The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
The understanding critic firstly sees
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
The best of all things to an end must come