Clapping the old brown bay leaves on my head.
So to the hangars. Time, about eleven,
The air full chill, the ground a mess of muck,
And long time gazed I on the wintry heaven
And thought of many a deed of Saxon pluck;
How DRAKE, for instance, good old DRAKE of Devon,
Played bowls at Plymouth Hoe. Twelve-thirty struck.
No one had vaulted through the air's abyss;
DRAKE would have plunged tail up an hour ere this.
Brief interval for lunch, and then a drizzle