In at the durres thei throly thrast[975],
With stavès ful gode wone[976];
‘Alas, alas!’ seid Robyn Hode,
‘Now mysse I Litull John.’
XXVI
But Robyn toke out a two-hond sworde,
That hangit down be his kne;
Ther as the Schereff and his men stode thyckust,
Thethurwarde wolde he.
XXVII
Thryes thorowout them he ran then,
Forsothe as I yow sey,
And woundyt mony a moder son,
And twelve he slew that day.
XXVIII
His sworde upon the Schereff hed
Sertanly he brake in two;
‘The smyth that the made,’ seid Robyn,
‘I pray to God wyrke hym woo!
XXIX
‘Ffor now am I weppynlesse,’ seid Robyn,
‘Alasse! agayn my wylle;
But if[977] I may fle these traytors fro,
I wot thei wil me kyll.’