The spirit of the oak am I,
With head uplifted to the sky,
Though hail and storm beat in my face,
Through weal or woe I hold my place,
With head uplifted to the sky,
The spirit of the oak am I.

Birds I have sheltered many a year,
They hear the storm, desert in fear,
The strenuous eagle strives to stay,
But, ah! at last his heart gives way,
He stretches forth his feathered form,
And sails to heaven above the storm.

Devoid of every earthly friend,
I stand undaunted till the end,
With head uplifted to the sky—
The spirit of the oak am I.

And when the raging storm is o'er,
My feathered friends return once more,
And find me standing calm and free;
They chirp aloud and sing with glee,
With outstretched arm I bid them rest,
I hold no malice in my breast,
But welcome every passer-by —
The spirit of the oak am I.