1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown

5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address

12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum