Robin Hood
The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1818
No! those days are gone away,And their hours are old and gray,And their minutes buried allUnder the down-trodden pallOf the leaves of many years:Many times have Winter's shears,Frozen North, and chilling East,Sounded tempests to the feastOf the forest's whispering fleeces,Since men knew nor rent nor leases.10
No, the bugle sounds no more,And the twanging bow no more;Silent is the ivory shrillPast the heath and up the hill;There is no mid-forest laugh,Where lone Echo gives the halfTo some wight, amaz'd to hearJesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of JuneYou may go, with sun or moon,20Or the seven stars to light you,Or the polar ray to right you;But you never may beholdLittle John, or Robin bold;Never one, of all the clan,Thrumming on an empty canSome old hunting ditty, whileHe doth his green way beguileTo fair hostess Merriment,Down beside the pasture Trent;30For he left the merry tale,Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din;Gone, the song of Gamelyn;Gone, the tough-belted outlawIdling in the 'grenè shawe;'All are gone away and past!And if Robin should be castSudden from his turfèd grave,And if Marian should have40Once again her forest days,She would weep, and he would craze:He would swear, for all his oaks,Fall'n beneath the dock-yard strokes,Have rotted on the briny seas;She would weep that her wild beesSang not to her—strange! that honeyCan't be got without hard money!
So it is; yet let us singHonour to the old bow-string!50Honour to the bugle horn!Honour to the woods unshorn!Honour to the Lincoln green!Honour to the archer keen!Honour to tight little John,And the horse he rode upon!Honour to bold Robin Hood,Sleeping in the underwood!Honour to Maid Marian,And to all the Sherwood clan!60Though their days have hurried by,Let us two a burden try.