At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
With gravity at gravity's great cog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb