There are little boys at Nottingham
Who never heard a gun;
There are silly fools at Nottingham
Who think we're here for fun.
When—
There are crocuses at Nottingham!
Young crocus buds at Nottingham!
Thousands of buds at Nottingham
Ungathered by the Hun.
But here we trample down the grass
Into a purple slime;
There lives no tree to give the birds
House room in pairing-time.
We live in holes, like cellar rats,
But through the noise and smell
I often see those crocuses
Of which the people tell.
Why!
There are crocuses at Nottingham!
Bright crocuses at Nottingham!
Real crocuses at Nottingham!
Because we're here in Hell.
HE was lounging over the stubble on a slope of St. Catherine's Hill,
While the old swine grubbed contented, and the young pigs took their fill
Of the sweet corn grains that had fallen, and he found me under the hedge,
Looking up to the tower-crowned summit and down far over the ledge