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The Song of The Gorse Fairies

"When gorse is out of blossom,"

(Its prickles bare of gold)

"Then kissing's out of fashion,"

Said country-folk of old.

Now Gorse is in its glory

In May when skies are blue,

But when time is over,

Whatever shall we do?

O dreary would the world be,

With everyone grown cold -

Forlorn as prickly bushes

Without their fairy gold!

But this will never happen:

At every time of year

You'll find one bit of blossom -

A kiss from someone dear!