At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
With gravity at gravity's great cog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb