Archer

Mighty Archer, pull thy bow,
Be sure your aim is true,
Before you lies your greatest test,
And death may wait for you.

Normans from across the sea,
Holds your native land,
And your people bold, grow sick and cold,
Looks to you to make a stand.

Hooded One, blessed by Herne,
And by the powers of Dark and Light,
Sheathed to your side is Albion,
One of seven swords of might.

You come upon them, one by one,
Like a game of cat and mice,
And you scheme against them every chance,
Whatever be the price.

To help your people, you steal the gold,
That was stolen just before,
And with gold in pack, you bring it back,
To the hungry and the poor.

The Sheriff High, will cheat and lie,
And kill to bring you down,
And in his wrath, he’ll send his men,
To raid from town to town.

He hunts for you, with hate so true,
Given any lead or trace,
But between the two, all knows it’s you,
Who truly leads the chase.

But many are they and few are you,
The odds favored in their hands,
So all that’s left is when and where,
Will be your final stand.

So mighty Archer, pull thy bow,
Be sure your aim is true,
For Time is now your greatest foe,
And Death’s in search of you.