The Bowman

It’s jolly to play at Make-Believe
And think what you might have been:
An Anglo-Norman aristocrat
With his feudal this and his feudal that;
A stern Crusader, tough and tanned,
Jogging along to the Holy Land;
A Roundhead trooper, spick and span,
Yeoman, Knight or Javelin man.
But best of the bunch, as it seems to me,
The jolliest fellow of all was he
Who covered the whole of his six foot three
In a suit of Lincoln green.
Foemen knew the twang of his bow
And bowed them down at the patter
Of dropping arrows, designed to put
The fear of the Lord in Horse and Foot,
(You’ll hear them still wherever you look,
Hissing about in the history book).
But only the laughing bowmen knew
Just where they’d go and what they’d do
And often enough a Knight would find
A hole in his front—and one behind—
And the mess it made of his peace of mind
Was hardly a laughing matter.

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