Reliques of Ancient English Poetry consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, and other Pieces of our earlier Poets, (Chiefly of the Lyric kind.) Together with some few of later Date |
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![]() | Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ![]() |
VIII. ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE.
We have here a ballad of Robin Hood (from the Editor's folio MS) which was never before printed, and carries marks of much greater antiquity than any of the common popular songs on this subject.
The severity of those tyrannical forest-laws, that were introduced by our Norman kings, and the great temptation of breaking them by such as lived near the royal forests, at a time when the yeomanry of this kingdom were every where trained up to the long-bow, and excelled all other nations in the art of shooting, must constantly have occasioned great numbers of outlaws, and especially of such as were the best marksmen. These naturally fled to the woods for shelter, and forming into troops, endeavoured by their numbers to protect themselves from the dreadful penalties of their delinquency. The ancient punishment for killing the king's deer, was loss of eyes and castration: a punishment far worse than death. This will easily account for the troops of banditti, which formerly lurked in the royal forests, and from their superior skill in archery and knowledge of all the recesses of those unfrequented solitudes, found it no difficult matter to resist or elude the civil power.
Among all these, none was ever more famous than the hero of this ballad: the heads of whose story, as collected by Stow, are briefly these.
“In this time [about the year 1190, in the reign of Richard I.] were many robbers, and outlawes, among the which Robin Hood, and Little John, renowned theeves, continued in woods, despoyling and robbing the goods of
“The saide Robert entertained an hundred tall men and good archers with such spoiles and thefts as he got, upon whom four hundred (were they ever so strong) durst not give the onset. He suffered no woman to be oppressed, violated, or otherwise molested: poore mens goods he spared, abundantlie relieving them with that, which by theft he got from abbeys and the houses of rich carles: whom Maior (the historian) blameth for his rapine and theft, but of all theeves he affirmeth him to be the prince and the most gentle theefe.” Annals, p. 159.
The personal courage of this celebrated outlaw, his skill in archery, his humanity, and especially his levelling principle of taking from the rich and giving to the poor, have in all ages rendered him the favourite of the common people: who not content to celebrate his memory by innumerable songs and stories, have erected him into the dignity of an earl. Indeed it is not impossible, but our hero, to gain the more respect from his followers, or they to derive the more credit to their profession, may have given rise to such a report themselves: for we find it recorded in an epitaph, which, if genuine, must have been inscribed on his tombstone near the nunnery of Kirk-lees in Yorkshire; where (as the story goes) he was bled to death by a treacherous nun to whom he applied for phlebotomy.
laiz robert earl of huntingtun
nea arcir ver az hie sae geud
an pipl kauld im Robin Heud
sick utlawz as hi an is men
vil England nivir si agen.
This Epitaph appears to me suspicious; however, a late Antiquary has given a pedigree of Robin Hood, which,
“That be of fre bore blode:
“I shall you tell of a good yeman,
“His name was Robyn hode.
“Whiles he walked on grounde;
“So curteyse an outlawe as he was one,
“Was never none yfounde.” &c.
The printer's colophon is, “Explicit Kinge Edwarde and Robin hode and Lyttel Johan. Enprented at London in Fletestrete at the sygne of the sone by Wynkin de Worde.” —In Mr. Garrick's Collection is a different edition of the same poem “Imprinted at London upon the thre Crane wharfe by Wyllyam Copland.” containing at the end a little dramatic piece on the subject of Robin Hood and the Friar, not found in the former copy, called, “A newe playe for to be played in Maye games very plesaunte and full of pastyme.”
I shall conclude these preliminary remarks with observing, that the hero of this ballad was the favourite subject of popular songs so early as the time of K. Edw. III. In the
But of our Lorde and our Lady, I lerne nothyng at all.
See also in Bp. Latimer's Sermons a very curious and characteristical story, which shews what respect was shewn to the memory of our archer in the time of that prelate.
And leaves both large and longe,
Itt's merrye walkyng in the fayre forrèst
To heare the small birdes songe.
Sitting upon the spraye,
Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,
In the greenwood where he lay.
A sweaven I had this night;
I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,
That fast with me can fight.
And tooke my bowe me froe;
Iff I be Robin alive in this lande,
Ile be wroken on them towe.
As the wind blowes over the hill;
For iff itt be never so loude this night,
To-morrow it may be still.
And John shall goe with mee,
For Ile goe seeke yond wighty yeomen,
In greenwood where they bee.
And tooke theyr bowes each one;
And they away to the greene forrèst
A shooting forth are gone;
Where they had gladdest to bee,
There they were ware of a wight yeomàn,
That leaned agaynst a tree.
Of manye a man the bane;
And he was clad in his capull hyde
Topp and tayll and mayne.
Under this tree so grene,
And I will go to yond wight yeoman
To know what he doth meane.
And that I farley finde:
How often send I my men before,
And tarry my selfe behinde?
And a man but heare him speake;
And it were not for bursting of my bowe,
John, I thy head wold breake.
So they parted Robin and John;
And John is gone to Barnesdale:
The gates he knoweth eche one.
Great heavinesse there hee hadd,
For he found tow of his owne fellòwes
Were slaine both in a slade.
Fast over stocke and stone,
For the proud sheriffe with seven score men
Fast after him is gone.
With Christ his might and mayne;
To stopp he shall be fayne.
And fetteled him to shoote:
The bow was made of tender boughe,
And fell downe at his foote.
That ever thou grew on a tree;
For now this day thou art my bale,
My boote when thou shold bee.
Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
For itt mett one of the sherriffes men,
And William a Trent was slaine.
To have bene abed with sorrowe,
Than to be that day in the green wood slade
To meet with Little Johns arrowe.
Fyve can doe more than three,
The sheriffe hath taken little John,
And bound him fast to a tree.
And hanged hye on a hill.
If it be Christ his will.
And thinke of Robin Hood,
How he is gone to the wight yeomàn,
Where under the leaves he stood.
“Good morrowe, good fellow, quo' he:”
Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande
A good archere thou sholdst bee.
And of my morning tyde.
Ile lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin;
Good fellow, Ile be thy guide.
Men call him Robin Hood;
Rather Ild meet with that proud outlàwe
Than fortye pound soe good.
And Robin thou soone shalt see:
But first let us some pastime find
Under the greenwood tree.
Among the woods so even,
We may chance to meete with Robin Hood
Here at some unsett steven.
That grew both under a breere,
And sett them threescore rood in twaine
To shoote the prickes y-fere.
Leade on, I do bidd thee.
Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,
My leader thou shalt bee.
He mist but an inch it fro:
The yeoman he was an archer good,
But he cold never do soe.
He shot within the garlànd:
But Robin he shott far better than hee,
For he clave the good pricke wande.
Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;
For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
Thou wert better than Robin Hoode.
Under the leaves of lyne.
Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robìn,
Till thou have told me thine.
And Robin to take Ime sworne;
And when I am called by my right name
I am Guy of good Gisbòrne.
By thee I set right nought:
I am Robin Hood of Barnèsdale,
Whom thou so long hast sought.
Might have seen a full fayre sight,
To see how together these yeomen went
With blades both browne and bright.
Two howres of a summers day:
Yett neither Robin Hood nor sir Guy
Them fettled to flye away.
And stumbled at that tyde;
And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all,
And hitt him upon the syde.
That art but mother and may',
I think it was never mans destinye
To dye before his day.
And soone leapt up againe,
And strait he came with a ‘backward’ stroke,
And he sir Guy hath slayne.
And stuck it upon his bowes end:
Thou hast beene a traytor all thy life,
Which thing must have an end.
And nicked sir Guy in the face,
That he was never on woman born,
Cold know whose head it was.
And with me be not wrothe;
Iff thou have had the worst strokes at my hand,
Thou shalt have the better clothe.
And on sir Guy did throwe,
And hee put on that capull hyde,
That cladd him topp to toe.
Now with me I will beare;
For I will away to Barnèsdale,
To see how my men doe fare.
And a loud blast in it did blow.
That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
As he leaned under a lowe.
I heare nowe tydings good,
For yonder I heare sir Guyes horne blow,
And he hath slaine Robin Hoode.
Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,
Cladd in his capull hyde.
Aske what thou wilt of mee.
O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin,
Nor I will none of thy fee:
Let me goe strike the knave;
For this is all the meede I aske;
None other rewarde I'le have.
Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee:
But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
Well granted it shal bee.
Well knewe he it was his steven:
Now shall I be looset, quoth Little John,
With Christ his might in heaven.
He thought to loose him blive;
The sheriffe and all his companye
Fast after him can drive.
Why draw you mee so neere?
Itt was never the use in our countryè,
Ones shrift another shold heere.
And losed John hand and foote,
And gave him sir Guyes bow into his hand,
And bade it be his boote.
His boltes and arrowes eche one:
When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,
He fettled him to be gone.
He fled full fast away;
And soe did all the companye;
Not one behind wold stay.
Nor away soe fast cold ryde,
But Little John with an arrowe soe broad,
He shott him into the ‘backe’-syde.
The title of Sir was not formerly peculiar to Knights, it was given to priests, and sometimes to very inferior personages.
It should perhaps be Swards: i.e. the surface of the ground: viz. “when the fields are in their beauty.”
The common epithet for a sword or other offensive weapon, in the old metrical romances, is Brown. As “brown brand,” or “brown sword: brown bill,” &c. and sometimes even “bright brown sword.” Chaucer applies the word rustie in the same sense; thus he describes the reve:
Prol. ver. 620.
And even thus the God Mars:
Test. of Cressid. 188.
Spencer has sometimes used the same epithet: See Warten's Observ. vol. 2. p. 62. It should seem from this particularity that our ancestors did not pique themselves upon keeping their weapons bright: perhaps they deemed it more honourable to carry them stained with the blood of their enemies.
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