1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown

5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11watching manure and compost coalesce

12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum