Page 136 - the-merry-adventures-of-robin-hood

Dusky violets by the rill.
But the ivy green cloth grow
When the north wind bringeth snow.
Ivy! Ivy!
Stanch and true!
Thus I’d have her love to be:
Not to die
At the nigh
Breath of cold adversity.’

‘Tis well sung,’ quoth Robin, ‘but, cousin, I tell thee
plain, I would rather hear a stout fellow like thee sing some
lusty ballad than a finicking song of flowers and birds, and
what not. Yet, thou didst sing it fair, and ‘tis none so bad a
snatch of a song, for the matter of that. Now, Tanner, it is
thy turn.’
‘I know not,’ quoth Arthur, smiling, with his head on
one side, like a budding lass that is asked to dance, ‘I know
not that I can match our sweet friend’s song; moreover, I
do verily think that I have caught a cold and have a certain
tickling and huskiness in the windpipe.’
‘Nay, sing up, friend,’ quoth Little John, who sat next
to him, patting him upon the shoulder. ‘Thou hast a fair,
round, mellow voice; let us have a touch of it.’
‘Nay, an ye will ha’ a poor thing,’ said Arthur, ‘I will do
my best. Have ye ever heard of the wooing of Sir Keith, the
stout young Cornish knight, in good King Arthur’s time?’
‘Methinks I have heard somewhat of it,’ said Robin; ‘but
ne’ertheless strike up thy ditty and let us hear it, for, as I do

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