Fine names are found upon the map—

Kanturk and Chirk and Cong,

Grogtown and Giggleswick and Shap,

Chowbent and Chittagong;

But other places, less renowned,

In richer euphony abound

Than the familiar throng;

For instance, there is Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

In childhood's days I took delight

In LEAR'S immortal Dong,

Whose nose was luminously bright,

Who sang a silvery song.

He did not terrify the birds

With strange and unpropitious words

Of double-edged ontong;

I'm sure he hailed from Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

Prince Giglio's bag, the fairy's gift,

Helped him to right the wrong,

Encouraged diligence and thrift,

And "opened with a pong;"

But though its magic powers were great

It could not quite ejaculate

A word so proud and strong

And beautiful as Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

I crave no marble pleasure-dome,

No forks with golden prong;

Like HORACE, in a frugal home

I'd gladly rub along,

Contented with the humblest cot

Or shack or hut, if it had got

A name like Billabong,

Or, better still, like Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

Sweet is the music of the spheres,

Majestic is Mong Blong,

And bland the beverage that cheers,

Called Sirupy Souchong;

But sweeter, more inspiring far

Than tea or peak or tuneful star

I deem it to belong

To such a place as Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.