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.
