Clinton Scollard

The Archer

When May has come, and all around
The dandelions dot the ground,
Then out into the woods I go,
And take my arrows and my bow.

Of hickory my bow is made,
Deep in a darksome forest glade
Cut from a sapling slim and tall,
And feathered are my arrows all.

And sometimes I am Robin Hood,
That olden archer brave and good;
And sometimes I'm an Indian sly,
Who waits to shoot the passers-by.

So up and down the woods I roam
Till sunset bids me hurry home
Before the pathway through the glen
Is peopled by the shadow-men.

And when at night my bow unstrung,
Is close beside my quiver hung,
To bed I slip and slumber well,
And dream that I am William Tell.