For aye his heart in greenwood was,
Wherever he might be;
Till pleasing rose resolve once more
The forests fair to see.
Yet bootless he retraced deject
Each loved resort at last;
The birds were mute, the leafless wold
Held drearily the blast.
And as again John wandered wide,
A fog so dense did fall,
He could not see nor hill nor tree;
It clos'd him like a wall.
That dismal night he roamed lost,
Exhausted, sick, and cold:
The morn was long ere it was light,
And long the vapour rolled.
On every side came mighty stones
About a barren moor;
No roof nor pale might be descried,
As spread that waste forlore.
At length 'mid wreathing fog-smoke swam
The sun's blanch'd disc on high;
Mantled the ashy mists around;
Grew wide the rover's eye.
When, singing blithe as he approached,
A shepherd boy met John:
"Pray tell to me," the outlaw cried,
"What ground I here am on?"
"St. Michael's, gallant yeomen, this,"
The boy made prompt reply;
"From yonder, Hathersage church-spire,
May'st plainly now espy."
"There hast thou knelled," said Little John,
"The solemn bell for me;
But Christ thee save, my bonny lad;
Aye lucky shalt thou be!"
He had not many steps advanced,
When in the vale appeared
The Church, and eke the village sweet,
His foot had vainly feared.