Chumbawamba

The merry brown hares came a-leaping
Over the crest of the hill
Where the clover and corn lay a-sleeping
Under the moonlight so still
Leaping so late and so early
‘Till under their bite and their tread
The swedes and the wheat and the barley
Lay cankered and trampled and dead
A poacher’s poor widow sat sighing
On the side of the moss-patterned bank
Where under the gloom of the fir-woods
One acre of ground laying rank
She watched over barely grown clover
Where rabbit or hare never ran
For the ground that it all covered over
Hid the blood of a good murdered man
She thought of the shaded plantation
And the hares and her husband’s own blood
And the voice of her own indignation
Rose up to the throne of her God
There’s blood on your new foreign shrubs, Squire
There’s blood on your pointer’s cold feet
There’s blood on the game that you sell Squire
And there’s blood on the game that you eat
You have sold out the labouring man, Squire