The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood
on his forehead. But his crown was shorn as smooth as the palm of one's
hand, which, together with his loose robe, cowl, and string of beads,
showed that which his looks never would have done, that he was a friar.
His cheeks were as red and shining as a winter crab, albeit they were
nearly covered over with a close curly black beard, as were his chin and
upper lip likewise. His neck was thick like that of a north country
bull, and his round head closely set upon shoulders e'en a match for
those of Little John himself. Beneath his bushy black brows danced a
pair of little gray eyes that could not stand still for very drollery of
humor. No man could look into his face and not feel his heartstrings
tickled by the merriment of their look. By his side lay a steel cap,
which he had laid off for the sake of the coolness to his crown. His
legs were stretched wide apart, and betwixt his knees he held a great
pasty compounded of juicy meats of divers kinds made savory with tender
young onions, both meat and onions being mingled with a good rich gravy.
In his right fist he held a great piece of brown crust at which he
munched sturdily, and every now and then he thrust his left hand into
the pie and drew it forth full of meat; anon he would take a mighty pull
at a great bottle of Malmsey that lay beside him.
"By my faith," quoth Robin to himself, "I do verily believe that this is
the merriest feast, the merriest wight, the merriest place, and the
merriest sight in all merry England. Methought there was another here,
but it must have been this holy man talking to himself."
So Robin lay watching the Friar, and the Friar, all unknowing that he
was so overlooked, ate his meal placidly. At last he was done, and,
having first wiped his greasy hands upon the ferns and wild thyme (and
sweeter napkin ne'er had king in all the world), he took up his flask
and began talking to himself as though he were another man, and
answering himself as though he were somebody else.
"Dear lad, thou art the sweetest fellow in all the world, I do love thee
as a lover loveth his lass. La, thou dost make me shamed to speak so to
me in this solitary place, no one being by, and yet if thou wilt have me
say so, I do love thee as thou lovest me. Nay then, wilt thou not take
a drink of good Malmsey? After thee, lad, after thee. Nay, I beseech
thee, sweeten the draught with thy lips (here he passed the flask from
his right hand to his left). An thou wilt force it on me so, I must
needs do thy bidding, yet with the more pleasure do I so as I drink thy
very great health (here he took a long, deep draught). And now, sweet
lad, 'tis thy turn next (here he passed the bottle from his left hand
back again to his right). I take it, sweet chuck, and here's wishing
thee as much good as thou wishest me." Saying this, he took another
draught, and truly he drank enough for two.
All this time merry Robin lay upon the bank and listened, while his
stomach so quaked with laughter that he was forced to press his palm
across his mouth to keep it from bursting forth; for, truly, he would
not have spoiled such a goodly jest for the half of Nottinghamshire.
Having gotten his breath from his last draught, the Friar began talking
again in this wise: "Now, sweet lad, canst thou not sing me a song? La,
I know not, I am but in an ill voice this day; prythee ask me not; dost
thou not hear how I croak like a frog? Nay, nay, thy voice is as sweet
as any bullfinch; come, sing, I prythee, I would rather hear thee sing
than eat a fair feast. Alas, I would fain not sing before one that can
pipe so well and hath heard so many goodly songs and ballads,
ne'ertheless, an thou wilt have it so, I will do my best. But now
methinks that thou and I might sing some fair song together; dost thou
not know a certain dainty little catch called 'The Loving Youth and the
Scornful Maid'? Why, truly, methinks I have heard it ere now. Then dost
thou not think that thou couldst take the lass's part if I take the
lad's? I know not but I will try; begin thou with the lad and I will
follow with the lass."
Then, singing first with a voice deep and gruff, and anon in one high
and squeaking, he blithely trolled the merry catch of
THE LOVING YOUTH AND THE SCORNFUL MAID
_HE
"Ah, it's wilt thou come with me, my love?
And it's wilt thou, love, be mine?
For I will give unto thee, my love,
Gay knots and ribbons so fine.
I'll woo thee, love, on my bended knee,
And I'll pipe sweet songs to none but thee.
Then it's hark! hark! hark!
To the winged lark
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
So come thou and be my love.
SHE
"Now get thee away, young man so fine;
Now get thee away, I say;
For my true love shall never be thine,
And so thou hadst better not stay.
Thou art not a fine enough lad for me,
So I'll wait till a better young man I see.
For it's hark! hark! hark!
To the winged lark,
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
Yet never I'll be thy love.
HE
"Then straight will I seek for another fair she,
For many a maid can be found,
And as thou wilt never have aught of me,
By thee will I never be bound.
For never is a blossom in the field so rare,
But others are found that are just as fair.
So it's hark! hark! hark!
To the joyous lark
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
And I'll seek me another dear love.
SHE
"Young man, turn not so very quick away
Another fair lass to find.
Methinks I have spoken in haste today,
Nor have I made up my mind_,
_And if thou only wilt stay with me,
I'll love no other, sweet lad, but thee_."
Here Robin could contain himself no longer but burst forth into a mighty
roar of laughter; then, the holy Friar keeping on with the song, he
joined in the chorus, and together they sang, or, as one might say,
bellowed:
"_So it's hark! hark! hark!
To the joyous lark
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
For the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill
And I'll be thine own true love_."
So they sang together, for the stout Friar did not seem to have heard
Robin's laughter, neither did he seem to know that the yeoman had joined
in with the song, but, with eyes half closed, looking straight before
him and wagging his round head from side to side in time to the music,
he kept on bravely to the end, he and Robin finishing up with a mighty
roar that might have been heard a mile. But no sooner had the last word
been sung than the holy man seized his steel cap, clapped it on his
head, and springing to his feet, cried in a great voice, "What spy have
we here? Come forth, thou limb of evil, and I will carve thee into as
fine pudding meat as e'er a wife in Yorkshire cooked of a Sunday."
Hereupon he drew from beneath his robes a great broadsword full as stout
as was Robin's.
"Nay, put up thy pinking iron, friend," quoth Robin, standing up with
the tears of laughter still on his cheeks. "Folk who have sung so
sweetly together should not fight thereafter." Hereupon he leaped down
the bank to where the other stood. "I tell thee, friend," said he, "my
throat is as parched with that song as e'er a barley stubble in October.
Hast thou haply any Malmsey left in that stout pottle?"
"Truly," said the Friar in a glum voice, "thou dost ask thyself freely
where thou art not bidden. Yet I trust I am too good a Christian to
refuse any man drink that is athirst. Such as there is o't thou art
welcome to a drink of the same." And he held the pottle out to Robin.
Robin took it without more ado and putting it to his lips, tilted his
head back, while that which was within said "glug! lug! glug!" for more
than three winks, I wot. The stout Friar watched Robin anxiously the
while, and when he was done took the pottle quickly. He shook it, held
it betwixt his eyes and the light, looked reproachfully at the yeoman,
and straightway placed it at his own lips. When it came away again there
was nought within it.
"Doss thou know the country hereabouts, thou good and holy man?" asked
Robin, laughing.
"Yea, somewhat," answered the other dryly.
"And dost thou know of a certain spot called Fountain Abbey?"
"Yea, somewhat."
"Then perchance thou knowest also of a certain one who goeth by the name
of the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey."
"Yea, somewhat."
"Well then, good fellow, holy father, or whatever thou art," quoth
Robin, "I would know whether this same Friar is to be found upon this
side of the river or the other."
"That," quoth the Friar, "is a practical question upon which the cunning
rules appertaining to logic touch not. I do advise thee to find that out
by the aid of thine own five senses; sight, feeling, and what not."
"I do wish much," quoth Robin, looking thoughtfully at the stout priest,
"to cross yon ford and strive to find this same good Friar."
"Truly," said the other piously, "it is a goodly wish on the part of one
so young. Far be it from me to check thee in so holy a quest. Friend,
the river is free to all."
"Yea, good father," said Robin, "but thou seest that my clothes are of
the finest and I fain would not get them wet. Methinks thy shoulders are
stout and broad; couldst thou not find it in thy heart to carry me
across?"
"Now, by the white hand of the holy Lady of the Fountain!" burst forth
the Friar in a mighty rage, "dost thou, thou poor puny stripling, thou
kiss-my-lady-la poppenjay; thou--thou What shall I call thee? Dost thou
ask me, the holy Tuck, to carry thee? Now I swear--" Here he paused
suddenly, then slowly the anger passed from his face, and his little
eyes twinkled once more. "But why should I not?" quoth he piously.
"Did not the holy Saint Christopher ever carry the stranger across the
river? And should I, poor sinner that I am, be ashamed to do likewise?
Come with me, stranger, and I will do thy bidding in an humble frame of
mind." So saying, he clambered up the bank, closely followed by Robin,
and led the way to the shallow pebbly ford, chuckling to himself the
while as though he were enjoying some goodly jest within himself.
Having come to the ford, he girded up his robes about his loins, tucked
his good broadsword beneath his arm, and stooped his back to take Robin
upon it. Suddenly he straightened up. "Methinks," quoth he, "thou'lt
get thy weapon wet. Let me tuck it beneath mine arm along with mine
own."
"Nay, good father," said Robin, "I would not burden thee with aught of
mine but myself."
"Dost thou think," said the Friar mildly, "that the good Saint
Christopher would ha' sought his own ease so? Nay, give me thy tool as
I bid thee, for I would carry it as a penance to my pride."
Upon this, without more ado, Robin Hood unbuckled his sword from his
side and handed it to the other, who thrust it with his own beneath his
arm. Then once more the Friar bent his back, and, Robin having mounted
upon it, he stepped sturdily into the water and so strode onward,
splashing in the shoal, and breaking all the smooth surface into ever-
widening rings. At last he reached the other side and Robin leaped
lightly from his back.
"Many thanks, good father," quoth he. "Thou art indeed a good and holy
man. Prythee give me my sword and let me away, for I am in haste."
At this the stout Friar looked upon Robin for a long time, his head on
one side, and with a most waggish twist to his face; then he slowly