Up with your heads, ye sylvan lords, Wave proudly in the breeze; For our cradle bands and coffin boards, Must come from the forest trees.
We bless ye for your summer shade, When our weak limbs fail and tire; Our thanks are due for your winter aid, When we pile the bright log fire.
Oh! where would be our rule on the sea, And the fame of the sailor band; Were it not for the oak and cloud-crown'd pine, That spring on the quiet land?
When the ribs and masts of the good ship live And weather the gale with ease Take his glass from the tar, who will not give A health to the forest trees!
Ye lend to Life its earliest joy, And wait on its latest page! In the circling hoop for the rosy boy, And the easy chair for Age.
The old man totters on his way, With footsteps short and slow; But without the stick for his help and stay, Not a yard's length could he go.
The hazel twig in the stripling's hand Hath magic power to please; And the trusty staff and slender wand Are pluck'd from the forest trees.
Ye are seen in the shape of the blessed plough, And the merry ringing flail; Ye shine in the dome of the monarch's home, And the sacred altar-rail.
In the rustic porch, the panel'd wall, In the gay, triumphal car; In the rude-built hut, or the banquet hall; No matter there ye are!
Then up with your heads, ye sylvan lords, Wave proudly in the breeze; From our cradle bands to our coffin boards, We're in debt to the forest trees.
