Ere the adventurers, nicknam’d Plantagenet,

Buckled the helm on, their foes to dismay,

They pluck’d a broom-sprig which they wore as a badge in it,

Meaning thereby they would sweep them away,

Long the genista shall flourish in story,

Green as the laurels their chivalry won;

As the broom-sprig excited those heroes to glory,

May the gorse-plant encourage our foxes to run.


Held by Diana in due estimation,

Bedeck with a gorse-flower the goddess’s shrine;

Throughout the wide range of this blooming creation,

It has but one rival, and that one the vine,

Pluck me then, Bacchus, a cluster and, squeezing it,

Pour the red juice till the goblet o’erflows;

Then in the joy of my heart, will I, seizing it,

Drink to the land where this Evergreen grows.


R E Egerton Warturton

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