On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble

His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves

The gale it plies the saplings double

And thick on Severn snow the leaves

'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger

When Uricon the city stood

'Tis the old wind in the old anger

But then it threshed another wood

Then 'twas before my time the Roman

At yonder heaving hill would stare

The blood that warms an english yeoman

The thoughts that hurt him they were there

There like the wind through woods in riot

Through him the gale of life blew high

The tree of man was never quiet

Then 'twas the Roman now 'tis I

The gale it plies the saplings double

It blows so hard 'twill soon be gone

To-day the Roman and his trouble

Are ashes under Uricon