1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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