And fetteled him to shoote :
The bow was made of tender boughe,
And fell downe at his foote.
“Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
That ever thou grew on a tree !
For now this day thou art my bale,
My boote when thou shold bee.”
His shoote it was but loosely shott,
Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
For itt mett one of the sheriffes men,