Stands like a pudding at Christmas, a white surface dotted with black things.
Loud from the neighbouring river, the deep-voiced clamorous bargée
Roars, and in accents opprobrious hollas to have the lock opened.
These are the green woods of Cliefden. But where are the people who in them
Laughed like a man when he lists to the breath-catching accents of Buckstone?
Where are the wondrous white waistcoats, the flimsy baréges and muslins,
Worn by the swells and the ladies who came here on pleasant excursions?
Gone are those light-hearted people, flirtations, perhaps love, even marriage,
All have had woeful effect since Mrs. Merillian’s picnic;
And of that great merrymaking, some bottles in tinfoil enveloped,