That be of frebore blode,
I shall you tell of a good yeman,
His name was Robyn Hode.

_Old Ballad_.


Centuries have passed away, yet are the merry men of the cross-bow not
forgotten. The oft-told tale of blended theft and charity has run the
round of ages, delighting the homely circle; historians and poets have
found in them a theme suited to their energies, and sung the song of
their exploits to everlasting remembrance. It may be said that few
subjects of yore can boast so bewitching an interest as the present: for
even now, after the lapse of six or seven hundred years, the names of
Robin Hood and Little John are


Familiar in our mouths as household words.


Drayton writes


In this our spacious isle I think there is not one,
But he, of Robin Hood hath heard, and Little John;
And to the end of time the tales shall ne'er be done,
Of Scarlock, George a Green, and Much, the miller's son,
Of Tuck, the merry friar, which many a sermon made
In praise of Robin Hood, his outlaws and their trade.