Referring to his citics, Mr Hughes said yesterday that they were like the sands of the sea-shore in number, made a great row, but when they were sorted out and sized up it was found that there was only the cook and his mate.
We strolled beside the shingled shore One afternoon in Spring, And the shouting of the noisy sands It hurt like anything. Each separate grain seemed to complain, And call us nasty names. A critic each that would impeach Us for past "little games." We sorted out each noisy grain And sized it up -- and down; And sought to still its howling shrill With our ferocious frown. Then all the fuss appeared to us To suddenly abate. And, looking round we only found The ship's cook and his mate. Yo, ho! Old cookie and his mate. Since that sad afternoon in Spring We've signed the pledge and cut the thing.
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2003-06|