High o’er the lordly oak I stand,
And drive him on from land to land.
Ash.
I heft my brother’s iron bane;
I shaft the spear, and build the wain.
Yew.
Dark down the windy dale I grow,
The father of the fateful Bow.
Poplar.
The war-shaft and the milking-bowl
I make, and keep the hay-wain whole.
Olive.
The King I bless; the lamps I trim;
In my warm wave do fishes swim.
Apple-tree.