Scatter me not over hallowed ground
Where the soil is sour and no one's around.
Nor on turf of the chase, realm of the hound,
Nor on bleak moorland, nor in stagnant sound.
Not a cave in the Gorge miles under the ground,
Nor on top of a peak where I'll never be found.
Nor think you I'll rest on the rolling downs
With frost chilled hollows and touristy towns.
But scatter me please o’er clear waters that rise
At Trewsbury Mead under sapphire skies
And roll down thro' Remenham to St Nicholas’ path
Where my love and I wended to chatter and laugh
And here we will float in perpetual grace
Each rapt in the other’s dust-spangled embrace.