1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone

5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave

9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress

12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum