Robyn slewe a full grete harte,
His horne than gan he blow,
That all the outlawes of that forèst,
That horne coud they knowe120
And gadred them togyder,
In a lytell throwe;
Seven score of wight yonge men
Came redy on a rowe,
And fayre dyde of theyr hodes,125
And set them on theyr kne:
"Welcome," they sayd, "our maystèr,
Under this grene wode tre."
Robyn dwelled in grene wode
Twenty yere and two;130
For all drede of Edwarde our kynge,
Agayne wolde he not goo.
Yet he was begyled, i-wys,
Through a wycked womàn,
The pryoresse of [Kyrkesly],135
That nye was of hys kynne;
For the love of a knyght,
Syr Roger of [Donkestèr],
That was her owne speciall,
Full evyll mote [they] fare.140
They toke togyder theyr counsell
Robyn Hode for to sle,
And how they myght best do that dede,
His banis for to be.
Than bespake good Robyn,145
In place where as he stode,
"Tomorow I muste to Kyrkesley,
Craftely to be leten blode."
Syr Roger of Donkestere,
By the pryoresse he lay,150
And there they betrayed good Robyn Hode,
Through theyr false playe.
Cryst have mercy on his soule,
That dyed on the rode!
For he was a good outlawe,155
And dyde pore men moch god.