The Druids waved their golden knives <br /> And danced around the Oak <br /> When they had sacrificed a man; <br /> But though the learned search and scan <br /> No single modern person can <br /> Entirely see the joke. <br /> But though they cut the throats of men <br /> They cut not down the tree, <br /> And from the blood the saplings spring <br /> Of oak-woods yet to be. <br /> But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, <br /> He rots the tree as ivy would, <br /> He clings and crawls as ivy would <br /> About the sacred tree. <br /> <br /> King Charles he fled from Worcester fight <br /> And hid him in the Oak; <br /> In convent schools no man of tact <br /> Would trace and praise his every act, <br /> Or argue that he was in fact <br /> A strict and sainted bloke. <br /> But not by him the sacred woods <br /> Have lost their fancies free, <br /> And though he was extremely big <br /> He did not break the tree. <br /> But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, <br /> He breaks the tree as ivy would, <br /> And eats the woods as ivy would <br /> Between us and the sea. <br /> <br /> Great Collingwood walked down the glade <br /> And flung the acorns free, <br /> That oaks might still be in the grove <br /> As oaken as the beams above, <br /> When the great Lover sailors love <br /> Was kissed by Death at sea. <br /> But though for him the oak-trees fell <br /> To build the oaken ships, <br /> The woodman worshipped what he smote <br /> And honoured even the chips. <br /> But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, <br /> He hates the tree as ivy would, <br /> As the dragon of the ivy would <br /> That has us in his grips.<br /><br />Gilbert Keith Chesterton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-song-of-the-oak/
