Told I not true when I saw thee last,
That 'ere the circling year had passed,
Under the greenwood thou should'st be dying,
On the bloody greensward lying!
Deceived once, I tell thee never
Shall my victim from me sever—
Thou hast dared to brave our hate,
Rashly run upon thy fate!
Thou art on the greensward dying,
Underneath the greenwood lying!