BALLADE OF RIVER SAILING

The Dorothy was very small: a boat Scarce any bigger than the sort one rows With oars! We got her for a five-pound note At second-hand. Yet when the river flows Strong to the sea, and the wind lightly blows, Then see her dancing on the tide, and you’ll Swear she’s the prettiest little craft that goes Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool. Bare-footed, push her from the bank afloat, (The soft warm mud comes squelching through your toes!) Scramble aboard: then find an antidote For every care a jaded spirit knows: While round the boat the broken water crows With laughter, casting pretty ridicule On human life and all its little woes, Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool. How shall I tell you what the sunset wrote Upon the outspread waters—gold and rose: Or how the white sail of our little boat Looks on a summer sky? The hills enclose With blue solemnity: each white scar shows Clear on the quarried Cotteswolds high and cool. And high and cool a fevered spirit grows Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool. Envoi. Prince, you have horses: motors, I suppose, As well! At finding pleasure you’re no fool. But have you got a little boat that blows Up-stream from Framilode to Bollopool?