(I'm sure they can't grumble,)
With Bob and your humble,
They'll just make us eight.
"'Where are ye going to?' cries Mrs. Dickenson,
'What can you do such a very damp day?'
'Comfort ourselves with champagne and cold chickens soon,
See the big cherries, and hear Littolf play,
Iceing or prawning,
(It's all under awning)
Or lounging the lawn in,