Songs from Books. Rudyard Kipling

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      I closed and drew for my love's sake

      That now is false to me,

      And I slew the Reiver of Tarrant Moss

      And set Dumeny free.

      They have gone down, they have gone down,

      They are standing all arow —

      Twenty knights in the peat-water,

      That never struck a blow!

      Their armour shall not dull nor rust,

      Their flesh shall not decay,

      For Tarrant Moss holds them in trust,

      Until the Judgment Day.

      Their soul went from them in their youth,

      Ah God, that mine had gone,

      Whenas I leaned on my love's truth

      And not on my sword alone!

      Whenas I leaned on lad's belief

      And not on my naked blade —

      And I slew a thief, and an honest thief,

      For the sake of a worthless maid.

      They have laid the Reiver low in his place,

      They have set me up on high,

      But the twenty knights in the peat-water

      Are luckier than I.

      And ever they give me gold and praise

      And ever I mourn my loss —

      For I struck the blow for my false love's sake

      And not for the Men of the Moss!

      I followed my Duke ere I was a lover,

        To take from England fief and fee;

      But now this game is the other way over —

        But now England hath taken me!

      I had my horse, my shield and banner,

        And a boy's heart, so whole and free;

      But now I sing in another manner —

        But now England hath taken me!

      As for my Father in his tower,

        Asking news of my ship at sea;

      He will remember his own hour —

        Tell him England hath taken me!

      As for my Mother in her bower,

        That rules my Father so cunningly,

      She will remember a maiden's power —

        Tell her England hath taken me!

      As for my Brother in Rouen City,

        A nimble and naughty page is he,

      But he will come to suffer and pity —

        Tell him England hath taken me!

      As for my little Sister waiting

        In the pleasant orchards of Normandie,

      Tell her youth is the time for mating —

        Tell her England hath taken me!

      As for my Comrades in camp and highway,

        That lift their eyebrows scornfully,

      Tell them their way is not my way —

        Tell them England hath taken me!

      Kings and Princes and Barons famèd,

        Knights and Captains in your degree;

      Hear me a little before I am blamèd —

        Seeing England hath taken me!

      Howso great man's strength be reckoned,

        There are two things he cannot flee;

      Love is the first, and Death is the second —

        And Love in England hath taken me!

      Of all the trees that grow so fair,

        Old England 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 morn)!

      Surely we sing no little thing,

        In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

      Oak of the Clay lived many a day

        Or ever Æneas 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,

        And 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 will 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 morn)!

      England shall bide till Judgment Tide,

        By Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!