She
 “Now get thee away, young man so fine;
     Now get thee away, I say;
 For my true love shall never be thine,
     And so thou hadst better not stay. 
 Thou art not a fine enough lad for me,
 So I’ll wait till a better young man I see. 
          For it’s hark! hark! hark! 
               To the winged lark,
          And it’s hark to the cooing dove! 
               And the bright daffodil
               Groweth down by the rill,
          Yet never I’ll be thy love.

He
 “Then straight will I seek for another fair she,
     For many a maid can be found,
 And as thou wilt never have aught of me,
     By thee will I never be bound. 
 For never is a blossom in the field so rare,
 But others are found that are just as fair. 
          So it’s hark! hark! hark! 
               To the joyous lark
          And it’s hark to the cooing dove! 
               And the bright daffodil
               Groweth down by the rill,
          And I’ll seek me another dear love.

She
 “Young man, turn not so very quick away
     Another fair lass to find. 
 Methinks I have spoken in haste today,
     Nor have I made up my mind_,

         And if thou only wilt stay with me,
          I’ll love no other, sweet lad, but thee.”

Here Robin could contain himself no longer but burst forth into a mighty roar of laughter; then, the holy Friar keeping on with the song, he joined in the chorus, and together they sang, or, as one might say, bellowed: 

“So it’s hark! hark! hark! 
To the joyous lark
And it’s hark to the cooing dove! 
For the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill
And I’ll be thine own true love.”

So they sang together, for the stout Friar did not seem to have heard Robin’s laughter, neither did he seem to know that the yeoman had joined in with the song, but, with eyes half closed, looking straight before him and wagging his round head from side to side in time to the music, he kept on bravely to the end, he and Robin finishing up with a mighty roar that might have been heard a mile.  But no sooner had the last word been sung than the holy man seized his steel cap, clapped it on his head, and springing to his feet, cried in a great voice, “What spy have we here?  Come forth, thou limb of evil, and I will carve thee into as fine pudding meat as e’er a wife in Yorkshire cooked of a Sunday.”  Hereupon he drew from beneath his robes a great broadsword full as stout as was Robin’s.

“Nay, put up thy pinking iron, friend,” quoth Robin, standing up with the tears of laughter still on his cheeks.  “Folk who have sung so sweetly together should not fight thereafter.”  Hereupon he leaped down the bank to where the other stood.  “I tell thee, friend,” said he, “my throat is as parched with that song as e’er a barley stubble in October.  Hast thou haply any Malmsey left in that stout pottle?”