Hrum, hoom, hm, hum, room tum.
The army marches to the beat of the drum.
Hm, hum, room tum and hrum and hoom.
The army marches to the face of doom.
The bleeding alders leading the line,
Followed close by the prickled pine.
To the left flank the ranks of moss covered ash,
With their wives; the willows ready to clash.
On the right are the oaks, mighty and broad,
Alongside the veteran birch and their silver lord.
Elm and beech ambushed in their disguise,
In perfect unison with the morning's sunrise.
The battle had begun now at dawn,
With brothers in arms remembering oaths sworn.
The enemy quaked and shaked in their boots,
As the heroes of the hour felt strength in their roots.
The cousins thorn; haw, black and white,
Fought bravely together under day's first light.
The two sisters of hazel and holly,
Did their best to heal in such folly.
When noon struck, the battle was done,
The spilled blood bringing a red sun.
The elderly yews; wise and old,
Stood in a circle speaking words so bold,
Of how the army stood grand and strong,
And how brave the warriors passed and gone.
The army marches back to their land,
Until war once again forces their hand.
