The fox had slept, and his dreams were all
Of the wild Welsh hills and the country's call;
He slept all night in the Wan Tun Waste,
He woke at dawn and about he faced,
He flexed his ears and he flaired the breeze
And scratched with his foot some poor wee fleas;
He sat on his haunches, doubted, stood;
To his left were the lairs of his native wood,
The deep yew darkness of Cowall Itchen;
He flaired, I say, with his nostrils twitching