On a deer’s hide, stretched on the ground in the open in front of the greenwood tree, sat Robin Hood basking in the sun like an old dog fox.  Leaning back with his hands clasped about his knees, he lazily watched Little John rolling a stout bowstring from long strands of hempen thread, wetting the palms of his hands ever and anon, and rolling the cord upon his thigh.  Near by sat Allan a Dale fitting a new string to his harp.

Quoth Robin at last, “Methinks I would rather roam this forest in the gentle springtime than be King of all merry England.  What palace in the broad world is as fair as this sweet woodland just now, and what king in all the world hath such appetite for plover’s eggs and lampreys as I for juicy venison and sparkling ale?  Gaffer Swanthold speaks truly when he saith, ‘Better a crust with content than honey with a sour heart.’”

“Yea,” quoth Little John, as he rubbed his new-made bowstring with yellow beeswax, “the life we lead is the life for me.  Thou speakest of the springtime, but methinks even the winter hath its own joys.  Thou and I, good master, have had more than one merry day, this winter past, at the Blue Boar.  Dost thou not remember that night thou and Will Stutely and Friar Tuck and I passed at that same hostelry with the two beggars and the strolling friar?”

“Yea,” quoth merry Robin, laughing, “that was the night that Will Stutely must needs snatch a kiss from the stout hostess, and got a canakin of ale emptied over his head for his pains.”

“Truly, it was the same,” said Little John, laughing also.  “Methinks that was a goodly song that the strolling friar sang.  Friar Tuck, thou hast a quick ear for a tune, dost thou not remember it?”

“I did have the catch of it one time,” said Tuck.  “Let me see,” and he touched his forefinger to his forehead in thought, humming to himself, and stopping ever and anon to fit what he had got to what he searched for in his mind.  At last he found it all and clearing his throat, sang merrily: 

 “In the blossoming hedge the robin cock sings,
     For the sun it is merry and bright,
 And he joyfully hops and he flutters his wings,
     For his heart is all full of delight. 
          For the May bloometh fair,
          And there’s little of care,
 And plenty to eat in the Maytime rare. 
          When the flowers all die,
          Then off he will fly,
          To keep himself warm
          In some jolly old barn
 Where the snow and the wind neither chill him nor harm.

 “And such is the life of the strolling friar,
     With aplenty to eat and to drink;
 For the goodwife will keep him a seat by the fire,
     And the pretty girls smile at his wink. 
          Then he lustily trolls
          As he onward strolls,
 A rollicking song for the saving of souls. 
          When the wind doth blow,
          With the coming of snow,
          There’s a place by the fire
          For the fatherly friar,
 And a crab in the bowl for his heart’s desire_.”