Ellin Anderson - The Outlaw lyrics

Not from the shade of cloistered grave, But from the shadows of a cave Within whose emerald mossy deep Our spirits watch, but never sleep, My eighty years in Lincoln green Eight hundred winters more have seen. Under this archer's keen blue eye, Pageants of plenitude roll by: Enameled litters, which they ride With all the horses tucked inside — Or so I deem — unless they go By means that necromancers know. My mission was to spread the wealth By bold endeavor, not by stealth, And so if pilgrim souls should deign To foot it down my wooded lane, I will endorse the hungry poor, Quilled arrows for my signature. I mean to say, I'll tax the rich — But who can tell me which is which? In Sherwood, there are none who want So that they starve — and if I haunt The memories of those who live, There's other gold that's mine to give. Marian throws a spectral crumb, And as before, the blackbirds come; Envy is such a crumb as this, One that the rich will never miss — And on your tongue, where they belong, Such crumbs are sacrament and song. But even as you shall atone By coveting what is your own — The fragrant blossoms of the lime Above two lovers lost in time — A wolf-age winter closes in, And freezes on that creamy skin. Possession of the fairest maid, Whose fatal beauty, bow, and blade Burn like a shaft of flame and frost, Cannot replenish what is lost Through vain content, by those unmanned Here in this cradle-changeling land! When I had slain my dastard foe, And stuck his head upon my bow; When in the furnace of my rage One died for each year of my age, So that fifteen lay on the field, My fate at Nottingham was sealed, Not lured by gold, or melting la**, But taken as I knelt at Ma**! I would not cause Our Lady grief; Love laughs at locks — so does belief; Swindler and bounty-hunting cur Shall die — the rest is up to Her. And those who toss their Books of Hours From the stretched necks of screeching towers — Like an oaf who leaves the wheat, Mills the chaff, and finds it sweet — Shall never know me, by my faith, As Robin — just some nameless wraith: A wraith in heavens of green, not blue, Whose heart is blithe, whose needs are few, Commander of full seven score, And as night falls, there will be more In answer to the huntsman's call, Till Sherwood cannot hold them all. Aye, till it strains with livid thieves As bloodless as these withered leaves That even specters kick to dust. And will you pallid shadows trust Old tales, and seek to join the host Of heroes as a fettered ghost? Betrayed, like one who could not guess What treason moved the Prioress To such black leechcraft as to drain With knife and cup, my every vein, Whose thin red currents trickle down To meet the Thames in London-town. In spring, I saw a ragged serf Who trod the snow to rend the turf, And from the plough, towards the Plough His eyes would wander, and allow Those bootless frozen feet to write A wordless rubric, stamped on white. The muck consumed his scarlet trail Like tears lost in a harlot's grail. Seek them within that mortar-cup Of vileness, or be swallowed up, You children of the Morning Star Who do not know how rich you are.