77
But a rough voice cried, "Shoot not, hoy!
Ho! shoot not, Edward—'tis a boy!"—
Ho! shoot not, Edward—'tis a boy!"—
XVI.
The speaker issued from the wood,
And checked his fellow's surly mood,
And quelled the ban-dog's ire.
He was an English yeoman good,
And born in Lancashire;
Well could he hit a fallow deer
Five hundred feet him fro;
With hand more true, and eye more clear,
No archer bended bow.
His coal-black hair, shorn round and close,
Set off his sun-burned face;
Old England's sign, St George's cross,
His barret-cap did grace;
His bugle horn hung by his side,
All in a wolf-skin baldrick tied;
And his short faulchion, sharp and clear,
Had pierced the throat of many a deer.
The speaker issued from the wood,
And checked his fellow's surly mood,
And quelled the ban-dog's ire.
He was an English yeoman good,
And born in Lancashire;
Well could he hit a fallow deer
Five hundred feet him fro;
With hand more true, and eye more clear,
No archer bended bow.
His coal-black hair, shorn round and close,
Set off his sun-burned face;
Old England's sign, St George's cross,
His barret-cap did grace;
His bugle horn hung by his side,
All in a wolf-skin baldrick tied;
And his short faulchion, sharp and clear,
Had pierced the throat of many a deer.
