“It should not be in Julius Cæsar’s time:
There was no English used in this land
Untill the Saxons came, and this is writ
In Saxon characters.”
The next quotation may be of service to Dr. Percy, who {lxiii} has been pleased to question our hero’s nobility, because “the most ancient poems make no mention of this earldom,” and the old legend expressly asserts him “to have been a yeoman.” It is very true; and we shall here not only find his title established, but also discover the secret of his not being usually distinguished or designed by it.
“Enter Roben Hoode.
King. How now, earle Robert!
Fri. A forfet, a forfet, my liege lord,
My master’s lawes are on record,
The court-roll here your grace may see.
King. I pray thee, frier, read them mee.
Fri. One shall suffice, and this is hee.
No man that commeth in this wod,
To feast or dwell with Robin Hood,
Shall call him earle, lord, knight, or squire,
He no such titles doth desire,
But Robin Hood, plain Robin Hoode,
That honest yoeman, stout and good,
On paine of forfetting a marke,
That must be paid to mee his clarke.
My liege, my liege, this lawe you broke,
Almost in the last word you spoke;
That crime may not acquitted bee,
Till Frier Tuck receive his fee.”
Now, the reason that “the most ancient poems make no mention of this earldom,” and the old legend expressly asserts him “to have been a yeoman,” appears, plainly enough, to be, that as, pursuant to his own injunction, he was never called, either by his followers, or in the vicinity, by any other name than Robin Hood, so particularly the minstrels, who were always, no doubt, welcome to Sherwood,[49] {lxiv} and liberally entertained by him and his yeomanry, would take special care never to offend against the above law: which puts an end to the dispute.—Q. E. D.
Our hero is, at length, poisoned by a drink which Doncaster and the prior, his uncle, had prepared for him to give to the king. His departing scene and last dying speech are beautiful and pathetic.
“Rob. Inough, inough, Fitzwater, take your child.
My dying frost, which no sunnes heat can thawe,
Closes the powers of all my outward parts;
My freezing blood runnes back into my heart,
Where it assists death, which it would resist:
Only my love a little hinders death,
For he beholds her eyes, and cannot smite.
Mat. O let mee looke for ever in thy eyes,
And lay my warme breath to thy bloodlesse lips,
If my sight can restraine death’s tyrannies,
Or keep lives breath within thy bosome lockt.”
He desires to be buried
“At Wakefield, underneath the abbey-wall;”
directs the manner of his funeral; and bids his yeomen,
“For holy dirges, sing ‘him’ wodmen’s songs.”