The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
The understanding critic firstly sees
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
They both are right not untamed mutterings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb