I would be your wife most gladly! (Here she twirled her fingers madly,) But in England I've a mate! Yes! you've asked me far too late, For in England… - Edward Lear

They sailed away for a year and a day
To the land where the bong-tree grows.

When awful darkness and silence reign
Over the great Gromboolian plain,
Through the long, long wintry nights.
When the angry breakers roar
As they beat on the rocky shore;—
When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights
Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.