Taint nothing like sitting round the fire speaking cider and drinking Westcountry.
In the deepest glade see the maidens fair, they kneels at the Apple Tree. Oh Apple Tree we wassail thee, show us the light to be free.....show us light make us free from the corporations who would murder us all - oh lore!
Pass round the jug and take a supp, Cutler's name drifts into the night. Nought could compare with this pasty we share - the souls of the West join the light. On the lonesome road see the Fach-y-Toad, Don't believe what he say. He'll promise thee gold and truth untold, they leads to the hollow grave. Run my son over the moor, to orchard, as before, to the sanctuary of the old Apple Tree - oh lore!