene abed with sorrowe,
Than to be that day in the green wood slade
To meet with Little Johns arrowe.
But as it is said, when men be mett
Fyve can doe more than three,
The sheriffe hath taken little John,
And bound him fast to a tree.
Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
And hanged hye on a hill.
But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John,
If itt be Christ his will.
Let us leave talking of Little John,
And thinke of Robin Hood,
How he is gone to the wight yeoman,
Where under the leaves he stood.
Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre,
Good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he:
Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande
A good archere thou sholdst bee.
I am wilfull of my waye, quo' the yeman,
And of my morning tyde.
He lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin;
Good fellow, He be thy guide.