"When gorse is out of blossom,"
(Its prickles bare of gold)
"Then kissing's out of fashion,"
Said country-folk of old.
Now Gorse is in its glory
In May when skies are blue,
But when time is over,
Whatever shall we do?

O dreary would the world be,
With everyone grown cold -
Forlorn as prickly bushes
Without their fairy gold!
But this will never happen:
At every time of year
You'll find one bit of blossom -
A kiss from someone dear!