And the sighs of the winds among the trees;
Where no turnips are sown or sweet apples grown,
Or fruit of the earth in its season known;
Where the land is idle and nought is seen
But the dear wild flowers and woodland green,
And the sun shines down on a desolate spot—
Is it there, is it there, my three acre plot?
Not there, not there, my man.
It only exists in the “Tory” brain.
Though they always “father it” on Chamberlain;