Fruit of the Yew - Words and arrangement by Jim Pipkin

Grim warriors appeared decked in iron and gold,
Their bright banners snapped in the breeze,
Harvest was over, the weather was cold,
Turning hot breath to cloud in the freeze.

They moved over rivers, meadows, and fields,
The peasantry scattered before,
Gathered the wealth of the land on their shields,
And carried it off to the shore,

"How could this happen and where is our King?
Where are the warriors we pay?"
"Aye, the King may be King where he sits on his throne,
But that throne is four days' ride away."

Swift word was sent to the men of the wood,
There'd be no trade for winter this year,
No sacks of grain for the skin of the fox,
No ale for the flesh of the deer,

But deep in the woodlands of Wales grows a tree,
The name of that tree is the Yew,
And the fruit of the Yew is a stout longbow stave,
Throwing straight cloth-yard shafts strong and true,

They gathered in number from forest and fen,
Walking soft as the hunting-men do,
Hung at each belt were the straight cloth-yard shafts,
In each hand was the fruit of the Yew,

Moving by night through the still-burning steads,
They searched for the camp by the shore,
Each made an oath as they passed by the dead,
That the morning would even the score,

Morning broke clear and the raiders awoke,
With a leisurely thought for the day,
'Til one showed himself and a soft bowstring spoke,
From three hundred paces away,

And as he fell dead a loud taunting voice cried,
"'Tis a pleasure to pay you your due!
Ye come seeking all of the fruits of our land,
Have a taste of the fruit of the Yew!"

The King arrived early mudspattered and tired,
Just to look on a field of the dead,
Cut down from the front when they stood in their line,
Cut down from the rear as they fled,

For what good are shields that don't cover the legs,
Or helms that don't cover the eyes,
Or shirts of bright mail 'gainst a straight cloth-yard shaft,
That can pierce through a stag on the fly,

"Where are the men that have done me this good?"
Asked the King from his horse ridden lame,
"T'was outlaws and brigands from back in the wood,
They've since fled back whence they all came."

"Will they take pardon and live in my peace?"
Asked the King of his counselor true,
Said the counselor, "Nay, they're a quarrelsome lot,
They'll not become lawful for you."

Raiders take heed to the gist of my tale,
It may lengthen your lives if you will,
When you go a'reavin' be sure of your mark,
Have a care that it matches your skill,

For England pays silver, and Spain will give gold,
France will grant lands it is true,
But seek not for wealth in the woodlands of Wales,
For we pay in the fruit of the Yew.