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Song by Anne Bronte

We know where deepest lies the snow,

And where the frost-winds keenest blow,

O’er every mountain’s brow,

We long have known and learnt to bear

The wandering outlaw’s toil and care,

But where we late were hunted, there

Our foes are hunted now.

We have their princely homes, and they

To our wild haunts are chased away,

Dark woods, and desert caves.

And we can range from hill to hill,

And chase our vanquished victors still;

Small respite will they find until

They slumber in their graves.
But I would rather be the hare,

That crouching in its sheltered lair

Must start at every sound;

That forced from cornfields waving wide

Is driven to seek the bare hillside,

Or in the tangled copse to hide,

Than be the hunter’s hound.

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