At Slumberton-on-Slow,
When the rustics gather round
To quaff their ale, they hear a tale
That wakens doubt profound
A wild, wild tale that comes by mail
From Gaffer Gandy's Joe,
Who left his home long since to roam
In the land of the light pink snow.

And the talk goes to and fro:
'Be goom, laad, that be rich!
Pink snow, he said; an' the rain be red,
But swans be black as pitch!
A great lad for romance
Be Gaffer Gandy's Joe.
Ho, the kangaroo have pockets too!
In the land of the pale pink snow.'

At Slumberton-on-Slow
They yarn in the inn's tapp-room:
'Worms, Joe do write, they be a sight,
An' six foot long. Be goom!
Birds, he do say, laughs loud all day,
And the cherry stones do grow
Outside the skin, an' not within,
In the land of the pale pink snow.

'The lizards shed their tails,
An' the trees they sheds their bark,
But keeps their leaves while winter grieves
(Did e'er 'ee hear sick tork?)
The squirrels they fly by night from high,
Says Gaffer Gandy's Joe.
An' the fish have legs, an' the beasts lays eggs
In the land of the pale pink snow.'