The Ballads and Songs of Yorkshire - Various

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      That beauteous ladye dy'd.

      "And where shee's layde the greene turfe growes,

      And a colde grave-stone is there;

      But the dew-clad turfe, nor the colde colde stone,

      Is not soe colde as her."

      Oh then prynce Henrye sad dyd sighe,

      Hys hearte alle fulle of woe:

      That haplesse prince ybeate hys breaste,

      And faste hys teares 'gan flowe.

      "And art thou gon, my sweet Alice?

      And art thou gone?" hee cry'd:

      "Ah woulde to heav'n that I with thee,

      My faythful love, had dy'd!

      "And have I loste thee, my sweet Alice?

      And art thou dead and gon?

      And at thy deare heade a green grass turfe,

      And at thy foote a stone?

      "The turfe that's o'er thy grave, deare Alice!

      Sall with my teares bee wet;

      And the stone at thy feete sall melte, love,

      Ere I will thee forget."

      And when the newes cam to merrye Englande

      Of the battle in the northe;

      Oh then kynge Stephen and hys nobles

      So merrylie marched forthe.

      And theye have had justes and tournamentes,

      And have feasted o'er and o'er;

      And merrylie merrylie have they rejoic'd,

      For the victorye of Cuton Moore.

      But manye a sighe adds to the wynde,

      And many a teare to the show're,

      And manye a bleedyng hearte hath broke,

      For the battle of Cuton Moore.

      And manye's the wydowe alle forlorne,

      And helplesse orphan poore,

      And many's the mayden that sall rue

      The victorye of Cuton Moore.

      The ladye Alice is layd in her grave,

      And a colde stone markes the site;

      And many's the mayde like her dothe dye,

      Cause kynges and nobles wyll fighte.

      The ladye Alice is layde full lowe,

      And her mayden teares doe poure,

      The manye's the wretche with them sall weepe,

      For the victorye of Cuton Moore.

      The holye prieste doth weepe as he syngs

      Hys masses o'er and o'er;

      And alle for the soules of them that were slayne,

      At the battle of Cuton Moore.

       Table of Contents

      Robin Hood, a celebrated English outlaw, was born at Locksley, in the county of Nottingham, in the reign of Henry II. about 1160. He is said to have been of noble extraction, being the son of William Fitzooth by his wife a daughter of Payn Beauchamp, baron of Bedford, and lady Roisia de Vere, daughter of Aubrey, earl of Guisnes in Normandy,[11] and is frequently styled earl of Huntingdon—a title to which, in the latter part of his life, he actually appears to have had some sort of pretension. In his youth he is said to have been of a wild and extravagant turn; insomuch that, his inheritance being consumed, and his person outlawed for debt,[12] he sought an asylum in the woods of Barnsdale, in Yorkshire,[13] Sherwood, in Nottinghamshire, and, according to some, Plumpton-park, in Cumberland.[14] He either found or was afterwards joined by a number of persons, the principal being Little John (whose surname is said to have been Nailor), William Scadlock (Scathelock or Scarlet), George a Green (pinder or pound-keeper of Wakefield), Much (a miller's son), and a certain monk or friar called Tuck. "These renowned thieves," says Stowe, "continued in the woods, despoiling and robbing the goods of the rich. They killed none but such as would invade them, or by resistance for their own defence. The said Robin entertained 100 tall men, good archers, with such of the spoils and thefts as he got, upon whom 400 (were they ever so strong) durst not give the onset. He suffered no woman to be oppressed, violated, or otherwise molested; poor men's goods he spared, abundantly relieving them with that which by theft he got from abbeys and the houses of rich old carles." He died in 1247; see Robin Hood's Death and Burial, post.

      Guy of Gisborne—the only other memorial which I can find relating to him is in an old satirical piece by William Dunbar, a celebrated Scottish poet, of the fifteenth century,[15] on one "Schir Thomas Nory," where he is named along with our hero, Adam Bell, and other worthies, it is conjectured, of a similar stamp, but whose merits have not come to the knowledge of posterity:—

      "Was neuir weild Robeine vnder bewch,

      Nor zitt Roger of Clekkinstewch,

      So bauld a bairne as he;

      Gy of Gysburne, na Allane Bell,

      Na Simones sones of Quhynsell,

      Off thocht war neuir so slies."

      Gisborne, or Gisburne, is a market town in the west-riding of Yorkshire, on the borders of Lancashire.

      The following ballad was first printed in Percy's Reliques in 1765, from his "folio MS."

      When shaws[16] beene sheene, and shraddes[17] full fayre,

      And leaves both large and longe,

      Itt's merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest

      To heare the small birdes' songe.

      The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,

      Sitting upon the spraye,

      Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,

      In the greenwood where he lay.

      "Now, by my saye," sayd jollye Robin,

      "A sweaven[18] I had this night;

      I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen

      That fast with me can fight.

      "Methought they did me beate and binde,

      And tooke my bowe me froe;

      Iff I be Robin alive in this lande

      Ile be wroken on them towe."

      "Sweavens are swift," sayd Little John,

      "As the wind blowes over the hill;

      For iff itt be never so loude this night,

      To morrow it may be still."

      "Buske[19] yee, bowne[20] yee, my merry men all,

      And John shall goe with mee,

      For Ile goe seeke yon wighty[21] yeoman,

      In greenwood where they bee."

      Then they cast on theyr gownes of grene,

      And tooke theyr bowes each one;

      And they away to the greene forrest

      A shooting forth are gone;

      Untill they came to the merry greenwood,

      Where they had

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