Classic Poem

The Rhone and Rhine they run so free
Through Switzerland and Germany,
But Cherwell winds with devious coil
Through Hampton Gay and Hampton Poyle.

The Cher, he flows his banks between
Through clover fields and meadows green,
By meadows green and churches gray,
By Hampton Poyle and Hampton Gay:

O peaceful scenes, secluded spots!
How happy are their simple lots
Who live and till their natal soil
In Hampton Gay and Hampton Poyle!

Could suns be warm, could skies be blue,
Could days of spring be always new,
A lifetime were too short to stay
In Hampton Poyle or Hampton Gay.

No racing Eights come here to mar
The rural solitudes of Cher:
No student burns the midnight oil
(I'm sure of that) in Hampton Poyle!

(‘Here,’ said the Editor, ‘enough
Of this unconscionable stuff!
You can't go on the livelong day
Composing rhymes to Hampton Gay!’

‘O, can't I just?’ the Poet said:
‘By arts like these I earn my bread:
This only serves my Muse to foil—
The dearth of words that rhyme with Poyle.’)

Whene'er I quit this scene of toil,
Then place my bones in Hampton Poyle:
Or, if you can't, then take and lay
My mortal part in Hampton Gay!