Stalking curly-'orned goats in a country all precipice, hice-hill, and crag,
Might suit Mister Manfred, it may be—he didn't seem nuts on his life;
But give me rabbit-potting in Devon, where rocks is not edged like a knife.
'Ad a try arter Idlewise, too—sort o' fluffy-leaved, snow-coloured flower—
'All the mugs seem to set heaps o' store by—I sent a bit on to Bell Bower.
Though she would prefer a camelia. Bell calls all them forren gals "cats";
Wonder what she'd ha' said to see me spooning round 'midst short skirts and longplaits!
They'd a bit of a Buy-a-broom flaviour, and seemed a mite wooden to kiss;
But a gal's a gal all the world hover. In Switzerland, 'Arry, is Swiss.
Yus, the country of Shallys and Shammys is jest a bit trying, no doubt;