Brimham Rocks

Eleven miles from Harrogate
On heath–clad tableland,
Mighty masses, tons in weight,
The Brimham Rocks all stand.

They're all of most peculiar looks,
They've most peculiar frames,
They nestle in peculiar nooks,
And have peculiar names.

There's one that's called the Oyster Shell,
It's by no means the worst,
The finder knew his business well
He ate the oyster first.

The Druid's Coffin, mass of grit,
By some means tumbled off,
I well can understand that it
Would snake the Druid cough.

The Baboon's Head, the Pulpit Rock,
(A round one, be it said)
On top of which, you get a shock,
You see the Parson's Head.

The Yoke of Oxen, close at hand,
Your wonder will arouse,
But though you gaze around the land
You won't find any cows.

The Idol Rock's not far away,
That will appeal to you,
It's idle 'cos, so people say,
It's got no work to do.

The Mushroom Rock is gaunt and grey,
But, though you look around,
I very much regret to say
No ketchup can be found.

Some huge, great, masses, scattered near,
Remind one of the Zoo, The Elephant and the Tortoise Rocks,
Pretty well sure to give you shocks,
Rhinoceros and Dancing Bears,
Some are single and some in pairs,
Shoulder of Mutton, and Two Trouts' Heads,
The Druid's Bedroom, (without the beds)
The Flower Pot Rock and the Stelling Crag, 'Pon my word it's an awful fag
To keep on with the list,
So go yourself, when you've got the time,
You're sure to say that the sights are prime,
And ought not to be missed.