On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double
And thick on Severn snow the leaves

’Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood:
'Tis the old wind in the old anger
But then it threshed another wood

Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare:
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:
Then ’twas the Roman, now 'tis I

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