There is a field in Northern parts

Where root vegetables grow strong,

Against Peak winds and cold,

And at the harvest moon, stand resolute

And welcome the immortality that

Follows swimming in the brine,

To winter in more acidic climes.

And when the summer summons comes

(Their world thus now ajar),

They charge to spike the maiden salad

Like some Brontëan ravisher

At the wedding feast who cries:

‘Unleash the bulldog,

And cry Great Branston!’