Author Wilfrid Wilson Gibson The heather's black on Hareshaw When Redesdale's lying white: When grass is green in Redesdale Dark Hareshaw blossoms bright. They harvest hay in Redesdale For beasts within the byre: The heather upon Hareshaw Is harvested with fire. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 Average: 3 (1 vote) Rate Log in or register to post comments