If some people hunt about For your indocile head, So they could by noose around Make more than thin your thin neck, Hide in wood, be not lost, buddy; There is no safer spot, If youíve been sold to somebody With your bowels for nought. Poor people, serves and wretches, Deprecating life of thrall, Also other homeless strangers, Who have debts and have no all, Who are hunted and exhausted Run for freedom to the wood, Just because of forestís host, A nice fellow, Robin Hood. From half a word hereís understanding. Thereís not fear of sharp words. Here honour and respecting Wait wolf heads of any sort. Even knights are hiding here Waiting for a better time. One, who has no lacks, no fear Has in purse no more than dime. People here know paths of deer As fine as lines on a hand. In the past they were serves, mere, Now are free shooters of woodland. And a man, who has been lost all, Finds the defence in this wood, Just because itís place of strolls Of nice fellow Robin Hood. And they live in Sherwood Forest Notwithstanding any laws. And the gloom can not posses of These free, daring outlaws. Laying under ribs the moss, Covered by starred sky they sleep. Here, in spite of any frost, While thereís life itís nice to live. But they sigh for there houses, Far away are homes and roods, And repair their bows Lest in fight they wouldnít be good. There are no archers better. What will wait them in this wood? There will answer a nice fellow, The best marksman, Robin Hood.
© Eugeny Koshelev. Translation, 2007