"Swevens are swift, master," quoth John,
"As the wind that blows o'er a hill;
For if it be never so loud this night,
To-morrow it may be still."
"Busk ye, boun ye, my merry men all,
For John shall go with me,
For I'll go seek yond wight yeomen,
In greenwood where they be."
They cast on their gowns of green,
A shooting gone are they;