Or, bowling peacefully upon my bike,
Well breakfasted, by no distractions flustered,
Pause near a leafy copse or brambled dyke,
And answer song for song the black-backed shrike,
The curlew and the bustard.
But now—ah, why prolong the dreadful strain?—
Limply my hand the unstrung harp relaxes;
The dear old days will not come back again
Whatever Mr. Austen Chamberlain
Does with the nation's taxes.