"Somtyme I was an archere good,
A styffe and eke a stronge;
I was commytted the best archere
That was in mery Englonde.80
"Alas!" then sayd good Robyn,
"Alas and well a woo!
Yf I dwele lenger with the kynge,
Sorowe wyll me sloo."
Forth than went Robyn Hode85
Tyll he came to our kynge;
"My lorde the kynge of Englonde,
Graunte me myn askynge.
"I made a chapell in Bernysdale,
That semely is to se,90
It is of Mary Magdalene,
And thereto wolde I be.
"I myght never in this seven nyght
No tyme to slepe ne wynke,
Nother all these seven dayes95
Nother ete ne drynke.
"Me longeth sore to Bernysdale,
I may not be therfro;
Barefote and wolwarde I have hyght
Thyder for to go."100
"Yf it be so," than sayd our kynge,
"It may no better be;
Seven nyght I gyve the leve,
No lengre, to dwell fro me."
"Gramercy, lorde," then sayd Robyn,105
And set hym on his kne;
He toke his leve full courteysly,
To grene wode then went he.
Whan he came to grene wode,
In a mery mornynge,110
There he herde the notes small
Of byrdes mery syngynge.
"It is ferre gone," sayd Robyn,
"That I was last here;
Me lyste a lytell for to shote115
At the donne dere."