Descending, welcome straight he finds
The ruddy hearth before:
Cried young and old, "Among us dwell,
And weary roam no more!"
Said Little John, "No, never hence
Shall I fare forth again;
But that abode is yet to found,
Wherein I must remain."
He led them to the churchyard frore,
And digg'd therein a grave:
"Three days," said he, "and neighbours, this
The little inn I crave.
Without a coffin or a shroud
Inter me, I you pray,
And o'er my corse, as now yclad,
The greensward lightly lay."
The morn ensued, as John foretold,
He never rose to greet;
His bread upon the board was brought,
Beside it stayed his seat.
They laid him in the grave which he
With his own hands had made,
And overspread the fragrant sod,
As he had wished and said.
His bow was in the chancel hung;
His last good bolt they drave
Down to the nocke, its measured length,
Westward fro' the grave.
And root and bud this shaft put forth,
When Spring returned anon;
It grew a tree, and threw a shade
Where slept staunch Little John.