The site this is from said they got it from Mudcat.



All honour to the longbow, which merry men of yore,
With hand and heart and early morning greenwood forest bore


The tent is pitched, the target reared, the ground is measured out
For the weak arm, 60 paces, and a hundred for the stout.
Come gather ye together the youthful and the fair
And poets' praise, in distant days the victor shall declare.


Let busy creatures lay aside the needle and the thread,
To prick the golden centre with a pointed arrow head
Ye sportsmen quit the stubble, ye fishermen the stream.
In glory stand before the billy and eye the rowley gleam


Oh, famous is the archer's sport- twas honoured long ago
The god of wit, the god of love, bore both of them the bow
Love laughs today if youth desires with blushes in his cheek
And wit is heard in every word the merry archer speaks.


The archer's heart, though, like his bow, is a tough and sturdy thing.
Its pliance still annealing when affection pulls the string
And all his words and actions are like arrows, pointed well
To find the golden centre where true love and friendship dwell