Gardens Are Not Made By Singing 'oh,

It Was The Forty-fathom Slumber That Clears The Soul And Eye And Heart, And Sends You To Breakfast Ravening. They Emptied A Big Tin Dish Of Juicy Fragments Of Fish- The Blood-ends The Cook Had Collected Overnight. They Cleaned Up The Plates And Pans Of The Elder Mess, Who Were Out Fishing, Sliced Pork For The Midday Meal, Swabbed Down The Foc'sle, Filled The Lamps, Drew Coal And Water For The Cook, An Investigated The Fore-hold, Where The Boat's Stores Were Stacked. It Was Another Perfect Day - Soft, Mild And Clear; And Harvey Breathed To The Very Bottom Of His Lungs.

Gardens Are Not Made By Singing 'oh, How Beautiful,' And Sitting In The Shade.

And Some Can Pot Begonias And Some Can Bud A Rose, And Some Are Hardly Fit To Trust With Anything That Grows.

If The Aunt Of The Vicar Has Never Touched Liquor, Watch Out When She Finds The Champagne.

Brother, Thy Tail Hangs Down Behind.