Teignmouth: "Some Doggerel," Sent In A Letter To B. R. Haydon



    Here all the summer could I stay,
    For there's Bishop's teign
    And King's teign
    And Coomb at the clear Teign head
    Where close by the stream
    You may have your cream
    All spread upon barley bread.


    There's Arch Brook
    And there's Larch Brook
    Both turning many a mill,
    And cooling the drouth
    Of the salmon's mouth
    And fattening his silver gill.


    There is Wild wood,
    A Mild hood
    To the sheep on the lea o' the down,
    Where the golden furze,
    With its green, thin spurs,
    Doth catch at the maiden's gown.


    There is Newton Marsh
    With its spear grass harsh
    A pleasant summer level
    Where the maidens sweet
    Of the Market Street
    Do meet in the dusk to revel.


    There's the Barton rich
    With dyke and ditch
    And hedge for the thrush to live in,
    And the hollow tree
    For the buzzing bee
    And a bank for the wasp to hive in.


    And O, and O
    The daisies blow
    And the primroses are waken'd,
    And violets white
    Sit in silver plight,
    And the green bud's as long as the spike end.


    Then who would go
    Into dark Soho,
    And chatter with dack'd-hair'd critics,
    When he can stay
    For the new-mown hay,
    And startle the dappled Prickets?


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