Song of the Forest Trees

O man that for Fergus of the feasts dost kindle fire,
Whether afloat or ashore burn not the king of woods.

Monarch of Innisfail's forests the woodbine is, whom none may hold
captive;
No feeble sovereign's effort is it to hug all tough trees in his
embrace.

The pliant woodbine if thou burn, wailings for misfortune will
abound,
Dire extremity at weapons' points or drowning in great waves will
follow.

Burn not the precious apple-tree of spreading and low-sweeping bough;
Tree ever decked in bloom of white, against whose fair head all men
put forth the hand.

The surly blackthorn is a wanderer, a wood that the artificer burns
not;
Throughout his body, though it be scanty, birds in their flocks
warble.

The noble willow burn not, a tree sacred to poems;
Within his bloom bees are a-sucking, all love the little cage.

The graceful tree with the berries, the wizard's tree, the rowan,
burn;
But spare the limber tree; burn not the slender hazel.

Dark is the colour of the ash; timber that makes the wheels to go;
Rods he furnishes for horsemen's hands, his form turns battle into
flight.

Tenterhook among woods the spiteful briar is, burn him that is so
keen and green;
He cuts, he flays the foot, him that would advance he forcibly drags
backward.

Fiercest heat-giver of all timber is green oak, from him none may
escape unhurt;
By partiality for him the head is set on aching, and by his acrid
embers the eye is made sore.

Alder, very battle-witch of all woods, tree that is hottest in the
fight--
Undoubtedly burn at thy discretion both the alder and whitethorn.

Holly, burn it green; holly, burn it dry;
Of all trees whatsoever the critically best is holly.

Elder that hath tough bark, tree that in truth hurts sore;
Him that furnishes horses to the armies from the sídh burn so that
he be charred.

The birch as well, if he be laid low, promises abiding fortune;
Burn up most sure and certainly the stalks that bear the constant
pods.

Suffer, if it so please thee, the russet aspen to come headlong down;
Burn, be it late or early, the tree with the palsied branch.

Patriarch of long-lasting woods is the yew, sacred to feasts, as is
well-known;
Of him now build ye dark-red vats of goodly size.

Ferdedh, thou faithful one, wouldst thou but do my behest:
To thy soul as to thy body, O man, 'twould work advantage.