By Langley bush I roam but the bush hath left its hill On Cowper Green I stray - tis a desert strange and chill And spreading Lea Close oak ere decay had penned its will To the axe of the spoiler and self interest fell a prey And cross berry way and old round oaks narrow lane With its hollow trees like pulpits I shall never see again Inclosure like a Buonaparte let not a thing remain It levelled every bush and tree and levelled every hill And hung the moles for traitors - though the brook is running still It runs a naked brook cold and chill