Oak that hast grown up on the green,
Since the streaming of blood and the rending of breasts,
Woe! to him that loves the presence of contention.
Oak that hast grown up amid the trefoil grass,
And, because of those that tore thee, hast not attained to rotundity;
Woe! to him that is in the power of his enemies.
Oak that hast grown up on the grounds
Of the woody promontory fronting the contending waves of the Severn sea;[66]
Woe! to him that is not old enough [to die].
Oak that hast grown up in the storms,