The Call of the Woods
Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live in the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas’d with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Shakespeare.