Away in the forest there stands a good knight Clad all in a coat of mail; His lance is made of an icicle bright, His arrows are the hail.
And now and again he encounters a knight In Lincoln green arrayed; His crest is a spray of hawthorn white, A sunbeam is his blade.
They fight from dawn till set of sun, Till the leaves come out on the trees, And all the rivers begin to run, To carry the news to the seas!
Till all the flowers spring from the earth And wild grass is green on the ground. ‘Then winter yields to the green knight’s worth And is out of sight at a bound.
