High on a mountain's highest ridge,Where oft the stormy winter galeCuts like a scythe, while through the cloudsIt sweeps from vale to vale'Not five yards from the mountain-path,This thorn you on your left espy;And to the left, three yards beyond,You see a little muddy pondOf water, never dry, I've measured it from side to side:'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.
"Now I lie here in the wet patch in the middle of the bed,I'm feeling pretty damn hard done by, I've spent ages giving head"