Ol' One-eyed Bill
One-eyed Bill looked on from over the hill
with surety, his shot aimed for the kill.
Honed, the long dart whizzed overhead of stones.
Striking down a hare, iron scrapes the bone.
Nine yards more and he could have hit a thrush
like in his greater days of youth long hushed.
Now he's woodsman Bill, hard drinker by night
as all old veterans, come waning light.
From morning to noon, a father of two
who works by day chopping down elm and yew.
When Bill was a boy he hunted for deer.
Once with both his eyes, a man shedding tears.
Levied by his lord and led to a war
where many fellows fell on earthen floor.
Found among the dead, carried on a nag,
one unbridled goat treated by some hag.
Foeman feared the cyclopean archer,
a ghost of vengeance whose twisted laughter
apalled the hearts impaled once they were stung.
Not known was his song that remains unsung.
When Bill goes hunting, his arrows let fly.
To all, he's Bill, a woodsman with one eye.