Giles Watson's poetry and prose
Elder
ELDER
An ancient Elder stands alone
With dark-leafed ivy overgrown:
Thick perfume, and the milky white
Flowers in the growing night,
Here in the bark your eye may trace
The outline of a wizened face,
But few are those who’ve lived to see
Who lives within the Elder tree.
A Danish king with men four score
Came to England to make war;
They fought their way up to the wolds,
Pillaging and stealing gold,
Until at last one summer’s night
He came to camp in old Rollright.
He came there shouting, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall I be known!
Three of his men were less than sure
That he was right to thus wage war;
A wee way off they stopped to stoop,
And huddle, in a little group.
But up the hillside forged the king,
His other men stood in a ring;
They stood there chanting, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall he be known!
But as the King climbed up the hill,
All down his back he felt a chill;
He turned around: nought could he see
But a gnarled old elder tree.
He shrugged his shoulders and he grinned,
“Why, it was nothing but the wind!”
He climbed on, laughing, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall I be known!
And yet it seemed the air grew colder;
He felt a hard hand grasp his shoulder.
He whirled about, and who was there
But the Elder Witch! She gave a glare,
And as she spoke, the King did shake:
Seven long strides shalt thou take,
And if Long Compton thou canst see,
King of England thou shalt be!
The King looked up the gentle slope,
He laughed, “Why, Witch! You have no hope
Of stopping me! In seven strides
I’ll see around me on all sides:
In six I’ll be atop this hill,
And you’ll be forced to grant my will!”
He strode on, snickering, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall I be known!
But as the King began to stride
Before him rose a barrow wide;
It hid Long Compton from his view.
His sword upon the ground he threw,
“You Witch! You hag! That isn’t fair!
Curse you and your tangled hair!
He grabbed her wrist, cried, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall I be known!
The Elder Witch laughed hard and long,
And at last she sung her song:
Long Compton town thou canst not see,
So England’s King thou shalt not be.
Rise up stick, and stand still stone,
For England’s King thou shalt be none.
Thou and thy men hoar stones shall be,
And I shall be an eldern tree!
An ancient Elder, now a hedge
Blooms along the pathway’s edge:
And beyond, a ring of stones,
With moss and lichens overgrown.
And higher up the gentle slope
Stands the King, bereft of hope,
And another, huddled group of three:
Rollright stones, and Elder Tree.
Source material: Local Cotswold legend about the Rollright Stones. Sections in italics are traditional.
Elder
ELDER
An ancient Elder stands alone
With dark-leafed ivy overgrown:
Thick perfume, and the milky white
Flowers in the growing night,
Here in the bark your eye may trace
The outline of a wizened face,
But few are those who’ve lived to see
Who lives within the Elder tree.
A Danish king with men four score
Came to England to make war;
They fought their way up to the wolds,
Pillaging and stealing gold,
Until at last one summer’s night
He came to camp in old Rollright.
He came there shouting, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall I be known!
Three of his men were less than sure
That he was right to thus wage war;
A wee way off they stopped to stoop,
And huddle, in a little group.
But up the hillside forged the king,
His other men stood in a ring;
They stood there chanting, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall he be known!
But as the King climbed up the hill,
All down his back he felt a chill;
He turned around: nought could he see
But a gnarled old elder tree.
He shrugged his shoulders and he grinned,
“Why, it was nothing but the wind!”
He climbed on, laughing, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall I be known!
And yet it seemed the air grew colder;
He felt a hard hand grasp his shoulder.
He whirled about, and who was there
But the Elder Witch! She gave a glare,
And as she spoke, the King did shake:
Seven long strides shalt thou take,
And if Long Compton thou canst see,
King of England thou shalt be!
The King looked up the gentle slope,
He laughed, “Why, Witch! You have no hope
Of stopping me! In seven strides
I’ll see around me on all sides:
In six I’ll be atop this hill,
And you’ll be forced to grant my will!”
He strode on, snickering, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall I be known!
But as the King began to stride
Before him rose a barrow wide;
It hid Long Compton from his view.
His sword upon the ground he threw,
“You Witch! You hag! That isn’t fair!
Curse you and your tangled hair!
He grabbed her wrist, cried, Stick, stock, stone!
As England’s King shall I be known!
The Elder Witch laughed hard and long,
And at last she sung her song:
Long Compton town thou canst not see,
So England’s King thou shalt not be.
Rise up stick, and stand still stone,
For England’s King thou shalt be none.
Thou and thy men hoar stones shall be,
And I shall be an eldern tree!
An ancient Elder, now a hedge
Blooms along the pathway’s edge:
And beyond, a ring of stones,
With moss and lichens overgrown.
And higher up the gentle slope
Stands the King, bereft of hope,
And another, huddled group of three:
Rollright stones, and Elder Tree.
Source material: Local Cotswold legend about the Rollright Stones. Sections in italics are traditional.