The Druids waved their golden knives br And danced around the Oak br When they had sacrificed a man; br But though the learned search and scan br No single modern person can br Entirely see the joke. br But though they cut the throats of men br They cut not down the tree, br And from the blood the saplings spring br Of oak-woods yet to be. br But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, br He rots the tree as ivy would, br He clings and crawls as ivy would br About the sacred tree. br br King Charles he fled from Worcester fight br And hid him in the Oak; br In convent schools no man of tact br Would trace and praise his every act, br Or argue that he was in fact br A strict and sainted bloke. br But not by him the sacred woods br Have lost their fancies free, br And though he was extremely big br He did not break the tree. br But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, br He breaks the tree as ivy would, br And eats the woods as ivy would br Between us and the sea. br br Great Collingwood walked down the glade br And flung the acorns free, br That oaks might still be in the grove br As oaken as the beams above, br When the great Lover sailors love br Was kissed by Death at sea. br But though for him the oak-trees fell br To build the oaken ships, br The woodman worshipped what he smote br And honoured even the chips. br But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, br He hates the tree as ivy would, br As the dragon of the ivy would br That has us in his grips.