Where is the sweetest river reach,
With nooks well worth exploring,
Wild woods of bramble, thorn and beech
Their fragrant breath outpouring?
Where does our dear secluded stream
Most gaily gleam?
At Goring.
Where sings the thrush amid the fern?
Where trills the lark upsoaring?
Where build the timid coot and hern,
The foot of man ignoring?
Where sits secure the water vole
Beside her hole?
At Goring.
Where do the stars dramatic shine
'Mid satellites adoring?
And where does fashion lunch and dine
_Al fresco_, bored and boring?
Where do we meet confections sweet
And toilets neat?
At Goring.
Where are regattas? Where are trains
Their noisy crowds outpouring?
And bands discoursing hackneyed strains,
And rockets skyward soaring?
Where is this _urbs in rure_?--where
This Cockney Fair?
At Goring.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NOTES FROM COWES
"Call this pleasure? Well, all I say is, give me Staines and a
fishing-punt!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration]