In a quaint little bungalow, at the edge of the town,
Lives Pauline, our heroine, with hair of silver crown.
Eighty-five and spry as ever, fiercely independent,
She loves her cosy garden and her paving, oh so splendid.

Oh, Pauline, Pauline, the foxes made a plan,
To steal her quiche and fish pie, but she’s a wily gran.
With traps and tricks and cleverness, she made the foxes flee,
Pauline’s garden’s fox-free now, her domain in victory.

The foxes with their beady eyes, they watched her every night,
From under hedges, over fences, in the pale moonlight.
She feared they'd ambush her one day, while fetching from the shed,
A homemade pie, a quiche or two, her freezer's pride and bread.

With her back garden paved so nice, she’d gaze with pride anew,
But those pesky foxes ruined it, with droppings and a chew.
So Pauline hatched a cunning scheme, she paid a man in traps,
To catch the furry bandits, and perhaps avoid mishaps.

The trap was sprung, the fox was caught, and taken far away,
Pauline’s smile was broad and bright, she’d won the battle, hey!
Now she watches carefully, for any new invasion,
But her garden’s safe and sound again, a fortress of elation.

So here’s to Pauline, brave and bold, with freezer full and heart of gold,
Her garden’s now a peaceful place, where foxes dare not show their face.
A tale of triumph, wit, and might, of how one woman won the fight,
Against the foxes in the night, Pauline’s garden now shines bright!

Green branches, green branches, I see you beckon; I follow!
Sweet is the place you guard, there in the rowan-tree hollow.
There he lies in the darkness, under the frail white flowers,
Heedless at last, in the silence, of these sweet midsummer hours.

But sweeter, it may be, the moss whereon he is sleeping now,
And sweeter the fragrant flowers that may crown his moon-white brow:
And sweeter the shady place deep in an Eden hollow
Wherein he dreams I am with him—and, dreaming, whispers, "Follow!"

Green wind from the green-gold branches, what is the song you bring?
What are all songs for me, now, who no more care to sing?
Deep in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.

Green is that hill and lonely, set far in a shadowy place;
White is the hunter's quarry, a lost-loved human face:
O hunting heart, shall you find it, with arrow of failing breath,
Led o'er a green hill lonely by the shadowy hound of Death?

Green branches, green branches, you sing of a sorrow olden,
But now it is midsummer weather, earth-young, sunripe, golden:
Here I stand and I wait, here in the rowan- tree hollow,
But never a green leaf whispers, "Follow, oh, Follow, Follow!"

O never a green leaf whispers, where the green-gold branches swing:
O never a song I hear now, where one was wont to sing
Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.