At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The understanding critic firstly sees
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
They both are right not untamed mutterings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum