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"Swearers are swift, sayd lyttle John, As the wind blows over the hill; For if it be never so loud this night, To-morrow it may be still." And so it went up hill and down till a stone interrupted the line, when a new verse was chosen. "His shoote it was but loosely shot, Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, For it met one of the sheriffe's men, And William-a-Trent was slaine."
He had come within twenty feet of Scarlet and was leaping upon him with long bounds like a greyhound, when John rose up quickly, drew his bow and let fly one of his fatal shafts. It would have been better for William-a-Trent to have been abed with sorrow says the ballad than to be that day in the greenwood slade to meet with Little John's arrow. He had run his last race.
Little John could not forbear laughing heartily at the scene, though he knew that 'twould be anything but a laughing matter if Will should stumble. And in truth one man was like to come upon him. It was William-a-Trent, the best runner among the Sheriff's men.
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