The Song of the Oak

The Druids waved their golden knivesAnd danced around the OakWhen they had sacrificed a man;But though the learned search and scanNo single modern person canEntirely see the joke.But though they cut the throats of menThey cut not down the tree,And from the blood the saplings springOf oak-woods yet to be.But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,He rots the tree as ivy would,He clings and crawls as ivy wouldAbout the sacred tree.

King Charles he fled from Worcester fightAnd hid him in the Oak;In convent schools no man of tactWould trace and praise his every act,Or argue that he was in factA strict and sainted bloke.But not by him the sacred woodsHave lost their fancies free,And though he was extremely bigHe did not break the tree.But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,He breaks the tree as ivy would,And eats the woods as ivy wouldBetween us and the sea.

Great Collingwood walked down the gladeAnd flung the acorns free,That oaks might still be in the groveAs oaken as the beams above,When the great Lover sailors loveWas kissed by Death at aea.But though for him the oak-trees fellTo build the oaken ships,The woodman worshipped what he smoteAnd honoured even the chips.But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,He hates the tree as ivy would,As the dragon of the ivy wouldThat has us in his grips.