A villenelle, A pantoum, A terzanelle, and A couplet, in honour of Robin Hood.

The sky is grey but greyer still the wood

The nobles burn the hovels of the poor

The gaunt tree, scarred, yields brands to scar the good.

When will the green show through the hazy blood?

When will the new shoots come around the scar?

The sky is grey but greyer still the wood

New life will come, they say, for come it should,

When spring sun brings the icy death to thaw,

The gaunt tree, scarred, yields brands to scar the good.

And evil also. What if its green stood,

In holy hand, though it, beyond the law?

The sky is grey but greyer still the wood

And greyer still the eyes, once marked with blood,

The hands that cut the arrows, though are sure,

The gaunt tree, scarred, yields brands to scar the good.

The younger trees yield shafts that archers could,

Will skill, give virtue to, and points cut sore.

The sky is grey but greyer still the wood

The gaunt tree, scarred, yields brands to scar the good.

I sing the brave outlaws who dwelt in the wood.

They ne'er bowed the neck to the tyranny's hand,

The bravest of all was great Rob o' the Hood

For he shot the farthest of all that wild band.

They ne'er bowed the neck to the tyranny's hand,

But with swords and with staves no quarter would give,

For he shot the farthest of all that wild band.

Now their feasts they were lavish, they ate not to live,

But with swords and with staves no quarter would give,

Nor starve their flesh sore on the alms of the rich,

Now their feasts they were lavish, they ate not to live,

They'd be not bought off by the bone o' the bitch,

Nor starve their flesh sore on the alms of the rich,

They'd hunt the lithe deer, though they'd spare faun and hind,

They'd be not bought off by the bone o' the bitch,

Nor be turned from their path, though the Sherrif's behind!

They'd hunt the lithe deer, though they'd spare faun and hind,

They'd make their rich sup o' the blood of the stag,

Nor be turned from their path, though the Sherrif's behind!

His men in their mail shirts, would in  their turn brag,

They'd make their rich sup o' the blood of the stag,

But no meat for their supper they'd get from the wood,

His men in their mail shirts, would in  their turn brag,

They'd as soon lay their hands on the slee Robin Hood,

But no meat for their supper they'd get from the wood,

No gold for their taking of outlaw nor serf,

They'd as soon lay their hands on the slee Robin Hood,

As they'd chase down old Hern, and tie up the whole Earth,

No gold for their taking of outlaw nor serf,

Will god gie to the tyrant and those who he commands,

As they'd chase down old Hern, and tie up the whole Earth,

Which Earth, will not yield,  but t'will rise w' firebrands,

Will god gie to the tyrant and those who he commands,

The bravest of all was great Rob o' the Hood

Which Earth, will not yield,  but t'will rise w' firebrands,

I sing the brave outlaws who dwelt in the wood.

And Robin at the last was lain to bed,

His wounds a weeping, at Prioress' hand,

He said. Fetch me my bow, for thou' I've bled,

In wars in Greenwood, as in Holy Land,

Til Richard was cut down at Chalus, I

Ne'er thought the Lionhearted would not stand

As long as I, or longer to time's malice, why,

Unfateful is it to outlive one's Lord,

Til Richard was cut down at Chalus, I

Ne'er thought, the land would once more face the sword,

Give me one arrow.  Bury me where it fly.

Unfateful is it to outlive one's Lord,

Outlaw was I, yet non will say I lie,

I raise arms once, now John is my liege-lord,

Give me one arrow.  Bury me where it fly.

Under the trees of Sherwood, green in sward,

And Robin at the last was lain to bed,

I raise arms once, now John is my liege-lord,

He said. Fetch me my bow, for thou' I've bled,

Of Robin, true as Arthur's the refrain,

If we have need, He'll rise up once again.