Our band is few, but true in tribe,
Our leader quick and bold;
The Nottingham Taxman trembles
When Robin Hood's name is told.
Our fortress is the dark Sherwood,
Our tent the mosses, green in hue;
We know the forest round us,
As Bowmen know the Yew;
We know its paths of thorny vines,
Its clearings of reedy grass,
Its safe and quiet islands
In the dark morass.
Woe to the English Knight
That little dread us near!
On them will light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear;
When, waking to their thatch on fire,
They grasp their pikes in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who run in terror deem
A mighty army behind,
And hear the hoofbeat of hundreds
On the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil;
We talk the raid over,
And share the raid's spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout,
As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the friar's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oak leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Robin Hood leads-
The glitter of their quivers,
The scampering of their steeds.
It's life to guide the sharpened barb
Across the moonlit plain;
It's life to feel the night wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the soldier-camp-
A moment - and away,
Back to the wild forest,
Before the break of day.
Brave men there are in dark Sherwood,
Brave men with unkempt hair;
Their hearts are all with Robin Hood,
For Sir Richard are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band,
With kind welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we bear these trusty bows,
And lay them down no more
Til we have driven false King John,
Forever, from our shore.