The greene bough,
Glysteninge gold nowe,
Have sweye by wyndes that rise,
Beyonde the glare of Erthely eyes.
The Ried-Fyre,
Slytheringe heigher,
Fede wel by lims of olde,
Briht with a fyre-bough of gold.
The wise tunge,
Foretellinge deeds done,
With words of wyrd, to know,
Tydinges as trewe as scholde shew.
And he wou'd know,
The ryme and rede of a fo.
And he would here,
Here that are ever-nere.
And he would fight,
Never to cowe or to hyde.
We brynge to minde the fyre-bough.