  Passun he've a garden, 'tis trim an' nate an' vitty, He'm mortal proud o' growin' things that's turble hard to grow; He'm mighty fond of orchises an' mazed for pellygomiuns, An' calls 'em all furrin' names us don't belong to know. Squire, he have a garden, a gert an' gorjus garden, With hollyhocks a standin' like soljers in the sun; He likes tremenjus peonies, an' roses crowdin' arches, An' thinks as what the passun grows the whishtest sort o' fun. Feyther have a garden, but don't run much to flowers, For he've to think o' tatties, an' useful sort o' things; His cabbages be famous, an' his collyflowers a wonder, An' you should see the runners when they'm scarlet on the strings! But I've a finer garden than the squire or the passun; 'Tis all along the hedgerows, an' all about the lanes; It stretches up the hillside an' spreads acrost the moorland, 'Tis sweet with Cornish sunshine an' green with Cornish rains. There's scent of honeysuckle shakin' sweet along the sunshine, An' ragged robins sprinklin' scarlet stars among the grass, An' foxgloves, with a peal o' bells a swingin' in the steeple, A ringin' fairy music to the breezes as they pass. An' where the lanes climb up along, an' break upon the moorland, The heather weaves a carpet all acrost the purple hills; An' gorse gleams in the sunshine like a thousand burnin' bushes, An' birds shout happy answers to the ripplin' o' the rills. So squire may keep his garden, an' his gardeners a diggin', An' passun's clanely welcome to the flowers he counts so fine, (I won't say nort o' feyther's, for his tatties be so mealy), But the bestest of all gardens is the garden that is mine. |
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