On every side a rose garl-and,
They shot under the line.
"Whoso faileth of the rose garland," said Robin,
"His tackle he shall tine,
And yield it to his master,
Be it never so fine,--
For no man will I spare,
So drinke I ale or wine,--
And bear a buffet on his head
I-wys right all bare."
And all that fell in Robin's lot,
He smote them wonder sair.
Twi-es Robin shot about,
And ever he cleaved the wand,
And so did good Gilb-ert,
With the lily white hand;
Little John and good Scath-elock,
For nothing would they spare,
When they failed of the garl-and,
Robin smote them fall sair.
At the last shot that Robin shot,
For all his friends fair,
Yet he failed of the garl-and,
Three fingers and mair.
Then bespak-e good Gilb-ert,
And thus he gan say,
"Master," he said, "your tackle is lost,
Stand forth and take your pay."
"If it be so," said Rob-in,
"That may no better be:
Sir abbot, I deliver thee mine arrow,
I pray thee, sir, serve thou me."
"It falleth not for mine order," said our king;
"Robin, by thy leave,
For to smite no good yeom-an,
For doubt I should him grieve.
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