Henry Chorley

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!

Now gold hath sway; we all obey And a ruthless king is he; But he never shall send our ancient friend To be tost on the stormy sea.

A song to the oak, the brave old oak, Who hath ruled in the greenwood long!