Cheshire

Infirmaries by Aston Webb

    On ev’ry hill surmount the pines;

From two miles off you still can see

    Their terra-cotta Dutch designs,

And metalled roads bisect canals,

    And both are crossed by railway lines.

And here a copse of Douglas firs

    Protects the merchant on the links;

The timbered club-house is not yet

    As mediaeval as he thinks;

For miles around the villas rise

    In hard interminable pinks.

Oh spin with me on pylon wires

    You Chester, Northwich, Knutsford chaps!

Look down on muddy empty fields

    And empty sheds and foot-worn gaps,

And pipes, and recreation grounds,

    And then content yourselves with maps.