Abbeydore, Abbeydore,
Land of apples and of gold,
Where the lavish field-gods pour
Song and cider manifold;
Gilded land of wheat and rye,
Land where laden branches cry,
"Apples for the young and old
Ripe at Abbeydore!"
Abbeydore, Abbeydore,
Where the shallow river spins
Elfin spells for evermore,
Where the mellow kilderkins
Hoard the winking apple-juice
For the laughing reapers' use;
All the joy of life begins
There at Abbeydore.
Abbeydore, Abbeydore,
In whose lap of wonder teems
Largess from a wizard store,
World of idle, crooning streams—
From a stricken land of pain
May I win to you again,
Garden of the God of Dreams,
Golden Abbeydore.
A GERMAN HOLIDAY.
Child. "PLEASE, SIR, WHAT IS THIS HOLIDAY FOR?"
Official. "BECAUSE OUR ZEPPELINS HAVE CONQUERED ENGLAND."
Child. "HAVE THEY BROUGHT US BACK ANY BREAD?"
Official. "DON'T ASK SILLY QUESTIONS. WAVE YOUR FLAG."