Here's another version of the one Fantum posted.

Lyrics copied from Folkal Point, weekly newsletter of the Wigan Folk Club. (I omitted chords because they weren't lined up with the lyrics anyway.)

ROBIN HOOD
(Words by John (?) from Aspull, with extra material by Monologue Joe)
(Tune: Jesse James)

Robin Hood he was a man and he roamed throughout the land
Shooting off his arrows there and here.
He robbed from the rich and he kept it for himself
And he shot the occasional king's deer.

He'd a fight upon a log with a lad called Little John
Who made Robin look a proper twit;
For John hit him with his pole, and he scored a perfect goal
And Robin Hood went flying in the water.

For Robin was a man and he owned a lot of bows.
He kept them all nice and clean.
He died in his prime at the age of eighty-nine
From a bad case of eyeball gangrene.

Maid Marion there she sits, she's got two enormous eyes
And feet just like a pair of boats.
Robin keeps her hanging round. She's the only girl in town
Who'll give him his daily Nottingham Evening Post.

Well a man was to be hung. Said Robin, "This is wrong."
To Nottingham his merry men he calls.
He gives his horn a blow, fits an arrow to his bow,
And shoots the poor old hangman through the head.

Now you've often heard the tale of dashing Allan-a-Dale
Who wandered through the valleys and the hillocks.
All the ladies they would swoon when Allan played his tune,
And they used to waft the flies off his armour.

He had the smell of Brut. He got pickled as a newt.
He chased the girls through Sherwood all his days.
He chased them through the pines and they used to call him Heinz,
For he knew fifty-seven different ways.

Will Scarlett often bragged about all the girls he'd kissed.
At playing on the lute he was quite slick.
He called the girls his pets, and they frequently took bets
Whether he or Robin had the biggest bow.

The Sheriff's temper ripped as he crept beneath the crypt.
His plan to capture Robin was a farce;
For his arrows they were blunt, and that stupid little sheriff
Watched the arrows bounce off Robin's head.

The Abbot he was rich, the dirty son of a woman.
All day in the church his God he'd thank;
But the outlaws stole his gold, so the story's told,
When he went behind a tree to have a smoke.

Now Mutch the miller's son, he didn't have any fun.
All day on the toilet he would dwell.
For from the very start all he did was cough
And the outlaws said, "What's that bloody smell?"

Now the friar's name was Tuck and he didn't give a damn.
All day in the forest he would snooze.
When the men went out to hunt, that lazy big fat friar
Ate up all the food and drank the booze.

As long as this here minstrel will sing his little song,
As long as two and two make five,
As long as we are here paying too much for our beer,
The tales of Robin Hood will stay alive.

They'll be passed from hand to hand, sung throughout the land,
Exaggerated by the mob.
They'll glorify the name and cover up the shame
Of the dirty thieving b*****d that he was,
Of the dirty thieving b*****d that he was.

(Note from Joe Offer: Dave Turner is the songwriter)