THE SONG OF St. GREG CROUCH

By the lake, down by the water, stands a tiny wattle hut,
Where each summer came a young man in his brand new hunting clothes.
Greg had bought them from the shopman, from the shopman he had bought them,
Gave him money, gave him pound notes gave him all his hard earned dosh,
Greg now owned a brand new jacket, waterproofed and made of cloth
He now owned a pair of trousers, tight of leg and wide behind,
He now owned a pair of stout boots, like his Father’s years before,
They were made of finest leather, black and shiny with a heel,
He was ready for the hunting, he was dressed to stalk and kill,
It was this that made him happy, it was this that made him ill.

He was ready for the hunting but his trousers were not right.
They were made of checkered fabric, green and worsted, nice and tight,
They were chosen for their comfort Easy-wear but made him itch,
Made his legs red raw with tickling, made him scratch and made him bitch,
Made him cross and call them names.
He could get no rest from torment, could not think of hunting deer.
Only seated by the fireside, in a box, could he relax.
There he found an end to itching, there he found a deep repose.

So he spent the hunting season cramped up tightly in a box,
Though the lake was full of wildfowl, though the woods were thick with deer,
Though he heard from out the window nature calling for his gun
He could only sit and listen, only crawl to nature’s call.
There he spent the hunting season, cramped up, weeping but not itching
Free from torment, free from scratching, never more to stand erect.

Skepwatha. Book iv p.357