Now I'll to Rob return, if you,
My Gillian, will permit me to!
Thus in his prison pent, poor woeful Rob,
Since none might see or hear, scorned not to sob,
And mightily, in stricken heart, did grieve
That he so soon so fair a world must leave.
And all because the morning wind had brought
Earth's dewy fragrance with sweet mem'ries fraught.
So Robin wept nor sought his grief to stay,
Yearning amain for joys of yesterday;
Till, hearing nigh the warder's heavy tread,
He sobbed no more but strove to sing instead.
"A bow for me, a bow for me,
All underneath the greenwood tree,
Where slaves are men, and men are free;
Give me a bow!
"Give me a bow, a bow of yew,
Good hempen cord and arrows true,
When foes be thick and friends be few,
Give me a bow!"
Thus cheerily sang Robin the while he dried his bitter tears, as the
door of his prison was flung wide and Black Lewin strode in and with him
men-at-arms bearing torches.
"What ho, rogue Robin!" cried he.
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