MURMURYNGEHAM

In Murmuryngeham, in Murmuryngeham,
The bees is always singing,
The flowers is always chiming,
The sheep stands on their head.
There's lads and lasses clinging,
And minor poets rhyming,
In Murmuryngeham, in Murmuryngeham,
When they should be in bed.
So now my feet is winging,
When other men's are climbing,
To Murmuryngeham, which I shall find
If my good Patron be inclined,
Murmuryngeham, Murmuryngeham,
Some day before I'm dead.