It is no cunning a knave to ken,
An[9] a man but hear him speak;
An it were not for bursting of my bow,
John, I thy head would break.
As often words they breeden bale,[10]
So they parted, Robin and John;
And John is gone to Barnesdale:
The gates[11] he knoweth each one.
But when he came to Barnesdale,
Great heaviness there he had,
For he found two of his own fellows
Were slain both in a glade.
And Scarlett he was flying a-foot
Fast over stock and stone,
For the proud sheriff with seven score men
Fast after him is gone.
One shot now I will shoot, quoth John,
(With Christe his might and main;)
I'll make yon fellow that flies so fast,
To stop he shall be fain.
Then John bent up his long bende-bow,
And fettled[12] him to shoot:
The bow was made of tender bough,
And fell down to his foot.
Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
That ere thou grew on a tree;
For now this day thou art my bale,
My boote[13] when thou shouldst be.
His shoot it was but loosely shot,
Yet flew not the arrow in vain,
For it met one of the sheriff's men,—
Good William-a-Trent was slain.
It had been better for William-a-Trent
To have been a-bed with sorrow,
Than to be that day in the greenwood glade
To meet with Little John's arrow.
But as it is said, when men be met,
Five can do more than three,
The sheriff hath taken Little John,
And bound him fast to a tree.