Robert hath a swift hand.
He doth gaze upon the fyrd, and he maketh a plan.
He hath a jaunty cap, perched upon his head, he is a longbowman.
He did find an old bow of yew
And a quiver of arrows in his father’s chest, wherefore I cannot say.
But he cometh for thee, yea he cometh for thee.
All ye bully-rooks with your buskin boots,
Best ye go, best ye go,
Outrun my bow.
All ye bully-rooks with your buskin boots,
Best ye go, best ye go, faster than mine arrow.
Father worketh all day
And he cometh home late, yea he cometh home late.
Mayhaps he bringeth me a gift,
For stew is in the pot, though it doth taste of grit.
I have waited e’re long.
Now mine eye is quick and mine arm is strong.
I reason with my crooked cap
And say, “Thou art an artless, greasy tallow-catch.” Yea.
All ye bully-rooks with your buskin boots,
Best ye go, best ye go,
Outrun my bow.
All ye bully-rooks with your buskin boots,
Best ye go, best ye go, faster than mine arrow.
All ye bully-rooks with your buskin boots,
Best ye go, best ye go,
Outrun my bow.
All ye bully-rooks with your buskin boots,
Best ye go, best ye go, faster than mine arrow.
All ye bully-rooks with your buskin boots,
Best ye go, best ye go,
Outrun my bow.
All ye bully-rooks with your buskin boots,
Best ye go, best ye go, faster than mine arrow.