If you would wish your bees to thrive
Gold must be paid for every hive;
For when they're bought with other money
There will be neither swarm nor honey.
The first butterfly you see,
Cut off his head across your knee,
Bury the head under a stone
And a lot of money will be your own.
On Whit Sunday the devout Sussex man eats roast veal and gooseberry pudding. A Sussex child born on Sunday can neither be hanged nor drowned.
"CLIMPING FOR PERFECTION"