1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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