No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and gray
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years
Many times have winter's shears
Frozen North, and chilling East
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces
Since men knew nor rent nor leases

No, the bugle sounds no more
And the twanging bow no more
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear

On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you
Or the polar ray to right you
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold
Never one, of all the clan
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment
Down beside the pasture Trent
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale
Gone, the merry morris din
Gone, the song of Gamelyn
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grene shawe"
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days
She would weep, and he would craze
He would swear, for all his oaks
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes
Have rotted on the briny seas
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her—-strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!

So it is; yet let us sing
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour 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!
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try