"And bere a buffet on his hede,185
[I-wys right all bare]:"
And all that fell in Robyns lote,
He smote them wonder sare.
Twyse Robyn shot aboute,
And ever he cleved the wande,190
And so dyde good Gylberte
With the [Whyte] Hand.
Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke,
For nothynge wolde they spare,
When they fayled of the garlonde,195
Robyn smote them full sare.
At the last shot that Robyn shot,
For all his frendes fare,
Yet he fayled of the garlonde,
Thre fyngers and mare.200
Than bespake good Gylberte,
And thus he gan say;
"Mayster," he sayd, "your takyll is lost,
Stand forth and take your pay."
"If it be so," sayd Robyn,205
"That may no better be;
Syr abbot, I delyver the myn arowe,
I pray the, syr, serve thou me."
"It falleth not for myn order," sayd our kynge,
"Robyn, by thy leve,210
For to smyte no good yemàn,
For doute I sholde hym greve."
"Smyte on boldely," sayd Robyn,
"I give the large leve:"
Anone our kynge, with that worde,215
He folde up his sleve,
And sych a buffet he gave Robyn,
To grounde he yede full nere.
"I make myn avowe to god," sayd Robyn,
"Thou arte a stalworthe frere.220
"There is pith in thyn arme," sayd Robyn,
"I trowe thou canst well shote;"
Thus our kynge and Robyn Hode
Togeder than they met.