AT GORING

Where is the sweetest river reach,

With nooks well worth exploring,

Wild woods of bramble, thorn and beech

Their fragrant breath outpouring?

Where does our dear secluded stream

Most gaily gleam?

At Goring.

Where sings the thrush amid the fern?

Where trills the lark upsoaring?

Where build the timid coot and hern,

The foot of man ignoring?

Where sits secure the water vole

Beside her hole?

At Goring.

Where do the stars dramatic shine

'Mid satellites adoring?

And where does fashion lunch and dine

Al fresco, bored and boring?

Where do we meet confections sweet

And toilets neat?

At Goring.

Where are regattas? Where are trains

Their noisy crowds outpouring?

And bands discoursing hackneyed strains,

And rockets skyward soaring?

Where is this urbs in rure?—where

This Cockney Fair?

At Goring.