Classic Poem

I've an ingle, shady ingle, near a dusky bosky dingle
Where the sighing zephyrs mingle with the purling of the stream.
There I linger in the jungle, and it makes me thrill and tingle,
Far from city's strident jangle as I angle, smoke and dream.

Through the trees I'll hear a single ringing sound, a cowbell's jingle,
And its ting-a-ling'll mingle with the whispers of the breeze;
So, although I've not a single sou, no potentate or king'll
Make me jealous while I angle in my ingle 'neath the trees.