According to mediaeval myth, Cockaigne is a land of plenty, situated somewhere west of Spain. There the rivers are of milk and beer, pigs wander around ready roasted, it rains sweet pastries and cooked tarts, abbey walls are made of pies and pasties, and the nuns would best be described as naughty (yes, abbeys and nuns, but you should consider that the myth was at its height under this name during the middle ages when European society revolved around religious life, and the only people who were able to write, and therefore record this mythical land, were monks).

The myth survived beyond writing in several customs including the greasy pole game. It may also be that the song: Big Rock Candy Mountains, written in 1895 by the former street busker and hobo Harry McClintock, represents in lyrical form the remnants of this tradition. Here are two verses from the song, as recorded in 1928:

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
All the cops have wooden legs
And the bulldogs all have rubber teeth
And the hens lay soft-boiled eggs
The farmers’ trees are full of fruit
And the barns are full of hay
Oh I’m bound to go
Where there ain’t no snow
Where the rain don’t fall
The winds don’t blow
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
You never change your socks
And the little streams of alcohol
Come trickling down the rocks
The brakemen have to tip their hats
And the railway bulls are blind
There’s a lake of stew
And of whiskey too
You can paddle all around it
In a big canoe
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

Apparently the recorded version was considerably cleaned up.