There is an anonymous Welsh poem which is a protest against the felling of trees in the Cynon Valley, South Wales, to be used as charcoal in the iron industry rapidly being developed (mainly by ironmasters from England)during the second half of the 17th century:
Here is a translation of it by the late Professor Gwyn Willimas from his book 'The Burning Tree' (Faber 1956):
            
                Glyn Cynon Wood (Glyn = Vale)

                Aberdare, Llanwynno through,
                all Merthyr to Llanfabon;
                there was never a more disastrous thing
                than the cutting of Glyn Cynon.

                They cut down many a parlour pure
                where youth and manhood meet;
                in those days of the regular star
                Glyn Cynon's wood were sweet.

                If a man in sudden plight
                took to flight from foe,
                for guest-house to the nightingale
                in Cynon Vale he'd go.

                Many a beech tree green of cloak
                (I'd like to choke the Saxon!)
                is now a flaming heap of fire
                where iron-workers blacken.

                For cutting the branch and bearing away
                the wild birds' habitation
                may misfortune quickly reach
                Rowenna's treacherous children!* (*the English)

                Rather should the English be
                strung up beneath the seas,
                keeping painful house in hell
                than felling Cynon's trees.

                Upon my oath, I've heard it said
                that a herd of the red deer
                for Mawddwy*'s deep dark woods has left
                bereft of its warmth here.
                   (*many miles away in North Wales)

                No more the badger's earth we'll sack
                nor start a buck from the glade;
                no more deer-stalking in my day,
                now they've cut Glyn Cynon's glade.

                If ever a stag got into a wood
                with huntsmen a stride behind,
                never again will he turn in his run
                with Cynon Wood in mind.

                If the flour-white girl once came
                to walk along the brook,
                Glyn Cynon's wood was always there
                as a fair trysting nook.

                If as in times gone by men plan
                to span the mountain river;
                though wood be found for house and church
                Glyn Cynon's no provider.

                I'd like to call on them a quest
                of every honest bird,
                where the owl, worthiest in the wood,
                as hangman would be heard.

                If there's a question who rehearsed
                in verse this cruel tale,
                it's one who many a tryst has kept
                in the depth of Cynon Vale.
               
I know of at least one other translation - by Harri Webb - 'Harri Webb: Collected Poems' Meic Stephens (ed.) Gomer 1995. The Welsh version is sung by a group whose name escapes me at the moment.
Hope this is of interest. Will be away for the next week, but will be happy to attempt to answer any queries after that.