Poetry Archives

The moon came up above the hill,
The sun went down the sea,
‘Go, maids, and draw the well-water,
But, lad, come here to me.

Gird on my jack, and my old sword,
For I have never a son,
And you must be the chief of all
When I am dead and gone.

But you must take my old broadsword,
And cut the green boughs of the tree,
And strew the green boughs on the ground,
To make a soft death-bed for me.

And you must bring the holy priest,
That I may sained be,
For I have lived a roving life
Fifty years under the greenwood tree.

And you shall make a grave for me,
And dig it deep and wide,
That I may turn about and dream
With my old gun by my side.

And leave a window to the east
And the swallows will bring the spring,
And all the merry month of May
The nightingales will sing.’