Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good,
To point us out this way to glory—
They’re no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes,
And all their pounders myth and story.
Blow Snowdon! What’s Lake Gwynant to Killarney,
Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney?
So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose,
I’ll tell you where we think of going,
To swate and far o’er cliff and scar,
Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing;
Blow Snowdon! There’s a hundred lakes to try in,
And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.
Geology and botany
A hundred wonders shall diskiver,
We’ll flog and troll in strid and hole,
And skim the cream of lake and river,
Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my pennies,
Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and—Dennis, Dennis, Dennis!
Eversley, 1856.
(Charles Kingsley)
More Poetry from Charles Kingsley:
- Saint Maura: A.D. 304 (Charles Kingsley Poems)
- The Song of The Little Baltung: A.D. 395 (Charles Kingsley Poems)
- Ode On The Istallation of the Duke of Devonshire (Charles Kingsley Poems)
- Christmas Day (Charles Kingsley Poems)
- The Legend of La Brea (Charles Kingsley Poems)
- The Longbeard's Saga: A.D. 400 (Charles Kingsley Poems)