For by its banks abundantly
The fragrant tall leaves grow;
Singing with reedy rustling voice,
Whene’er soft breezes blow.
The Mayor of Norwich holds in June
His annual feast and show;
And to the grand cathedral church
Processions with him go.
And then the gray and solemn aisles,
And all the ancient floor,
Are with the aromatic leaves
Bestrewèd thickly o’er.
In by-gone days the costly fumes
Of incense here were shed;
But sweeter far the fragrant gush
That greets each passing tread.
In the sordid streets are bowers built,
Of these same reeds as well,
Plaited and wrought like basket-work,
All full of spicy smell.
And many a queer and quaint device
Are round about them made,
Of the gold and red ranunculus,
In varied shape and shade.
Oh! many a young and guileless heart
Is blithe as blithe can be,
To walk through Norwich streets that morn,
The decked out bowers to see.
In far gone times, ere folks had grown
So mighty nice and clever—
When carpets were unheard-of things,
And druggets dreamed of never—
When wide bare floors of good hard mud
Or stone, not over even,
Were all that unto knightly strides,
Or dames’ light steps, were given—
When common rushes strewed the halls
Where royal banquets were—
How precious must these reeds have been
Beside the banks of Yare!