Our greenwood minstrel, sire! His harp is ours
Because we won his bride for him.
RICHARD
His bride?
REYNOLD GREENLEAF
Was to be wedded, sire, against her will
Last May, to a rich old baron.
RICHARD
Pigeon-pie—
And Malmsey—yes—a rich old baron—tell!
ROBIN
Sire, on the wedding day, my merry men
Crowded the aisles with uninvited guests;
And, as the old man drew forth the golden ring,
They threw aside their cloaks with one great shout
Of 'Sherwood'; and, for all its crimson panes,
The church was one wild sea of Lincoln green!
The Forest had broken in, sire, and the bride
Like a wild rose tossing on those green boughs,
Was borne away and wedded here by Tuck
To her true lover; and so—his harp is ours.
ALLAN-A-DALE