Shy little hare, with your eyes like diamonds, run little hare through the evening gloom.
There's ice on your whiskers and frost on your paws, and your fur is matted with dew. 
The thatch and the rafters have all been taken and it's the pattering rain washes the room.
Run little hare, though the hounds are sleeping and I will not hurt you.

There's smoke on the breeze and moss on the hearth.
There's rot on the doorpost and a silvery sky.
I was somber and proud, now atleast I can laugh;
To think of the pretences of men and how they pass by.

Back in the days when I heard our tongue spoken, I wore a great cloak of the finest green.
It was cut into a hundred cloths which on washing lines are often to be seen.
Along with you they have gone with the strangers and I with the hare.