A Collection of Ballads by Andrew Lang (little red riding hood read aloud .txt) 📕

Non of theym were in her mynde But only Litulle Jon.

“Let be your dule,” seid Litulle Jon, “For his luf that dyed on tre; Ze that shulde be duzty men, Hit is gret shame to se.

“Oure maister has bene hard bystode, And zet scapyd away; Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone, And herkyn what I shal say.

“He has seruyd our lady many a day, And zet wil securly; Therefore I trust in her specialy No wycked deth shal he dye.

“Therfor be glad,” seid Litul Johne, “And let this mournyng be, And I shall be the munkes gyde, With the myght of mylde Mary.

“And I mete hym,” seid Litull Johne, “We will go but we too

*

“Loke that ze kepe wel our tristil tre Vnder the levys smale, And spare non of this venyson That gose in thys vale.”

Forthe thei went these zemen too, Litul Johne and Moche onfere, And lokid on Moche emys hows The hyeway lay fulle nere.

Litul John stode at a window in the mornynge, And lokid forth at a stage; He was war wher the munke came ridynge, And with him a litul page.

“Be my feith,” said Litul Johne to Moche, “I can the tel tithyngus gode; I se wher the munk comys rydyng, I know hym be his wyde hode.”

Thei went into the way these zemen bothe As curtes men and hende, Thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke, As thei hade bene his frende.

“Fro whens come ze,” seid Litul Johne, “Tel vs tithyngus, I yow pray, Off a false owtlay [called Robyn Hode], Was takyn zisturday.

“He robbyt me and my felowes bothe Of xx marke in serten; If that false owtlay be takyn, For sothe we wolde be fayne.”

“So did he me,” seid the munke, “Of a C pound and more; I layde furst hande hym apon, Ze may thonke me therefore.”

“I pray God thanke yow,” seid Litulle Johne, “And we wil when we may; We wil go with yow, with your leve, And brynge yow on your way.

“For Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow, I telle yow in certen; If thei wist ze rode this way, In feith ze shulde be slayn.”

As thei went talkyng be the way, The munke an Litulle Johne, Johne toke the munkes horse be the hede Ful sone and anone.

Johne toke the munkes horse be the hed, For sothe as I yow say, So did Muche the litulle page, For he shulde not stirre away.

Be the golett of the hode Johne pulled the munke downe; Johne was nothynge of hym agast, He lete hym falle on his crowne.

Litulle Johne was sore agrevyd, And drew out his swerde in hye; The munke saw he shulde be ded, Lowd mercy can he crye.

“He was my maister,” said Litulle Johne, “That thou hase browzt in bale; Shalle thou neuer cum at our kynge For to telle hym tale.”

John smote of the munkes hed, No longer wolde he dwelle; So did Moche the litulle page, For ferd lest he wold tell.

Ther thei beryed hem both In nouther mosse nor lynge, And Litulle Johne and Muche infere Bare the letturs to oure kyng.

*

He kneled down vpon—his kne, “God zow sane, my lege lorde, Jesus yow saue and se.

“God yow saue, my lege kyng,” To speke Johne was fulle bolde; He gaf hym tbe letturs in his hond, The kyng did hit unfold.

The kyng red the letturs anon, And seid, “so met I the, Ther was neuer zoman in mery Inglond I longut so sore to see.

“Wher is the munke that these shuld haue browzt?” Oure kynge gan say; “Be my trouthe,” seid Litull Jone, “He dyed aftur the way.”

The kyng gaf Moche and Litul Jon xx pound in sertan, And made theim zemen of the crowne, And bade theim go agayn.

He gaf Johne the seel in hand, The scheref for to bere, To brynge Robyn hym to, And no man do hym dere.

Johne toke his leve at cure kyng, The sothe as I yow say; The next way to Notyngham To take he zede the way.

When Johne came to Notyngham The zatis were sparred ychone; Johne callid vp the porter, He answerid sone anon.

“What is the cause,” seid Litul John, “Thou sparris the zates so fast?” “Because of Robyn Hode,” seid [the] porter, “In depe prison is cast.

“Johne, and Moche, and Wylle Scathlok, For sothe as I yow say, Thir slew oure men vpon oure wallis, And sawtene vs euery day.”

Litulle Johne spyrred aftur the schereff, And sone he hym fonde; He oppyned the kyngus prive seelle, And gaf hyn in his honde.

When the schereft saw the kyngus seelle, He did of his hode anon; “Wher is the munke that bare the letturs?” He said to Litulle Johne.

“He is so fayn of hym,” seid Litulle Johne, “For sothe as I yow sey, He has made hym abot of Westmynster, A lorde of that abbay.”

The scheref made John gode chere, And gaf hym wine of the best; At nyzt thei went to her bedde, And euery man to his rest.

When the scheref was on-slepe Dronken of wine and ale, Litul Johne and Moche for sothe Toke the way vnto the jale.

Litul Johne callid vp the jayler, And bade him ryse anon; He seid Robyn Hode had brokyn preson, And out of hit was gon.

The portere rose anon sertan, As sone as he herd John calle; Litul Johne was redy with a swerd, And bare hym to the walle.

“Now will I be porter,” seid Litul Johne, “And take the keyes in honde;” He toke the way to Robyn Hode, And sone he hym vnbonde.

He gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond, His hed with for to kepe, And ther as the walle was lowyst Anon down can thei lepe.

Be that the cok began to crow, The day began to sprynge, The scheref fond the jaylier ded, The comyn belle made he rynge.

He made a crye thoroowt al the tow[n], Whedur he be zoman or knave, That cowthe brynge hyrn Robyn Hode, His warisone he shuld haue.

“For I dar neuer,” said the scheref, “Cum before oure kynge, For if I do, I wot serten, For sothe he wil me henge.”

The scheref made to seke Notyngham, Bothe be strete and stye, And Robyn was in mery Scherwode As lizt as lef on lynde.

Then bespake gode Litulle Johne, To Robyn Hode can he say, “I haue done the a gode turne for an euylle, Quyte me whan thou may.

“I haue done the a gode turne,” said Litulle Johne, “For sothe as I you saie; I haue brouzt the vnder grene wode lyne; Fare wel, and haue gode day.”

“Nay, be my trouthe,” seid Robyn Hode, “So shalle hit neuer be; I make the maister,” seid Robyn Hode, “Off alle my men and me.”

“Nay, be my trouthe,” seid Litulle Johne, “So shall hit neuer be, But lat me be a felow,” seid Litulle Johne, “Non odur kepe I’ll be.”

Thus Johne gate Robyn Hode out of prisone, Sertan withoutyn layne; When his men saw hym hol and sounde, For sothe they were ful fayne.

They filled in wyne, and made him glad, Vnder the levys smale, And zete pastes of venysone, That gode was with ale.

Than worde came to oure kynge, How Robyn Hode was gone, And how the scheref of Notyngham Durst neuer loke hyme vpone.

Then bespake oure cumly kynge, In an angur hye, “Litulle Johne hase begyled the schereff, In faith so hase he me.

“Litulle Johne has begyled vs bothe, And that fulle wel I se, Or ellis the schereff of Notyngham Hye hongut shuld he be.

“I made hem zemen of the crowne, And gaf hem fee with my hond, I gaf hem grithe,” seid oure kyng, “Thorowout alle mery Inglond.

“I gaf hem grithe,” then seide oure kyng, “I say, so mot I the, For sothe soche a zeman as he is on In alle Ingland ar not thre.

“He is trew to his maister,” seide oure kynge, “I say, be swete seynt Johne; He louys bettur Robyn Hode, Then he dose vs ychone.

“Robyne Hode is euer bond to him, Bothe in strete and stalle; Speke no more of this matter,” seid oure kynge, “But John has begyled vs alle.”

Thus endys the talkyng of the munke And Robyne Hode i-wysse; God, that is euer a crowned kyng, Bryng vs alle to his blisse.

Ballad: Robin Hood And The Potter

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

Herkens, god yemen, Comley, corteysse, and god, On of the best that yever bar bou, Hes name was Roben Hode.

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

Bot as the god yemen stod on a day, Among hes mery maney, He was war of a prowd potter, Cam dryfyng owyr the ley.

“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 therfor yeffell mot he the, Seche thre strokes he me gafe, Yet they cleffe by my seydys.

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

“Her ys forty shillings,” seyde Roben, “Mor, and thow dar say, That y schall make that prowde potter, A wed to me schall he ley.”

Ther thes money they leyde, They toke bot a yeman to kepe; Roben befor the potter he breyde, And bad hem stond stell.

Handys apon hes horse 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 mor, potter,” he seyde, “Thow hast hantyd thes wey, Yet wer tow never so cortys a man One peney of pauage to pay.”

“What ys they name,” seyde the potter, “For pauage thow ask of me?” “Roben Hod ys mey name, A wed schall thow leffe me.”

“Well well y non leffe,” seyde the potter, “Nor pavag well y non pay; Away they honde fro mey horse, Y well the tene eyls, be me fay.”

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

Roben howt with a swerd bent, A bokeler en hes honde [therto]; The potter to Roben he went, And seyde, “Felow, let mey horse go.”

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

Leytell John to hes felowhes seyde, “Yend potter welle steffeley stonde:” The potter, with an acward stroke, Smot the bokeler owt of hes honde;

And ar Roben meyt get hem 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 stode ender a bow; “Let us helpe owr master,” seyed Lytell John, “Yonder potter els well hem sclo.”

Thes yemen went with a breyde, To ther master they cam. Leytell John to hes master seyde, “He haet the wager won?

“Schall y haff yowr forty shillings,” seyde Lytel John, “Or ye, master, schall haffe myne?” “Yeff they wer a hundred,” seyde Roben, “Y feythe, they ben all theyne.”

“Het ys fol leytell cortesey,” seyde the potter, “As y haffe