The bow was made of a tender bough,
And fell down to his foot.
"Woe worth thee, wicked wood," said Little John,
"That ere thou grew on a tree!
For this day thou art my bale,
My boot when thou should be."
This shot it was but loosely shot,
The arrow flew in vain,
And it met one of the sheriffs men,
Good William a Trent was slain.