The birds are gone to bed, the cows are still
And sheep lie panting on each old mole hill
And underneath the willow's grey-green bough
Like toil a-resting -- lies the fallow plough.
The timid hares throw daylight's fears away
On the lane's road to dust, and dance and play,
Then dabble in the grain by nought deterred
To lick the dewfall from the barley's beard.
Then out they sturt again and round the hill
Like happy thoughts -- dance -- squat -- and loiter still.
Till milking maidens in the early morn
Jingle their yokes and sturt them in the corn.
Through well known beaten paths each nimbling hare
Sturts quick as fear -- and seeks its hidden lair.