At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
The understanding critic firstly sees
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum