These are the trees, peasants eight,
Their stories I will now relate,
Worshiped by the Celts of old,
Stories in the Ogham told.
The Birch is for a start that’s new,
The Lady of the Woods holds true,
The Besom sweeps the leaves away,
And a beating keeps spirits at bay.
The Rowan berry to catch a bird,
Its wood to guard from magic word,
Trust protection of the five point star,
The bow will fly your arrows far.
The Willow weeps by river side,
Your sorrow you can there confide,
Sacred tree of the Goddess Moon,
It’s bark will ease your pain in swoon.
Yggdrasil, the world’s ash tree,
Where Odin hung, the runes to see,
Ash handles have the witches broom,
Of Ash was Gwydion’s great wand hewn.
Bathe in the dew of the Hawthorn tree,
If strong and fair you wish to be,
White flowers on the first of May,
Surround the pole on this sacred day.
The Spindle wood for making thread,
Don’t eat the berries, or you’ll be dead,
Craft your arrow straight and true,
For needles fine, this wood will do.
The Apples grow on Avalon’s Isle,
From Iduna’s hand, the Norse gods smile,
Gold upon a silver bough,
Music that would sleep allow.
The Holly king his crown does wear,
Spiky leaves your skin will tear,
Never eat the berries red,
The Holly wand sees spirits fled.
