| | XXXI | | | |
| | | |
| On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble | | C | Q |
| His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves; | | C | Q |
| V | The gale, it plies the saplings double, | | | Q |
| And thick on Severn snow the leaves. | | | |
| | | | | |
| V | 'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger | 5 | | |
| When Uricon the city stood: | | C | |
| V | 'Tis the old wind in the old anger, | | | Q |
| V | But then it threshed another wood. | | | |
| | | | | |
| V | Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman | | | |
| At yonder heaving hill would stare: | 10 | | |
| 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: | 15 | | |
| Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I. | | | |
| | | | | |
| V | 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. | 20 | | Q |