"Good morrow, good fellows!" all fearless he said,
"Was your supper spread so sparely;
Or is to feast some sweet young dame,
That you bend your bows so early?
"The world is wide, and the world is broad,
There's fish in the smallest river;
Deer leap on the hill—fowls fly in the air—
Was, is, and will be ever.
"And now I feast on the ptarmigan,
And then I taste the pheasant;
And my supper is of the Chatsworth fawn,
Which my love dresses pleasant.
"But to-morrow I feast on yon bonny roebuck;
'Tis time I stayed his bounding."
He twanged his string—like the swallow it sung,
All shrilly and sharply sounding.
"By my grandsire's bow," said a forester then,
"By my shafts which fly so yarely,
And by all the skill of my strong right hand,
Good outlaw, thou lords it rarely.
"Seest thou yon tree, yon lonely tree,
Whose bough the Derwent's laving?
Upon its top, thou gallant outlaw,
Thou'lt be hung to feed the raven.
"So short as the time this sharp shaft flies,
And strikes yon golden pheasant—
There—thy time is meted, so bid farewell
To these greenwoods wild and pleasant."
The outlaw laughed. "Good fellow," he said,
"My sword's too sure a servant
To suffer that tree to bear such fruit,
While it stands on the Derwent.
"She would scorn my might, my own true love,
And the mother would weep that bore me
If I stayed my step for such strength as thine,
Or seven such churls before me.
"I have made my way with this little brown sword
Where the war-steeds rushed the throngest;
I have saved my breast with this little brown sword,
When the strife was at the strongest.
"It guarded me well in bonny Scotland,
When the Scotts and Graemes fought fervent
And the steel that saved me by gentle Nith,
May do the same by Derwent."
"Fair fall thee, outlaw, for that word!
Oh, Nith! thou gentle river,
When a bairn, I flew along thy banks
As an arrow from the quiver.
