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The Blackberry Fold

de Peter Bellamy

Of all the trees that grow so fair
Old engerland to adorn
Greater are none beneath the Sun
Than oak and ash and thorn
Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs
(All of a midsummer's morn)
Surely we sing of no little thing
In oak and ash and thorn!

Oak of the clay lived many a day
Or ever aeneas began
Ash of the loam was a lady at home
When brut was an outlaw man
Thorn of the down saw new troy town
(From which was London born)
Witness hereby the ancientry
Of oak and ash and thorn!

Yew that is old in churchyard mould
He breedeth a mighty bow
Alder for shoes do wise men choose
And beech for cups also
But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled
Your shoes are clean outworn
Back ye must speed for all that ye need
To oak and ash and thorn!

Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth
Till every gust be laid
To drop a limb on the head of him
That anyway trusts her shade
But whether a lad be sober or sad
Or mellow with ale from the horn
He'll take no wrong when he lieth along
'Neath oak and ash and thorn!

Oh, do not tell the priest our plight
Or he would call it a sin
But we have been out in the woods all night
A-conjuring summer in!
And we bring you news by word of mouth
Good news for cattle and corn
Now is the Sun come up from the south
With oak and ash and thorn!

Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs
(All of a midsummer's morn)!
England shall bide till judgement tide
By oak and ash and thorn!

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