Where the gorse standeth deep
On the slopes of the hill,
Where the westerlies sweep
O'er the wold at their will,
In a glade of old grass
That the winter has seared
And the winds as they pass
Have not noticed or neared,
Restless-eyed, ready-eared
Every danger to shun,
The little red foxes lie out in the sun.
When the stars are aglow
And the cloud is alight
With the moonflowers that grow
From the leaves of the night,
In the shadow and hush
Of the undergrowth dank
There 's a stir in the brush.
And a step on the bank,
And the gleam of a flank
Where the thorn leaves are strewn
And the little red foxes steal forth by the moon.
Ere the stars are grown dim,
Ere the moon 's out of sight,
Ere the dawn sings her hymn
To the rose of the Hght,
Leaping over the heath,
Creeping low in the fern.
With their spoil in their teeth
The red rovers return ;
But ere long they shall learn
Retribution unbars
Swift wrath on the raiders that steal by the stars.
