VIII.

OLD ROBIN OF PORTINGALE.

From an ancient copy in the Editor's folio MS. which was judged to require considerable corrections.

In the former Edition the hero of this piece had been called Sir Robin, but that title not being in the MS. is now omitted.

LET never again soe old a man

Marrye soe yonge a wife,

As did old Robin of Portingale ;

Who may rue all the dayes of his life.

For the mayors daughter of Lin, god wott,
He chose her to his wife,

And thought with her to have lived in love,
But they fell to hate and strife.

They scarce were in their wed-bed laid,

And scarce was hee asleepe,

But

upp

shee rose, and forth shee goes, To the steward, and gan to weepe.

Sleepe you, wake you, faire sir Gyles?

Or be you not within?

Sleepe you, wake you, faire sir Gyles,

Arise and let me inn.

5

10

15

O, I am waking, sweete, he said,
Sweete ladye, what is your will?
I have unbethought me of a wile

How my wed-lord weell spill.

Twenty-four good knights, shee sayes,
That dwell about this towne,
Even twenty-four of my next cozèns,
Will helpe to dinge him downe.

All that beheard his litle footepage,

As he watered his masters steed;

And for his masters sad perìlle

His verry heart did bleed.

20

25

He mourned still, and wept full sore;

30

I sweare by the holy roode

The teares he for his master wept

Were blent water and bloude.

And that beheard his deare mastèr

As he stood at his garden pale:

Sayes, Ever alacke, my litle foot-page,

35

Ver. 19. unbethought, [properly onbethought] this word is still

used in the Midland counties in the same sense as bethought.

Ver. 32, blend, MS.

Or

Or, if it be

my

head bookes-man,

Aggrieved he shal bee:

For no man here within my howse,
Shall doe wrong unto thee.

O, it is not your head bookes-man,

Nor none of his degree:

But, on to-morrow ere it be noone

All deemed to die are yee.

45

head steward,

50

And thank your gay ladie.

If this be true, my litle foot-page,
The heyre of my land thoust bee.

If it be not true, my dear mastèr,

No good death let me die.

If it be not true, thou litle foot-page,
A dead corse shalt thou lie.

55

O call now downe my faire ladye,

O call her downe to mee:
And tell my ladye gay how sicke,

And like to die I bee.

Downe then came his ladye faire,

All clad in purple and pall:

The rings that were on her fingers,
Cast light thorrow the hall.

Ver. 47. or to-morrow, MS. Ver. 56, bee, MS.

60

What

What is your will, my owne wed-lord?
What is your will with mee?

O see, my ladye deere, how sicke,

And like to die I bee.

And thou be sicke, my own wed-lord,

Soe sore it grieveth me:

65

70

But my five maydens and myselfe

Will watch thy' bedde for thee.

And at the waking of your first sleepe,

We will a hott drinke make:

Your sorrowes we will slake.

He put a silk cote on his backe,

And mail of manye a fold:

And at the waking of your next' sleepe,

75

And hee putt a steele cap on his head,

80

Was gilt with good red gold.

He layd a bright browne sword by his side,

And another att his feete:

' And twentye good knights he placed at hand, To watch him in his sleepe.'

And about the middle time of the night,

85

Came twentye-four traitours inn:

Sir Giles he was the foremost man,

The leader of that ginn.

Ver. 72. make the, MS. Ver. 75. first, MS.

Old

Old Robin with his bright browne sword,

Sir Gyles head soon did winn:

And scant of all those twenty-four,
Went out one quick agenn.

None save only a litle foot page,

Crept forth at a window of stone:

And he had two armes when he came in,

And he went back with one,

90

95

With torches burning bright:

She thought to have brought sir Gyles a drinke, Butt she found her owne wedd knight.

The first thinge that she stumbled on
It was sir Gyles his foote:

100

Sayes, Ever alacke, and woe is mee!

Here lyes my sweete hart-roote.

The next thinge that she stumbled on
It was sir Gyles his heade:

105

Sayes, Ever, alacke, and woe is me!