The Hawthorn Bush

	'The dignified green hawthorn bush,

	lovely dwelling where praise grows,

	you are dressed in leaves and bark,

4	enchanted youth, you are armoured.

	You change your appearance frequently,

	your form is varied, dear one of the Lord.

	Your burden in May is lovely,

8	colour of fine snow, better than money.

	Truly radiant manner, armed tower,

	your armour is a fine coat of many colours.

	[You have had] a war–wound from your enemy.

12	Woe is me! Where are you? How grim!

	There isn't half of you left here

	nor even a third, colour of sparkling cherries.

	He cut off your legs, my treasure,

16	vicious deed, and your thick branches.

	Tell me, colour of a spray of foam,

	you have been punished, who did this'.

	'I know no cause,

20	I am weak and grievously wounded,

	except the arch–scoundrel who came here

	(a shock for me yesterday)

	with an applewood–handled axe

24	to chop and beat me from my quarter

	and drag one of my legs off with him

	(woe is me, Mary!)

	and steal my goods and my branches

28	and the fine tips and my precious stones.'

	'I saw you growing coral.

	Your top was fairer than an Englishman's shop.

	Be quiet, don't worry soldier,

32	you shall have proper compensation for a man:

	the churl will be killed by a song

	and strung up as dead as a dog'.