My conkers, they are shiny things,
And things of mighty joy,
And they are like the wealth of kings
To every little boy;
I see the upturned face of each
Who stands around the tree:
He sees his treasure out of reach,
But does not notice me.
For love of conkers bright and brown,
He pelts the tree all day;
With stones and sticks he knocks them down,
And thinks it jolly play.
But sometimes I, the elf, am hit
Until I’m black and blue;
O laddies, only wait a bit,
I’ll shake them down to you!