Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good, <br />To point us out this way to glory- <br />They're no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes, <br />And all their pounders myth and story. <br />Blow Snowdon! What's Lake Gwynant to Killarney, <br />Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney? <br /> <br />So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose, <br />I'll tell you where we think of going, <br />To swate and far o'er cliff and scar, <br />Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing; <br />Blow Snowdon! There's a hundred lakes to try in, <br />And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying. <br /> <br />Geology and botany <br />A hundred wonders shall diskiver, <br />We'll flog and troll in strid and hole, <br />And skim the cream of lake and river, <br />Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my pennies, <br />Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and-Dennis, Dennis, Dennis! <br /> <br /> <br />Eversley, 1856.<br /><br />Charles Kingsley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fishing-song-to-j-a-froude-and-tom-hughes/
