Classic Poem

Pebbles, pebbles, pebbles,
For miles and miles and miles:
A sloping bank of pebbles
Round all the British Isles.

Grinding, grinding, grinding,
Where the heavy billows pound,
Till they are smooth as marbles,
And often just as round.

White ones, grey ones, brown ones,
Lime and slate and quartz;
Yellow ones and pink ones,
Pebbles of all sorts.

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
How strange it is to think
That after all these ages
In my tin pail they clink.

Jewels, jewels, jewels
For every child like me.
Oh, how I love the pebbles,
Beside the sounding sea.