Wooden It Be Nice?

Let go my palm, my darling girl,
And lay back on your pillow,
And listen to my story ‘bout
The man they knew as Willo.
Jock McWilliams was his name,
A spruce and poplar man,
Tough as teak, he roamed the glens
Around Loch Inverban.
One day he spied a bonny lass
A –rowan ‘cross the loch.
She landed on a stony beech
And sat upon a rock.
“What is your name?” he asked of her.
“Is’t Holly? Hazel? Breda?”
(He knew he was in love with her
The moment that he cedar.)
“I like to carve wood statues,”
She announced out of the blue.
“What’s your fav’rite wood?” he asked.
She answered, “I love yew.”
Poor Jock, though, was quite elder-ly,
And also somewhat plane.
The lassie flew to Cypress and
Was never seen again.
Jock took to the whisky,
(Well, you know the way Scots pine)
Without a woman at the ‘elm,
His boat sank ‘neath the brine.
He didn’t give a fig for life,
He just got sicker more,
And in the end, the wooden box
Was carried from his door.
It was a cold and wintry day,
The women dressed in fir.
They cast his ash-es to the winds,
Their eyes all quite a-blur.

Sweet dreams, now, my darling girl,
Asleep upon the hay.
That story that I redwood make
The devil seem oak-ay.