The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood

"Why, how now, Reynold Greenleaf?" said the Cook, "thou art no bet-
ter than a thief, I wot. Come thou straight forth, man, or I will carve thee
as I would carve a sucking pig."
"Nay, good Cook, bear thou thyself more seemingly, or else I will
come forth to thy dole. At most times I am as a yearling lamb, but when
one cometh between me and my meat, I am a raging lion, as it were."
"Lion or no lion," quoth the valorous Cook, "come thou straight forth,
else thou art a coward heart as well as a knavish thief."
"Ha!" cried Little John, "coward's name have I never had; so, look to
thyself, good Cook, for I come forth straight, the roaring lion I did speak
of but now."
Then he, too, drew his sword and came out of the pantry; then, putting
themselves into position, they came slowly together, with grim and
angry looks; but suddenly Little John lowered his point. "Hold, good
Cook!" said he. "Now, I bethink me it were ill of us to fight with good
victuals standing so nigh, and such a feast as would befit two stout fel-
lows such as we are. Marry, good friend, I think we should enjoy this fair
feast ere we fight. What sayest thou, jolly Cook?"
At this speech the Cook looked up and down, scratching his head in
doubt, for he loved good feasting. At last he drew a long breath and said
to Little John, "Well, good friend, I like thy plan right well; so, pretty boy,
say I, let us feast, with all my heart, for one of us may sup in Paradise be-
fore nightfall."
So each thrust his sword back into the scabbard and entered the
pantry. Then, after they had seated themselves, Little John drew his dag-
ger and thrust it into the pie. "A hungry man must be fed," quoth he, "so,
sweet chuck, I help myself without leave." But the Cook did not lag far
behind, for straightway his hands also were deeply thrust within the
goodly pasty. After this, neither of them spoke further, but used their
teeth to better purpose. But though neither spoke, they looked at one an-
other, each thinking within himself that he had never seen a more lusty
fellow than the one across the board.
At last, after a long time had passed, the Cook drew a full, deep
breath, as though of much regret, and wiped his hands upon the napkin,
for he could eat no more. Little John, also, had enough, for he pushed the
pasty aside, as though he would say, "I want thee by me no more, good
friend." Then he took the pottle of sack, and said he, "Now, good fellow, I
swear by all that is bright, that thou art the stoutest companion at eating
that ever I had. Lo! I drink thy health." So saying, he clapped the flask to
his lips and cast his eyes aloft, while the good wine flooded his throat.
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Then he passed the pottle to the Cook, who also said, "Lo, I drink thy
health, sweet fellow!" Nor was he behind Little John in drinking any
more than in eating.
"Now," quoth Little John, "thy voice is right round and sweet, jolly lad.
I doubt not thou canst sing a ballad most blithely; canst thou not?"
"Truly, I have trolled one now and then," quoth the Cook, "yet I would
not sing alone."
"Nay, truly," said Little John, "that were but ill courtesy. Strike up thy
ditty, and I will afterward sing one to match it, if I can.
"So be it, pretty boy," quoth the Cook. "And hast thou e'er heard the
song of the Deserted Shepherdess?"
"Truly, I know not," answered Little John, "but sing thou and let me
hear."
Then the Cook took another draught from the pottle, and, clearing his
throat, sang right sweetly:
THE SONG OF THE DESERTED SHEPHERDESS
"In Lententime, when leaves wax green,
And pretty birds begin to mate,
When lark cloth sing, and thrush, I ween,
And stockdove cooeth soon and late,
Fair Phillis sat beside a stone,
And thus I heard her make her moan:
'O willow, willow, willow, willow!
I'll take me of thy branches fair
And twine a wreath to deck my hair.
"'The thrush hath taken him a she,
The robin, too, and eke the dove;
My Robin hath deserted me,
And left me for another love.
So here, by brookside, all alone,
I sit me down and make my moan.
O willow, willow, willow, willow!
I'll take me of thy branches fair
And twine a wreath to deck my hair.'
"But ne'er came herring from the sea,
But good as he were in the tide;
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Young Corydon came o'er the lea,
And sat him Phillis down beside.
So, presently, she changed her tone,
And 'gan to cease her from her moan,
'O willow, willow, willow, willow!
Thou mayst e'en keep thy garlands fair,
I want them not to deck my hair.'"
"Now, by my faith," cried Little John, "that same is a right good song,
and hath truth in it, also."
"Glad am I thou likest it, sweet lad," said the Cook. "Now sing thou
one also, for ne'er should a man be merry alone, or sing and list not."
"Then I will sing thee a song of a right good knight of Arthur's court,
and how he cured his heart's wound without running upon the dart
again, as did thy Phillis; for I wot she did but cure one smart by giving
herself another. So, list thou while I sing:
THE GOOD KNIGHT AND HIS LOVE
"When Arthur, King, did rule this land,
A goodly king was he,
And had he of stout knights a band
Of merry company.
"Among them all, both great and small,
A good stout knight was there,
A lusty childe, and eke a tall,
That loved a lady fair.
"But nought would she to do with he,
But turned her face away;
So gat he gone to far countrye,
And left that lady gay.
"There all alone he made his moan,
And eke did sob and sigh,
And weep till it would move a stone,
And he was like to die.
"But still his heart did feel the smart,
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