Volume 158 — THE WANDERER IN NORFOLK.

Tired by the City's ceaseless roaring I fly to Great or Little Snoring; When crowds grow riotous and lawless I seek repose at Stratton Strawless; When feeling thoroughly week-endish I hie in haste to Barton Bendish, Or vegetate at Little Hautbois (Still uninvaded by the "dough-boy"). The simple rustic fare of Brockdish Excels the choicest made or mock dish; Nor is there any patois so Superb as that of Spooner Row. Pett-Ridge's lively Arthur Lidlington Might possibly be bored at Didlington; And I admit that it would stump Shaw To stir up a revolt at Strumpshaw. The spirits of unrest are wholly Out of their element at Sloley; But even the weariest straphanger Regains his courage at Shelfanger. No taint of Bolshevistic snarling Poisons the atmosphere of Larling, And infants in the throes of teething Become seraphical at Seething. Nor must my homely Muse be mute on The charms of Guist and Sall and Booton, Shimpling and Tattersett and Stody (Which, be it noted, rhymes with ruddy), And fair Winfarthing, where King Tino Would seek in vain for a casino Or even a flask of maraschino. For here, far from the social scurry That devastates suburban Surrey, You find the authentic countryside; Here, taking Solitude for bride, The wanderer almost forgets The jazzing crowd, the miners' threats.