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How Robin And His Outlaws Lived In The Woods

Robin and his merry men  Lived just like the birds;

They had almost as many tracks as thoughts,  And whistles and songs as words.

Up they were with the earliest sign  Of the sun's up-looking eye;

But not an archer breakfasted  Till he twinkled from the sky.

All the morning they were wont  To fly their grey-goose

At butts, or wands, or trees, or twigs,  Till theirs was the skill of skills.

With swords too they played lustily,  And at quarter-staff;

Many a hit would have made some cry,  Which only made them laugh.

The horn was then their dinner-bell;  When like princes of the wood,

Under the glimmering summer trees,  Pure venison was their food.

Pure venison and a little wine,  Except when the skies were rough;

Or when they had a feasting day;  For their blood was wine enough.

And story then, and joke, and song,  And Harry's harp went round;

And sometimes they'd get up and dance,  For pleasure of the sound.

Tingle, tangle! said the harp,  As they footed in and out:

Good lord! it was a sight to see      Their feathers float about;—A pleasant sight, especially  :

If Margery was there,

Or little Ciss, or laughing Bess,  :

Or Moll with the clumps of hair;

Or any other merry lass  :

From the neighbouring villages,

Who came with milk and eggs, or fruit,  :

A singing through the trees.

For all the country round about  :

Was fond of Robin Hood,

With whom they got a share of more  :

Than the acorns in the wood;

Nor ever would he suffer harm  :

To woman, above all;

No plunder, were she ne'er so great,  :

No fright to great or small;

No,—not a single kiss unliked,  :

Nor one look-saddening clip;

Accurst be he, said Robin Hood,  :

Makes pale a woman's lip.

Only on the haughty rich,  :

And on their unjust store,

He'd lay his fines of equity  :

For his merry men and the poor.

And special was his joy, no doubt  : (Which made the dish to curse)To light upon a good fat friar,  :

And carve him of his purse.

A monk to him was a toad in the hole,  :

And an abbot a pig in grain,

But a bishop was a baron of beef,  :

With cut and come again.

Never poor man came for help,  And wnet away denied;

Never woman for redress,  And went away wet-eyed.

Says Robin to the poor who came  :

To ask of him relief,

You do but get your goods again,  :

That were altered by the thief;

There, ploughman, is a sheaf of your's  :

Turned to yellow gold;

And, miller, there's your last year's rent,  : 'Twill wrap thee from the cold:

And you there,

Wat of Lancashire,  :

Who such a way have come,

Get upon your land-tax, man,  :

And ride it merrily home.

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James Henry Leigh Hunt

James Henry Leigh Hunt (19 October 1784 – 28 August 1859), best known as Leigh Hunt, was an English critic, essayist and poet.

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