The poem
Poets may praise a wattle thatch Doubtfully waterproof; Let me uplift my lowly latch Beneath a rose-tiled roof. Let it be gay and rich in hue, Soft bleached by burning days, Where skies ineffably are blue, And seas a golden glaze.
But set me in the surly North Beneath a roof of slate, And as I sourly sally forth My heart will hum with hate; And I will brood beneath a pine Where Nature seldom smiles, Heart-longing for a starry vine And roof of ruddy tiles.
For oh the South's a bonny clime And sunshine is its life; So there I'll finish up my time A stranger unto strife. And smoke my pipe and sit aloof From care by miles and miles, Sagaciously beneath a roof, Geranium-gay and panic proof, Of ruby tinted tiles.