THE moon came up above the hill, The sun went down the sea； Go, maids, and fetch the well-water, But, lad, come here to me.

    Gird on my jack and my old sword, For I have never a son； And you must be the chief of all When I am dead and gone.

    But you must take my old broad sword, And cut the green bough of the tree, And strew the green boughs on the ground To make a soft death bed for me.

    And you must bring the holy priest That I may sained be； For I have lived a roving life Fifty years under the greenwood tree.

    And you shall make a grave for me, And make it deep and wide； That I may turn about and dream With my old gun by my side.

    And leave a window to the east, And the swallows will bring the spring； And all the merry month of May The nightingales will sing.