RIVERSIDE SUNDAY
Unnumbered are the trees that fling
O'er Pangbourne Reach their shade,
Unnumbered there the birds that sing
Melodious serenade;
But as the leaves upon the boughs
Or feathers on the birds,
So are the trippers who carouse
Along the banks in herds.
Punt, centre-board, launch, skiff, canoe,
Lunch-laden hither hie,
Each bearing her expectant crew
To veal and chicken-pie;
And from the woods around Hart's Lock
Reports ring loud and clear,
As trippers draw the festive hock
Or democratic beer.
From one to three, below, above,
Is heard the crisp, clear crunch
Of salad, as gay Damons love
To linger over lunch.
From three to six a kettle sings
'Neath every sheltering tree
As afternoon to Phyllis brings
The magic hour of tea.
Well may the Cockney fly the Strand
For this remoter nest,
Where buses cease from rumbling and
The motors are at rest.
But would you shun your fellows—if
To quiet you incline—
Oh, rather scull your shilling skiff
Upon the Serpentine.
