Fitt I.
In schomer, when the leves spryng,
The bloschoms on every bowe,
So merey doyt the berdys syng
Yn wodys merey now.

Herkens, god yemen, 
Comley, corteys, and god, 
On of the best that yever bare bowe,
Hes name was Roben Hode.

Roben Hood was the yemans name,
That was boyt corteys and fre;
For the loffe of owre ladey,
All wemen werschepyd he. 

Bot as the god yeman stod on a day,
Among hes mery maney, 
He was ware of a prowd potter, 
Cam dryfyng owyr the leye.

'Yonder comet a prod potter,' seyde Roben, 
'That long hayt hantyd this wey; 
He was never so corteys a man
On peney of pawage to pay.'

'Y met hem bot at Wentbreg,' seyde Lytyll John,
'And therefore yeffell mot he the! 
Seche thre strokes he me gafe,
Yet by my seydys cleffe they. 

Y ley forty shillings,' seyde Lytyll John,
'To pay het thes same day,
Ther ys nat a man among hus all 
A wed schall make hem leye.' 

'Here ys forty shillings,' seyde Roben,
'More, and thow dar say,
That Y schall make that prowde potter, 
A wed to me schall he ley.' 

There thes money they leyde,
They toke het a yeman to kepe;
Roben beffore the potter he breyde,
And bad hem stond stell.

Handys apon hes hors he leyde, 
And bad the potter stonde foll stell; 
The potter schorteley to hem seyde, 
'Felow, what ys they well?' 

'All thes thre yer, and more, potter,' he seyde,
'Thow hast hantyd thes wey, 
Yet were tow never so cortys a man
On peney of pavage to pay.'

'What ys they name,' seyde the potter,
'For pavage thow aske of me?'
'Roben Hod ys mey name,
A wed schall thow leffe me.'

'Wed well y non leffe,' seyde the potter,
'Nor pavag well Y non pay;
Awey they honde fro mey hors!
Y well the tene eyls, be mey fay.' 

The potter to hes cart he went,
He was not to seke;
A god to-hande staffe therowt he hent, 
Beffore Roben he leppyd.

Roben howt with a swerd bent,
A bokeler en hes honde;
The potter to Roben he went,
And seyde, 'Felow, let mey hors go.'

Togeder then went thes to yemen,
Het was a god seyt to se; 
Thereof low Robyn hes men, 
There they stod onder a tre. 

Leytell John to hes felow he seyde, 
'Yend potter well steffeley stonde': 
The potter, with an acward stroke,
Smot the bokeler owt of hes honde.

And ar Roben meyt get het agen
Hes bokeler at hes fette,
The potter yn the neke hem toke,
To the gronde sone he yede. 

That saw Roben hes men, 
As they stod onder a bow; 
'Let us helpe owre master,' seyde Lytell John,
'Yonder potter,' seyde he, 'els well hem slo.'

Thes wight yemen with a breyde,
To thes master they cam.
Leytell John to hes master seyde,
'Ho haet the wager won?

'Schall Y haffe yowre forty shillings,' seyde Lytl John,
'Or ye, master, schall haffe myne?'
'Yeff they were a hundred,' seyde Roben, 
'Y feythe, they ben all theyne.'

'Het ys fol leytell cortesey,' seyde the potter,
'As I hafe harde weyse men sye,
Yeffe a pore yeman com drywyng over the way,
To let hem of hes gorney.' 

'Be mey trowet, thow seys soyt,' seyde Roben,
'Thow seys god yemenrey;
And thow dreyffe forthe yevery day,
Thow schalt never be let for me.' 

'Y well prey the, god potter, 
A felischepe well thow haffe? 
Geffe me they clothyng, and thow schalt hafe myne;
Y well go to Notynggam.'

'Y grant thereto,' seyde the potter,
'Thow schalt feynde me a felow gode;
Bot thow can sell mey pottys well,
Com ayen as thow yede.'

'Nay, be mey trowt,' seyde Roben,
'And then Y bescro mey hede,
Yeffe Y bryng eney pottys ayen, 
And eney weyffe well hem chepe.'

Than spake Leytell John,
And all hes felowhes heynd, 
'Master, be well ware of the screffe of Notynggam,
For he ys leytell howr frende.'

'Thorow the helpe of Howr Ladey,
Felowhes, let me alone.
Heyt war howte!' seyde Roben,
'To Notynggam well Y gon.' 

Robyn went to Notynggam, 
Thes pottys for to sell;
The potter abode with Robens men,
There he fered not eylle. 

Tho Roben droffe on hes wey,
So merey ower the londe:
Her es more, and affter ys to saye,
The best ys beheynde. 


Fitt 2

When Roben cam to Notynggam,
The soyt yef Y scholde saye, 
He set op hes hors anon,
And gaffe hem hotys and haye.

Yn the medys of the towne,
There he schowed hes ware; 
'Pottys! pottys!' he gan crey foll sone, 
'Haffe hansell for the mare!'

Foll effen agenest the screffeys gate
Schowed he hes chaffare; 
Weyffes and wedowes abowt hem drow,
And chepyd fast of hes ware. 

Yet 'Pottys, gret chepe!' creyed Robyn, 
'Y loffe yeffell thes to stonde.' 
And all that say hem sell
Seyde he had be no potter long.

The pottys that were worthe pens fe