When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small
Were filled with good English cheer.
Now gold hath the sway we all obey,
And a ruthless king is he;
But he never shall send our ancient friend
To be tossed on the stormy sea.
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.