"The proud sheriff," then said she. "Forsooth as I thee say; He is not yet three mil-es Pass-ed on your way."

Up then stert-e good Rob-in, As a man that had be wode: "Busk you, my merr-y young men, For him that died on a rode; And he that this sorrow forsaketh, By him that died on a tree, Shall he never in green wood be, Nor longer dwell with me."

Soon there were good bows i-bent, More than seven score, Hedge ne ditch spar-ed they none, That was them before.

"I make mine avow," said Robin, "The knight would I fain see, And if I ma-y him take, Iquit then shall he be."

And when they came to Nottingham, They walk-ed in the street, And with the proud sheriff, i-wis, Soon-e gan they meet.

"Abide, thou proud sher-iff," he said, "Abide and speak with me, Of some tidings of our king, I would fain hear of thee. This seven year, by dere-worthy God, Ne yede I so fast on foot, I make mine avow, thou proud sheriff, Is not for thy good."

Robin bent a good bow-e, An arrow he drew at his will, He hit so the proud sher-iff, On the ground he lay full still; And ere he might up arise, On his feet to stand, He smote off the sheriff's head, With his bright brand.

"Lie thou there, thou proud sher-iff, Evil mote thou thrive; There might no man to thee trust, The whiles thou were alive."