Of vintage no one could cry fie on,
Has been drunk by good men of the old-fashioned sort
At the "Lion"!
O, sweet is the exquisite lime-scented breeze
Awaft o'er the Remenham reaches!
What lullaby lurks in the music of trees,
The concert of poplars and beeches!
Shall I go for a row, or lounge in a punt,
The stream—half asleep—throw a fly on?
Or watch pretty girls feed the cygnets in front