Out of a quiver he pulls the wood
And puts it in the bow.
North winds blow today, so he'll have to make
Adjustments with arrow-ow.

Into a quiver he puts the wood
Oh how the wind does blow.
It lings the nose of the arrow
As into the quiver it goes.

Into a quiver is Robin Hood.
This one has got less play.
It doesn't swell or go dink-a-ling
Nor does it nip away-ay.

Into the quiver, deep, is the wood,
Shot fast, the sap-pull way.
Springs past the mound—the target found
It hits the ballseyed place

Out of the quiver is Robin Hood,
Arrow no longer straight.
It's bent like a bow and hanging quite low,
And it carries less weigh-eight.

Back in the quiver he threw the wood,
The glandbrother's cap is high.
Hurrah for the fun, the pud-ding's come,
Her ahhh! for the pumpquim pie.