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The fat, red-faced gleeman, the
listening group, the archer with upraised finger beating in time
to the music, and the huge sprawling figure of Hordle John, all
thrown into red light and black shadow by the flickering fire in
the centre--memory was to come often lovingly back to it. At the
time he was lost in admiration at the deft way in which the
jongleur disguised the loss of his two missing strings, and the
lusty, hearty fashion in which he trolled out his little ballad
of the outland bowmen, which ran in some such fashion as this:
What of the bow?
The bow was made in England:
Of true wood, of yew wood,
The wood of English bows;
So men who are free
Love the old yew tree
And the land where the yew tree grows.
What of the cord?
The cord was made in England:
A rough cord, a tough cord,
A cord that bowmen love;
So we'll drain our jacks
To the English flax
And the land where the hemp was wove.


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