The woodman, O the woodman's round,
And the woodman's round alone,
For of all the trades that go the ground,
There's none like his own.
His crook is the bow, his hook is the bill,
His task is all the day;
And though he must climb the woodland hill,
Yet merrily, oh, merrily
Goes the woodman's song,
As he drives the long day round,
And fells the trees that stood so strong,
But now lie on the ground.