The Song of the Oak

The Druids waved their golden knives
         And danced around the Oak
         When they had sacrificed a man;
         But though the learned search and scan
         No single modern person can
         Entirely see the joke.
         But though they cut the throats of men
         They cut not down the tree,
         And from the blood the saplings spring
         Of oak-woods yet to be.
              But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
              He rots the tree as ivy would,
              He clings and crawls as ivy would
              About the sacred tree.

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

         Great Collingwood walked down the glade
         And flung the acorns free,
         That oaks might still be in the grove
         As oaken as the beams above,
         When the great Lover sailors love
         Was kissed by Death at sea.
         But though for him the oak-trees fell
         To build the oaken ships,
         The woodman worshipped what he smote
         And honoured even the chips.
              But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
              He hates the tree as ivy would,
              As the dragon of the ivy would
              That has us in his grips.