It commences thus:—
PICNIC-ALINE.
THESE are the green woods of Cliefden. The glorious oaks and the chestnuts
All appertain to the Duke, whose residence stands in the distance—
Stands like a toyhouse of childhood, besprinkled all over with windows—
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 holloas 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?