And he showeth his might, on a wild midnight,
When the storms through his branches shout.
Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale, green tree,
When a hundred years are gone.
In the days of old, when the spring with cold
Had brightened his branches gray,
Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet
To gather the dew of May;