"Forsooth as I thee say;
He is not yet three mil-es
Pass-ed on your way."
Up then stert-e good Rob-in,
As a man that had be wode:
"Busk you, my merr-y young men,
For him that died on a rode;
And he that this sorrow forsaketh,
By him that died on a tree,
Shall he never in green wood be,
Nor longer dwell with me."
Soon there were good bows i-bent,
More than seven score,
Hedge ne ditch spar-ed they none,
That was them before.
"I make mine avow," said Robin,
"The knight would I fain see,
And if I ma-y him take,
Iquit then shall he be."
And when they came to Nottingham,
They walk-ed in the street,
And with the proud sheriff, i-wis,
Soon-e gan they meet.
"Abide, thou proud sher-iff," he said,
"Abide and speak with me,
Of some tidings of our king,
I would fain hear of thee.
This seven year, by dere-worthy God,
Ne yede I so fast on foot,
I make mine avow, thou proud sheriff,
Is not for thy good."
Robin bent a good bow-e,
An arrow he drew at his will,
He hit so the proud sher-iff,
On the ground he lay full still;
And ere he might up arise,
On his feet to stand,
He smote off the sheriff's head,
With his bright brand.
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