O little prickly beastie, the night was growing weary,
Ye scrambled through the brushwood, your wee legs growing dreary.
The woodpile caught your eye, its shelter to beckon,
A cozy nook to rest your spines, safe from any reckon.
Among the piles of timber your nest ye quickly wrought,
The soft wood shavings curled, a comfort dearly sought.
With belly full of slugs and worms ye had enjoyed for supper,
Ye drifted into dreamy sleep, your prickles all a-bruster.
The woodpile was a palace, as snug as any den,
Sheltering a dozing hedgehog, happiest of all when
Curled up without a care, his daily wanderings done,
Sweet dreams of hedgerow rambles rose with the silent sun.
O prickly sleepy wanderer, may your slumbers still be deep,
Among the piles of timber, in comfort may ye sleep.
The woodpile is your castle, a hedgehog’s perfect cheer,
Dream on, sweet beastie. dream on, the morning’s coming near!