The nightingale in leafy June,
I own, divinely warbles,
But equal magic fills the tune-
ful name of Scotia's Gorbals;
And if you ever should desire
A subject to wax funny on,
What theme more fitly can inspire
The Muse than Ballybunnion?
Some places on my astral rounds
I'm strong upon tabooing,
On anti-alcoholic grounds
Grogport and Rum eschewing;
But no such painful stigma robs
Proud Potto of its lustre,
Or rules out Crank and Smeeth and Stobs,
A memorable cluster.
The pictures rising in my brain
Are strange; sometimes I muddle 'em,
Confounding Pleck with Plodder Lane,
Titley with Tillietudlem;
In short, it's not a game of skill,
Else I should scarce essay at;
But it is harmless, costs me _nil_;
And nobody need play it.
The plan is simple; choose a spot,
Then focus with decision
Your thoughts upon it till you've got
A clear-cut mental vision;
And though from fact it widely errs,
Remember in conclusion
Only the man of prose prefers
Eyewitness to illusion.
Pages:
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53