We should have raised the may-pole.
No kisses in the ring, no country dances
To-day; no lads and lasses on the green,
Crowning their queen of may.
There may be scuffling, masters? There's a many
That seems to like him well, here, roundabouts.
In Lincoln green, you wot of! If they did?
To trip the Sheriff up. If Robin Hood
Were only here! But then he's outlawed now.
Sure death for him to try a rescue now.
The biggest patch of Lincoln Green we'll see
This day, is that same patch on thy old eye,
Eh, lads!
This very day, scouring thro' Sherwood forest
In quest of Lady Marian!
With these same eyes I saw him riding out
To Sherwood, not an hour ago.
That Robin's men would all be busy here!
He's none so bold, he would not risk his skin!
I think there'll be some scuffling after all.
We must be quick; 'fore God we must be quick!
Thou had'st so sound a heart!
The Sheriff and his men; and, in the midst,
There's poor Will Scarlet bound.
He takes it bravely.
I cannot see!
From that same godless hangman whose lean neck
I'd like to twist, saying he is delayed.
'Tis the first godly deed he has ever done.
But who will take the hangman's office?
I have a thought; make way; let me bespeak
The Sheriff!
Against Will Scarlet. Let me have the task
Of sending him to heaven!
But I can cleave your thinnest hazel wand
At sixty yards.
Make way there, clear the way!
To show you how I love him; then the third
Slick in his heart.
That bound him on that side!
I will be careful!
What do you think—that green patch on his eye
Smacks of the merry men! He's tricking them!
Here's for the third now!
One of the guards!
I'll cleave the first man's heart that moves!
Pick up that dead man's halbert!
Down with the villain!
There is a great reward upon his head.
Down with him!
Back, you wild wolves. Now, foresters, follow me,
For our St. George and merry England, charge,
Charge them, my lads!
A horse, or I shall come too late; a horse!
Too great almost for thanks; but if you be
Bound by the vows of chivalry, I pray you
Lend me your charger; and my men will bring you
To my poor home in Sherwood. There you'll find
A most abundant gratitude.
Take it. I am an outlaw, but the law
Of manhood still constrains me—'tis a matter
Of life and death—
I'll follow you to Sherwood with your men.
Scene II. Sherwood Forest. Outside the cave. Jenny, Marian and Widow Scarlet.
Had listened to the rest and stayed with me.
How still the woods are! Jenny, do you think There will be fighting? Oh, I am selfish, mother;
You need not be afraid. Robin will bring
Will Scarlet safely back to Sherwood. Why,
Perhaps they are all returning even now!
Cheer up! How long d'you think they've been away,
Jenny, six hours or more? The sun is high,
And all the dew is gone.
Now don't you keep a-fretting. They'll be back,
Quite soon enough. I've scarcely spoke with you,
This last three days and more; and even now
It seems I cannot get you to myself,
Two's quite enough.
I'll give you my own corner in the hut
And make you cosy. If you take a nap
Will Scarlet will be here betimes you wake.
Is lonely.
And if I never get you to myself
Where was the good of trapesing after you
And living here in Sherwood like wild rabbits?
You ha'nt so much as let me comb your hair
This last three days and more.
Now, if you like, and comb it all day long;
But don't get crabbed, and don't speak so crossly!
It's far below your knees, and how it shines!
And wavy, just like Much the Miller's brook,
Where it comes tumbling out into the sun,
Like gold, red gold.
For you forgot to bring me my steel glass,
And, if you chatter so, I shall soon want it.
There's a smooth silver pool, down in the stream,
Where you can see your face most beautiful.
A sad female Narcissus, while poor Much
Dwines to an Echo!
I never cared for them. But, as for Much,
Much is the best of all the merry men.
And, mistress, O, he speaks so beautifully,
It might be just an Echo from blue hills
Far, far away! You see he's quite a scholar:
Much, more an' most (That's what he calls the three
Greasy caparisons—much, more an' most)!
You see they thought that being so very small
They could not make him grow to be a man,
They'd make a scholar of him instead. The Friar
Taught him his letters. He can write his name,
And mine, and yours, just like a missal book,
In lovely colours; and he always draws
The first big letter of Jenny like a tree
With naked Cupids hiding in the branches. Mistress, I don't believe you hear one word
I ever speak to you! Your eyes are always
That far and far away.
He makes it like a bridge from earth to heaven,
With white-winged angels passing up and down;
And, underneath the bridge, in a black stream,
He puts the drowning face of the bad Prince
Holding his wicked hands out, while a devil
Stands on the bank and with a pointed stake
Keeps him from landing—
Ah, what's that? What's that?
I saw that same face peering thro' the ferns
Yonder—there—see, they are shaking still.
And—Warman—there's a pretty scrap for you
Beside her. Now, sweet mistress, will you deign
To come with me, to change these cheerless woods
For something queenlier? If I be not mistaken,
You have had time to tire of that dark cave.
Was I not right, now? Surely you can see Those tresses were not meant to waste their gold
Upon this desert. Nay, but Marian, hear me.
I do not jest.
Warman, remove a little.
A little better of me! Out in the wood
There waits a palfrey for you, and the stirrup
Longs, as I long, to clasp your dainty foot.
I am very sure by this you must be tired
Of outlawry, a lovely maid like you.
Why do you shrink from me? If you could know
The fire that burns me night and day, you would not
Refuse to let me snatch one cooling kiss
From that white hand of yours.
You will respect my loneliness and go.
I see that face of yours.
I'll not pretend
I do not love you, do not long for you,
Desire and hunger for your kiss, your touch!
I'll not pretend to be a saint, you see!
I hunger and thirst for you. Marian, Marian.
Body and soul
I am broken up with love for you. Your eyes
Flash like the eyes of a tigress, and I love them
The better for it.
Ah, do not shrink from me!
I'll kill you! Now, don't doubt me. I can shoot
Truly as any forester. I swear,
Prince or no prince, king or no king, I'll kill you
If you should stir one step from where you stand.
I was beside myself, was carried away.
I cannot help my love for—
Another sickening word: throw down your arms,
That dagger at your side.
Marian, I swear—
Upon the silver birch down yonder? Watch.
There's one behind you! Look!
You're trapped then, are you? Well, we'll waste no time!
We'll talk this over when we reach the castle.
Keep off the maid, there, Warman; I can manage
This turbulent beauty. Ah, by God, you shall
Come! Ah? God's blood, what's this?
To see the red blood spurting up your hand.
That's not maid's work. Come, strike!
Your heart is tenderer than you think.
We can strike freely now, without a fear
Of marring the sweet beauty of the spoil.
We four can surely make an end of him. Have at him, lads, and swiftly, or the thieves
Will all be down on us.
This oak will shift its roots before I budge
One inch from four such howling wolves. Come on;
You must be tired of fighting women-folk.
Come on! By God, sir, you must guard your head
Better than that,
Already; come, you dogs!
Behind him! Drive him out from that damned oak!
Or, by Mahound!—
No—no—it cannot be.
The pitiful jackals. They have left behind
The prime offender. Ha, there, my merry lads,
All's well; but take this villain into the cave
And guard him there.
Is yonder red-cross knight?
Whoe'er he be!
I grieve to know it!
To your good chivalry. What thanks is mine
To give, is all your own.
Give me that prisoner! I think his life is mine.
Than my poor life is worth. But, sir, think well!
This man is dangerous, not to me alone,
But to the King of England; for he'll yet
Usurp the throne! Think well!
I have more reasons than you know.
Ho! Bring the prisoner back!
This prisoner is your own.
Go!
That whomsoe'er we meet in merry greenwood
Should dine with us. Will you not be our guest?
A merrier word than dinner all this day.
I am well-nigh starved.
And let us know to whose good knightly hand
We are so beholden?
If, for a little, I remain unknown.
But, tell me, are you not that Robin Hood
Who breaks the forest laws?
We hold this earth as naturally our own
As the glad common air we breathe. We think
No man, no king, can so usurp the world
As not to give us room to live free lives,
But, if you shrink from eating the King's deer—
And speak with her?
The trenchers all are set;
Manchets of wheat, cream, curds and honey-cakes,
Venison pasties, roasted pigeons! Much,
Run to the cave; we'll broach our rarest wine
To-day. Old Much is waiting for thee there
To help him. He is growling roundly, too,
At thy delay.
With flowers.
Borrowed a farmer's market cart and galloped
Ahead of us!
Sheer broken down with hope and fearfulness,
Waiting and trembling for thee, Will. Go in,
Put thy big arm around her.
My sons, you couldn't expect the lad to run!
There is a certain looseness in the limbs,
A quaking of the flesh that overcomes
The bravest who has felt a hangman's rope
Cuddling his neck.
That cuddles your slim waist! Oh, you sweet armful,
Sit down and pant! I warrant you were glad
To bear him company.
I am a man of solids. Like the Church,
I am founded on a rock.
Sir, it is true he is partly based on beef;
He grapples with it squarely; but fluids, too,
Have played their part in that cathedral choir
He calls his throat. One godless virtue, sir,
They seem to have given him. Never a nightingale
Gurgles jug! jug! in mellower tones than he
When jugs are flowing. Never a thrush can pipe
Sweet, sweet, so rarely as, when a pipe of wine
Summers his throttle, we'll make him sing to us
One of his heathen ditties—The Malmsey Butt,
Or Down the Merry Red Lane!
But, though I cannot run, when I am rested
I'll challenge you, Robin, to a game of buffets,
One fair, square, stand-up, stand-still, knock-down blow
Apiece; you'll need no more. If you not kiss
The turf, at my first clout, I will forego
Malmsey for ever!
You're champion there. Fists of a common size
I will encounter; but not whirling hams
Like thine!
Is borrowed from the King, to drain one cup
To him, and his return from the Crusade,
Before we dine. That same wine-bibbing friar
Calls it our 'grace'; and constitutes himself
Remembrancer—without a cause, for never
Have we forgotten, never while bugles ring
Thro' Sherwood, shall forget—Outlaws, the King!
You hold with Lion-Heart.
You were too quick for me. I had not drawn
These gauntlets off.
But tell me, Lady Marian,
When is your bridal day with Robin Hood?
From the Crusade.
That's music—all the birds of April sing
In those four words for me—the King comes home.
Your helmet's locked and barred! Will you not raise
Your visor?
I did not wish to raise it! Hunger and thirst
Break down all masks and all disguises, Robin.
I should have known, when we were hard beset
Around Will Scarlet by their swarming bands,
And when you rode out of the Eastern sky
And hurled our foemen down, I should have known
It was the King come home from the Crusade! And when I was beset here in the wood
By treacherous hounds again, I should have known
Whose armour suddenly burned between the leaves!
I should have known, either it was St. George
Or else the King come home from the Crusade!
Robin—a lover's instinct, since it seems
So much for you and Marian depends
On my return.
For I am only a fool, and yet methinks
You know not half the meaning of those words—
The King, the King comes home from the Crusade!
Thrust up your swords, heft uppermost, my lads,
And shout—the King comes home from the Crusade.
His wits!
Poor sweet bells out of tune! But oh, don't leave,
Don't leave the forest! There's darker things to come!
Don't leave the forest! I have wits enough at least
To wrap my legs around my neck for warmth
On winter nights.
The winter in these woods—
Methinks can scarce be cheery. Huntingdon,
Your earldom we restore to you this day!
You and my Lady Marian shall return
To Court with us, where your true bridal troth
Shall be fulfilled with golden marriage bells.
Now, friends, the venison pasty! We must hear
The Malmsey Butt and Down the Merry Red Lane,
Ere we set out, at dawn, for London Town.
To speed our feast, sire, for he soars above
The gross needs of the Churchman!
Because we won his bride for him.
Last May, to a rich old baron.
Crowded the aisles with uninvited guests;
And, as the old man drew forth the golden ring,
They threw aside their cloaks with one great shout
Of 'Sherwood'; and, for all its crimson panes,
The church was one wild sea of Lincoln green!
The Forest had broken in, sire, and the bride
Like a wild rose tossing on those green boughs,
Was borne away and wedded here by Tuck
To her true lover; and so—his harp is ours.
Of chivalry—a song I made last night
In yonder ruined chapel. It is called
The Old Knight's Vigil.
Young and undaunted,
Over my virgin sword
Lightly I chaunted,—
"Dawn ends my watch. I go
Shining to meet the foe!"
"Set the lists ringing!
Soon shall thy foe be sped,
And the world singing!
Bless my bright plume for me,
Christ, King of Chivalry.
Lord, by Thine altar!
Oh, in to-morrow's fight,
Let me not falter!
Bless my dark arms for me,
Christ, King of Chivalry.
All the long night through
While I keep watch and ward!
Then—the red fight through,
Bless the wrenched haft for me,
Christ, King of Chivalry.
Still the bruised helmet:
Let not their hostile bands
Wholly o'erwhelm it!
Bless my poor shield for me,
Christ, King of Chivalry.
Lord, that I tender
Here, at Thine altar-rail!
Then—let Thy splendour
Touch it once ... and I go
Stainless to meet the foe."
ACT IV
Scene I. Garden of the King's Palace. Enter John and Elinor.