The nectar the fairies love to sup,
Sparkles brightly in each tiny cup,
While the dark leaves of the ivy shine,
And its clustering tendrils closely twine
Round the old oak, and the sapling young,
And when it has lightly round them clung,
It laughs, and shouts, and it calls aloud,
Have I not now a right to be proud?
I’ve mastered the lordly forest-tree,
I’m King of the woods, come see, come see.