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
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can't depress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
The best of all things to an end must come