But I've a finer garden than the squire or the passun; 'Tis all along the hedgerows, an' all about the lanes; It stretches up the hillside an' spreads acrost the moorland, 'Tis sweet with Cornish sunshine an' green with Cornish rains.
There's scent of honeysuckle shakin' sweet along the sunshine, An' ragged robins sprinklin' scarlet stars among the grass, An' foxgloves, with a peal o' bells a swingin' in the steeple, A ringin' fairy music to the breezes as they pass.
An' where the lanes climb up along, an' break upon the moorland, The heather weaves a carpet all acrost the purple hills; An' gorse gleams in the sunshine like a thousand burnin' bushes, An' birds shout happy answers to the ripplin' o' the rills.
So squire may keep his garden, an' his gardeners a diggin', An' passun's clanely welcome to the flowers he counts so fine, (I won't say nort o' feyther's, for his tatties be so mealy), But the bestest of all gardens is the garden that is mine.
GROCERY
John Pengelly be a clever man, An' he keeps a grocery store; He've got a seat on the Burryin' Board, An' a sow as turns three score; On Sunday night he holds the plate An' on Thursday shuts at four.
He talks to Passon on clover crops, An' Farmer Hain on Sin; An' keeps the Parish Register, An' a dog that isn' thin; An' wears a watch-chain on his chest, An' a Moses beard on his chin.
He allays takes the rhubarb prize At the Flower Show every year; An' if 'ee mind to order it He'll get 'ee Bottled Beer; (Though some as don't agree with that) Besides it's rather dear.