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In Scotland this tree is known as the bourtree, and hence the rhyme— "Bourtree, bourtree, crooked wrung, Never straight and never strong; Ever bush and never tree, Since our Lord was nailed to thee."

At the byre end the old rowan-trees were creaking and groaning to the violence of the gale, the bourtree bushes were flattened near to the ground, and everywhere was white.

What care I for howlet's cry, For bourtree bank, or warlock craigie?