"
To a quequer Roben went,
A god bolt owthe he toke;
So ney on to the marke he went,
He fayled not a fothe.
All they schot abowthe agen,
The screffes men and he;
Off the marke he welde not fayle,
He cleffed the preke on thre.
The screffes men thowt gret schame,
The potter the mastry wan;
The screffe lowe and made god game,
And seyde, "Potter, thow art a man;
Thow art worthey to ber a bowe,
Yn what plas that thow gang."
"Yn mey cart y haffe a bowe,
Forsoyt," he seyde, "and that a godde;
Yn mey cart ys the bow
That I had of Robyn Hode."
"Knowest thow Robyn Hode?" seyde the screffe,
"Potter, y prey the tell thou me;"
"A hundred torne y haffe schot with hem,
Under hes tortyll tree."
"Y had lever nar a hundred ponde," seyde the screffe,
And swar be the trenite,
["Y had lever nar a hundred ponde," he seyde,]
"That the fals owtelawe stod be me.
"And ye well do afftyr mey red," seyde the potter,
"And boldeley go with me,
And to morow, or we het bred,
Roben Hode wel we se."
"Y well queyt the," kod the screffe,
And swer be god of meythe;
Schetyng thay left, and hom they went,
Her scoper was redey deythe.
Upon the morow, when het was day,
He boskyd hem forthe to reyde;
The potter hes carte forthe gan ray,
And wolde not [be] leffe beheynde.
He toke leffe of the screffys wyffe,
And thankyd her of all thyng:
"Dam, for mey loffe, and ye well thys wer,
Y geffe yow her a golde ryng."
"Gramarsey," seyde the weyffe,
"Sir, god eylde het the;"
The screffes hart was never so leythe,
The feyr forest to se.
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