That dropped in our hands from the Rectory wall.
But long shall I cherish, through dreary December,
The thought of that even we drifted away;
The twilight, the silence, I long shall remember,
The flash of the oar and the perfume of hay.
And still, when "My Queen" the street-organ is playing,
Or "Patience" is blown by cacophonous bands,
I smile on the discord, I nod to the braying,
And muse with delight upon Scarborough Sands.
The young laughing maids, with their salt-sprinkled tresses,