The Blackthorn the Briar and the Rose.

The Blackthorn the Briar and the Rose.

At the headland of a meadow long since passed o’er by time,
There once held court, three Musketeers of sort, their roots and arms entwined.
They discuss the passing seasons' poetry and prose,
Neither lords of withy nor coppice, the Blackthorn, the Briar and the Rose.

They grew about, a royal though youthful oak with strength and beauty spare,
His mantle bore them shelter, all who dwelt around him there.
Beneath his boughs upon the green, a ploughman held a village wench,
Drinking with lust her ruby lips, with thirst he n’er would quench.

But the hands of time will wait for none, and change a long march made,
For the ploughman was taken a soldier, fodder for cannon and blade.
The maid died young for her awful loss, still pure as a mourning dove,
And the rose became a token of her truest dearest love.

The briar became a fine gentleman’s cane, the Blackthorn a Calabash stem,
With only a thought for their beauty by those who slaughtered them.
The youthful oak they grew about, the keel of a galleon cast.
Lay seven leagues beneath the waves these four hundred years now passed.

Gone are the ruby red lips, the hand that would guide the plough,
The Blackthorn the Briar the Oak and the Rose, for all are sleeping now.
So grasp each day and use it well, consider thyself most blessed,
For though the Morrow surely comes, t’well maybe one ye’ll not possess.