O Leicestershire, these are the farms
I dreamt would have shown me the pace
That kills, with a scent! ’Tis the scent
Of the drains in this horrible place.
If fiends who have robbed me of sport
Should “wire,” to upset me still more,
Some fabulous weather report,
That somewhere they’ve heard of a thaw,
I’d saddle a reindeer or elk,
And sleigh myself down to the meet