An ancient Elder stands alone
With dark-leafed ivy overgrown:
Thick perfume, and the milky white
Flowers in the growing night.
Here in the bark your eye may trace
The outline of a wizened face,
But few are those who’ve lived to see
Who lives within the Elder tree.
A Danish king with men four score
Came to England to make war;
They fought their way up to the wolds,
Pillaging and stealing gold,
Until at last one summers night
He came to camp in old Rollright.
He came there shouting, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall I be known!
Three of his men were less than sure
That he was right to thus wage war;
A wee way off they stopped to stoop,
And huddle, in a little group.
But up the hillside forged the king,
His other men stood in a ring;
They stood there chanting, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall he be known!
But as the King climbed up the hill,
All down his back he felt a chill;
He turned around: naught could he see
But a gnarled old elder tree.
He shrugged his shoulders and he grinned,
Why, it was nothing but the… Continue reading →
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