Where the distant misty peaks blend with the azure-tinted sky,
And the golden eagle soars and wheels then swoops down from on high,
They go rambling in the Highlands where the slopes are cloaked in heather,
And they chat to other hikers of capricious mountain weather.
Where the mighty basalt pillars rise up from the foaming sea –
Scraggly remnants of a scheming Irish giant's vanity –
Now the children climb and caper as they splash and play together,
While their parents stop and talk about the dreadful Causeway weather.
The bare outlines of the undulating Lancashire hills
Changed forever with the building of the towering cotton mills.
In the golden days of industry when men became so clever
Even then down-trodden factory hands yelled curses to the weather.
Brightly painted boxy houses snaking up the hillside roads
Where the carts once creaked and strained beneath their heavy jet-black loads
Speak of times when it was thought Welsh valley coal would last for ever.
Now the broken miners fill the bars, and moan about the weather.
As they bury one another in the dirty yellow sands,
And fashion shaky castles with their pudgy little hands,
On the crowded beach at Blackpool little children laugh and blather;
While their parents mutter warily of changes in the weather.
The rich architecture of the London skyline testifies
To a thousand years of shaping of a city on the rise.
Here a plethora of pinnacles are pressed and squeezed together –
Yet the masses on the crowded streets are grumbling of the weather.
Could the skies above these islands in the North Atlantic Ocean
Really change and turn so freely to excite such great emotion?
Could sunshine, gales, snow, thunder, hail, so blend and weave together?
Oh, yes! And hence the Brits are always talking of the weather!
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