There are certain things — as, a spider, a ghost, The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three — That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most Is a thing they call the Sea.
Pour some salt water over the floor — Ugly I'm sure you'll allow it to be: Suppose it extended a mile or more, That's very like the Sea.
Beat a dog till it howls outright — Cruel, but all very well for a spree: Suppose that he did so day and night, That would be like the Sea.
I had a vision of nursery-maids; Tens of thousands passed by me — All leading children with wooden spades, And this was by the Sea.
Who invented those spades of wood? Who was it cut them out of the tree? None, I think, but an idiot could — Or one that loved the Sea.
It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float With‘ thoughts as boundless, and souls as free': But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat, How do you like the Sea?
There is an insect that people avoid ( Whence is derived the verb‘ to flee’ ). Where have you been by it most annoyed? In lodgings by the Sea.
If you like your coffee with sand for dregs, A decided hint of salt in your tea, And a fishy taste in the very eggs — By all means choose the Sea.
And if, with these dainties to drink and eat, You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree, And a chronic state of wet in your feet, Then — I recommend the Sea.
For I have friends who dwell by the coast — Pleasant friends they are to me! It is when I am with them I wonder most That any one likes the Sea.
They take me a walk: though tired and stiff, To climb the heights I madly agree; And, after a tumble or so from the cliff, They kindly suggest the Sea.
I try the rocks, and I think it cool That they laugh with such an excess of glee, As I heavily slip into every pool That skirts the cold cold Sea.
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