Unnumbered are the trees that fling

O'er Pangbourne Reach their shade,

Unnumbered there the birds that sing

Melodious serenade;

But as the leaves upon the boughs

Or feathers on the birds,

So are the trippers who carouse

Along the banks in herds.

Punt, centre-board, launch, skiff, canoe,

Lunch-laden hither hie,

Each bearing her expectant crew

To veal and chicken-pie;

And from the woods around Hart's Lock

Reports ring loud and clear,

As trippers draw the festive hock

Or democratic beer.

From one to three, below, above,

Is heard the crisp, clear crunch

Of salad, as gay Damons love

To linger over lunch.

From three to six a kettle sings

'Neath every sheltering tree

As afternoon to Phyllis brings

The magic hour of tea.

Well may the Cockney fly the Strand

For this remoter nest,

Where buses cease from rumbling and

The motors are at rest.

But would you shun your fellows—if

To quiet you incline—

Oh, rather scull your shilling skiff

Upon the Serpentine.