The Kingly Oak of Bagot’s Park

The fearless monarch—old, yet hale, More proud than in his youth— Laughs and enjoys the passing gale, Is happy; and—forsooth—

He’s like a king (who chance be good) Surrounded by his court, Or like a lord of merry mood, Obtains a meet report.

He loves the fair one’s gentle touch, The squeeze of hardier hands; And with a bow—no elms can match— Conveys “he understands.”

Two hundred winters now have fled Since forth the seedling came; A hundred more may crown his head, Ere his is but a name.

Soft zephyrs shall caress his crown, And curl around his form; Horus, of old, shall oft go down; While many a dreadful storm

Shall drench the monarch to the skin, And ravage Bagot’s Park, Ere his stout heart shall yield within Its noble coat of bark.

Though grand his mien, he never boasts, Nor e’er usurps the green; But loves to see the minor hosts Salute his distant queen.

Many a tourist scans this oak: Some, measuring round his base, Exclaim, “’Tis worth a march to look Upon his fine old face!”

Now when he’s angry (true ’tis not That often he doth frown), And when the winds, concerting, plot To hurl him from his throne,

’Tis then he asserts his majesty, And lifts his powerful voice; But when the storm hath passèd by, You will again rejoice

To see him as he deigns to laugh And gently bend his head, Inviting you to come, and quaff Upon the grassy bed,—

(On which, and ’round about, regale The antler’d buck, and deer, And goats, and feather’d tribes,) t’inhale The perfumes of the year.

Profoundly silent, acres lay Invig’rated by Time; Whilst shelt’ring woodlands make them gay, And deck the favour’d clime.

O! may’st thou live to teach the young The secret of that gift, Through which thou’st grown so great, so strong, Before thy trunk is rift; That each may wear upon his brow, Like thine—an honest mark, And so retain, as thou dost now, The pride of “Bagot’s Park.”

Supposed to be more than two centuries old.