Did I ever tell you, my dears, the way That the birds of Cisseter--"Cisseter!" eh? Well "Ciren-cester"--one OUGHT to say, From "Castra," or "Caster," As your Latin master Will further explain to you some day; Though even the wisest err, And Shakespeare writes "Ci-cester," While every visitor Who doesn't say "Cissiter" Is in "Ciren-cester" considered astray. A hundred miles from London town-- Where the river goes curving and broadening down From tree-top to spire, and spire to mast, Till it tumbles outright in the Channel at last-- A hundred miles from that flat foreshore That the Danes and the Northmen haunt no more-- There's a little cup in the Cotswold hills Which a spring in a meadow bubbles and fills, Spanned by a heron's wing--crossed by a stride-- Calm and untroubled by dreams of pride, Guiltless of Fame or ambition's aims, That is the source of the lordly Thames! Remark here again that custom contemns Both "Tames" and Thames--you must SAY "Tems!" But WHY? no matter!--from them you can see Cirencester's tall spires loom up o'er the lea. A. D. Five Hundred and Fifty-two, The Saxon invaders--a terrible crew-- Had forced the lines of the Britons through; And Cirencester, half mud and thatch, Dry and crisp as a tinder match, Was fiercely beleaguered by foes, who'd catch At any device that could harry and rout The folk that so boldly were holding out. For the streets of the town--as you'll see to-day-- Were twisted and curved in a curious way That kept the invaders still at bay; And the longest bolt that a Saxon drew Was stopped ere a dozen of yards it flew, By a turn in the street, and a law so true That even these robbers--of all laws scorners!-- Knew you couldn't shoot arrows AROUND street corners. So they sat them down on a little knoll, And each man scratched his Saxon poll, And stared at the sky, where, clear and high, The birds of that summer went singing by, As if, in his glee, each motley jester Were mocking the foes of Cirencester, Till the jeering crow and the saucy linnet Seemed all to be saying: "Ah! you're not in it!" High o'er their heads the mavis flew, And the "ouzel-cock so black of hue;" And the "throstle," with his "note so true" (You remember what Shakespeare says--HE knew); And the soaring lark, that kept dropping through Like a bucket spilling in wells of blue; And the merlin--seen on heraldic panes-- With legs as vague as the Queen of Spain's;