I can not sing the old songs now! It is not that I deem them low; ’T is that I can’t remember how They go. - Charles Stuart Calverley

I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.

White is the wold, and ghostly
The dank and leafless trees;
And 'M's and 'N's are mostly Pronounced like 'B's and 'D's:
'Neath bleak sheds, ice-encrusted,
The sheep stands, mute and stolid:
And ducks find out, disgusted,
That all the ponds are solid.

O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass!
Names that should be on every infant's tongue!
Shall days and months and years and centuries pass,
And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?
Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass,
And wished that lyre could yet again be strung
Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her
Misguided sons that "the best drink was water."