The soldier bold, when the bugles sound,
Must start from his pleasant sleep,
To measure alone his weary round
On the gloomy castle-keep.
But we, merry men, in the pathless woods,
Where the nimble wild deer run,
We rise when we will, and we sleep when we can,
And we bend the knee to none.
O! a merry, merry life is ours, I ween;
At morn in the forests free,
And quaffing at e'en the jolly brown ale,
All under the greenwood tree.

The monk must go when the abbot calls,
To chant his vesper hymn,
And the warder watch from his loop-hole grate,
At the hour of midnight dim:

But we, merry men, in the gay greenwood,
We own no master's sway,
But live to be happy when we can,
And jolly while we may.
O! a merry, merry life is ours, I ween;
At morn in the forest free,
And quaffing at e'en the jolly brown ale,
All under the greenwood tree.