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@@ -1,38 +1,4 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lazy Minstrel, by Joseph Ashby-Sterry - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Lazy Minstrel - -Author: Joseph Ashby-Sterry - -Release Date: June 11, 2013 [EBook #42915] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAZY MINSTREL *** - - - - -Produced by Irma Spehar, Eleni Christofaki and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42915 *** Transcriber's note. @@ -311,9 +277,9 @@ CONTENTS. Baveno 215 - At Table d'Hote 216 + At Table d'Hôte 216 - At Etretat 217 + At Etretât 217 Homesick 218 @@ -343,7 +309,7 @@ _OVERTURE._ No project to "improve the mind"! No "purpose" lurks within these lays-- These idle songs of idle days. - They're seldom learned, never long-- + They're seldom learnëd, never long-- The best apology for song! Should e'er they chance to have the pow'r, To pass away some lazy hour-- @@ -402,7 +368,7 @@ HAMBLEDEN LOCK. A punt passes in, with Waltonians laden, And boatman rugose of mahogany hue; And then comes a youth and a sunny-haired maiden - Who sit _vis-a-vis_ in their bass-wood canoe. + Who sit _vis-à -vis_ in their bass-wood canoe. Now look at the Admiral steering the _Fairy_, O, where could he find a much better crew than His dutiful daughters, Flo, Nina, and Mary, @@ -1067,7 +1033,7 @@ BERYL. List to the patter of smartly shod feet! Dainty young damsels, whose faces ne'er weary us, Tailor-made dresses delightfully neat! - Angular ladies in gloomy aesthetic coats, + Angular ladies in gloomy æsthetic coats, Maudle and dawdle the afternoon through; Graceful girlettes in the shortest of petticoats, Flutter their frills as they walk two-and-two. @@ -1678,7 +1644,7 @@ ON BOARD THE "GLADYS." Dinners on deck are divinely delectable-- Under the awning, well screened from the sun-- - Some folks would dine _a la Russe_ and respectable; + Some folks would dine _à la Russe_ and respectable; Give _us_ the laughing, the quaffing, and fun! Dreaming when heats of the noontide so hazily @@ -1760,7 +1726,7 @@ AT CHARING CROSS. The Continental Mail Express! I think of toil by rail and boat, - And cackle at the _table d'hote_; + And cackle at the _table d'hôte_; Of coin of somewhat doubtful mintage, And wine of very gruesome vintage; Of passes steep that try the lungs, @@ -2144,7 +2110,7 @@ IN MY EASY CHAIR. BLANKTON WEIR. 'TIS a queer old pile of timbers, all gnarled and rough and green, - Both moss-o'ergrown and weed-covered, and jagged too, I ween! + Both moss-o'ergrown and weed-covered, and jaggèd too, I ween! 'Tis battered and 'tis spattered, all worn and knocked about, Beclamped with rusty rivets, and bepatched with timbers stout; A tottering, trembling structure, enshrining memories dear, @@ -2364,7 +2330,7 @@ A SIX MONTHS' COURTSHIP. She would cull its blossoms rare, Just to twine them in her hair-- Gay and wild: - A sweet paean of perfume, + A sweet pæan of perfume, A gay sunny song of bloom, She would chase away all bloom-- Laughing child! @@ -2851,7 +2817,7 @@ A TRAVELLER'S TARANTELLA. See the Rialto, and Square of St. Mark! Floating in gondolas, laughing and jollity, Cyprian wine of the very best quality, - At Florian's _caffe_--mid fun and frivolity-- + At Florian's _caffè_--mid fun and frivolity-- Venice delightful from daylight to dark! Musicians in plenty, Play "_Ecco ridente_," @@ -2861,7 +2827,7 @@ A TRAVELLER'S TARANTELLA. You'll find his description is perfectly right! Albergo Reale and English society, - _Bric-a-brac_ shops in their endless variety, + _Bric-à -brac_ shops in their endless variety, Plenty of pigeons not fearful of pie-ety, Flutter and peck 'neath the bluest of skies. Dreaming in Venice? Ah, wildest of fallacies-- @@ -2890,7 +2856,7 @@ A TRAVELLER'S TARANTELLA. But don't forget _Murray_, He'll throw on your darkness some excellent light! -CAFFE FLORIAN, VENEZIA. +CAFFÈ FLORIAN, VENEZIA. IN A MINOR KEY. @@ -3497,7 +3463,7 @@ TAKEN IN TOW. I don't care to sail and I don't care to row-- Since I'm lucky enough to be taken in tow! - Though battered am I, like the old _Temeraire_, + Though battered am I, like the old _Teméraire_, My tow-ers are young and my tow-ers are fair: The one is Eleven, the other Nineteen, The merriest maidens that ever were seen. @@ -3642,7 +3608,7 @@ _Sung by a Victim at a Foreign Custom House._ In dressing-bag--all monogram and silver top, Combery, and scissory, and tweezery, and knivery, Enough to stock the window of a cutler's shop! - _Ess. Bouquet_, and _Eau des Fees_, and Jockey Club, in handy flask, + _Ess. Bouquet_, and _Eau des Fées_, and Jockey Club, in handy flask, Powder-puff, and rouge enough; a silver baby brandy-flask; Besides a thousand articles a lady's sure to bring about, I haven't time to put in rhyme, nor leisure now to sing about! @@ -4025,8 +3991,8 @@ ON THE FRENCH COAST. Some are in mauve or pink-- Gay are the dresses! - If you know Etretat, - You will know _M'sieu la_-- + If you know Etretât, + You will know _M'sieu là _-- O, such a strong papa!-- Ever out boating. You'll know his babies too, @@ -4048,7 +4014,7 @@ ON THE FRENCH COAST. Poised upon either hand, Merry young mer-pets: Drop them! You strong papa, - Swim back to Etretat! + Swim back to Etretât! Here comes their dear Mama, Seeking for _her_ pets! @@ -4284,7 +4250,7 @@ LOVE-LOCKS. 'Tis treasured 'mid my treasures. Ah, would that night come back again - When she took from her _chatelaine_ + When she took from her _châtelaine_ Her scissors!--it was not in vain. I hear her laugh the while her Fingers, dimpled soft and fair, @@ -4493,7 +4459,7 @@ HENLEY IN JULY. Now, gay are the gardens of Fawley and Phyllis, The Bolney backwaters are shaded from heat; The rustle of poplars on Remenham Hill is, - Mid breezes aestival, enchantingly sweet! + Mid breezes æstival, enchantingly sweet! When hay-scented meadows with oarsmen are crowded-- Whose bright tinted blazers gay toilettes outvie-- When sunshine is hot and the sky is unclouded, @@ -4513,7 +4479,7 @@ HENLEY IN JULY. While each dainty head-dress and toilette delicious Is shrouded from view in the grim mackintosh! We'll flee to the cheery "Athena" for shelter-- - The _pate_ is perfect, the Giesler is dry-- + The _pâté_ is perfect, the Giesler is dry-- And think while we gaze, undismayed, at the "pelter," That Henley is joyous in dripping July! @@ -4566,7 +4532,7 @@ A MOORE OR LESS MELODY. Maud, Winnie, and Connie, and Daisy, and Di. Nor did Cook and his _coupons_ a moment forget me; - My _passeport_ was _vise_ the length of my flight; + My _passeport_ was _visé_ the length of my flight; While _Murray_ and _Bradshaw_ did aid and abet me. And Coutts with the circular notes was all right. @@ -4661,9 +4627,9 @@ BAVENO. Beneath the Vines! -AT TABLE D'HOTE. +AT TABLE D'HÔTE. - AT _Table d'hote_, I quite decline + AT _Table d'hôte_, I quite decline To sit there and attempt to dine! Of course you never dine, but "feed," And gobble up with fearsome greed @@ -4672,20 +4638,20 @@ AT TABLE D'HOTE. The room is close, and, I opine, I should not like the food or wine; While all the guests are dull indeed - At _Table d'hote_. + At _Table d'hôte_. The clatter and the heat combine One's appetite to undermine. When noisy waiters take no heed, But change the plates at railway speed-- I feel compelled to "draw my line" - At _Table d'hote_! + At _Table d'hôte_! -AT ETRETAT. +AT ETRETÂT. A DIVING Belle! Pray who is she? - For swimming thus armed _cap-a-pie_. + For swimming thus armed _cap-à -pie_. (The sea is like a sea of Brett's.) A graceful girl in trouserettes, And tunic reaching to the knee. @@ -4766,7 +4732,7 @@ A CHRISTMAS CAROL. With eyes a-sparkle with delight! When Christmas fires gleam and glow, When dainty dimples come and go, - And maidens shrink with feigned fright-- + And maidens shrink with feignëd fright-- 'Tis merry 'neath the mistletoe! A privilege 'tis then, you know, @@ -4831,7 +4797,7 @@ A POEM FOR RECITATION. As the mud may spatter the hansom-cab and freckle the fitful fern: But never again in the wreathing rain, a-roll on the raucous rink, Do we clasp the hand of the German band and swim in the sable ink! - While the pallid hencoop may pass away and the jugged hare may jar, + While the pallid hencoop may pass away and the juggëd hare may jar, With a gruesome groan as he sits alone and stares at the Capstan Bar! (_Two old Ladies shed tears, the Poetess tells her friend that she @@ -4882,7 +4848,7 @@ A POEM FOR RECITATION. A thump and a bump and a blackened eye, a sprain and a broken nose! A crack and a smack and a fractured leg--a bundle of tattered clothes! But bold Sparrer Gus, when the red sun rose, was nought but a - bruised scar, + bruisëd scar, And gay Lantern Jack he never came back that night from the Capstan Bar! @@ -4921,7 +4887,7 @@ A REALISTIC STUDY. This hopeless, dull, catarrhic lyre-- Who can essay a Song of May?_ - O, MAY is the month when the madly aesthetical + O, MAY is the month when the madly æsthetical Plunge deep into nonsense profoundly poetical! They sing and they shout about sunshine and greenery, Of beauty and blossom and song-birds and scenery: @@ -5160,7 +5126,7 @@ _THE END._ OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON THE FIRST EDITION. _St. James's Gazette._--"One of the lightest and brightest writers of -_vers de societe_." +_vers de société_." _Saturday Review._--"Mr. J. Ashby-Sterry is a facile and agreeable versifier, with a genuine gift of expression, a light and dexterous @@ -5204,7 +5170,7 @@ appearance of labour, and the self-possession of a man of the world who amuses himself with the making of verse." _Court Circular._--"He is one of the foremost writers of _vers de -societe_ of the day, and his productions are distinguished by poetic +société_ of the day, and his productions are distinguished by poetic fancy and neat workmanship." _Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News._--"One of the most welcome of @@ -5271,7 +5237,7 @@ to be desired." _New York Times._--"The metre is perfect, the music of the verse well sustained, and there is that fun and merry quip in 'The Lazy Minstrel' -which becomes _vers de societe_." +which becomes _vers de société_." * * * * * @@ -5323,366 +5289,4 @@ p. 148: End of Project Gutenberg's The Lazy Minstrel, by Joseph Ashby-Sterry -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAZY MINSTREL *** - -***** This file should be named 42915.txt or 42915.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/9/1/42915/ - -Produced by Irma Spehar, Eleni Christofaki and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42915 *** diff --git a/42915-8.txt b/42915-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5778ea3..0000000 --- a/42915-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5688 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lazy Minstrel, by Joseph Ashby-Sterry - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Lazy Minstrel - -Author: Joseph Ashby-Sterry - -Release Date: June 11, 2013 [EBook #42915] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAZY MINSTREL *** - - - - -Produced by Irma Špehar, Eleni Christofaki and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - - -Transcriber's note. - -Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of -other changes made, can be found at the end of the book. For this text -version, diacritical marks that cannot be represented in plain text are -shown in the following manner: - -[O] o with macron above (balcOny). - -Mark up: _italics_ - - - - -[Among the verses in this Collection may be found a few which have -previously appeared in a Volume, by the same Author, now out of print.] - - - - -THE LAZY MINSTREL - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - - The Lazy - Minstrel - - By - J. ASHBY-STERRY - - _And while his merry Banjo rang, - 'Twas thus the Lazy Minstrel sang!_ - - - [Illustration] - - THIRD EDITION. - - - LONDON - _T. FISHER UNWIN_ - 26 PATERNOSTER SQUARE - MDCCCLXXXVII - - - - -_The Author reserves all rights of translation and reproduction._ - - - - - TO - NINA, MARY, AND FLORENCE, - THIS VOLUME IS - INSCRIBED. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - LAZY LAYS:-- Page - - Hambleden Lock 3 - - Spring's Delights 6 - - A Modern Syren 9 - - Regrets 12 - - Hammockuity 13 - - My Country Cousin 15 - - A Common-Sense Carol 18 - - Saint May 20 - - A Canoe Canzonet 23 - - A Lover's Lullaby 25 - - The Tam O' Shanter Cap 26 - - A Street Sketch 28 - - A Tiny Trip 29 - - A Study 31 - - Doctor Brighton 33 - - Lizzie 37 - - A Marlow Madrigal 38 - - In Rotten Row 41 - - A Portrait 43 - - Symphonies in Fur 45 - - Drifting Down 48 - - Toujours Tennis 50 - - Tarpauline 52 - - The Kitten 54 - - In the Temple 56 - - An Unfinished Sketch 59 - - On Board the "Gladys" 62 - - Cigarette Rings 65 - - At Charing Cross 67 - - The Music of Leaves 70 - - - CASUAL CAROLS:-- - - In a Bellagio Balcony 75 - - A Riverain Rhyme 78 - - The Little Rebel 80 - - Canoebial Bliss 83 - - Rosie 85 - - Skindle's in October 86 - - In My Easy Chair 88 - - Blankton Weir 90 - - Different Views 95 - - Two Naughty Girls 97 - - Couleur de Rose 99 - - In Strawberry Time 102 - - Number One 104 - - After Breakfast 107 - - In an Old City Church 110 - - A Little Love-Letter 112 - - Stray Sunbeams 114 - - Pearl 116 - - A Nutshell Novel 118 - - The Pink of Perfection 119 - - The Impartial 121 - - A Traveller's Tarantella 122 - - In a Minor Key 124 - - A Shower-Song 126 - - - THE SOCIAL ZODIAC:-- - - January 131 - - February 132 - - March 133 - - April 134 - - May 135 - - June 136 - - July 137 - - August 138 - - September 139 - - October 140 - - November 141 - - December 142 - - - IDLE SONGS:-- - - Mother o' Pearl 145 - - A Lay of the "Lion" 147 - - Jennie 150 - - A Favourite Lounge 151 - - Spring Cleaning 153 - - Taken in Tow 155 - - Thrown! 157 - - Baggage on the Brain 160 - - Haytime 163 - - Pet's Punishment 165 - - The Baby in the Train 167 - - Miss Sailor-Boy 170 - - A Private Note 171 - - L'Inconnue 173 - - Fallacies of the Fog 175 - - The Merry Young Water-Girl 177 - - A Secular Sermon 179 - - On the French Coast 181 - - At the "Lord Warden" 183 - - Bolney Ferry 185 - - Dot 188 - - A Riverside Luncheon 190 - - Love-Locks 192 - - A Streatley Sonata 196 - - The Midshipmaid 199 - - A Pantile Poem 201 - - Henley in July 204 - - The Minstrel's Return 207 - - - A SINGER'S SKETCH-BOOK:-- - - Dover 213 - - Chamouni 214 - - Baveno 215 - - At Table d'Hôte 216 - - At Etretât 217 - - Homesick 218 - - Skreeliesporran 219 - - A Christmas Carol 220 - - Sound without Sense 222 - - The Merry Month of May 227 - - Two and Two 229 - - A Shorthand Sonnet 232 - - In a Gondola 233 - - The Last Leaf 236 - - - - -_OVERTURE._ - - - _Within this Volume you will find, - No project to "improve the mind"! - No "purpose" lurks within these lays-- - These idle songs of idle days. - They're seldom learnëd, never long-- - The best apology for song! - Should e'er they chance to have the pow'r, - To pass away some lazy hour-- - They'll serve all "purpose," it is true, - The Minstrel ever had in view!_ - - - - -LAZY LAYS. - - - - -HAMBLEDEN LOCK. - - A CAPITAL luncheon I've had at the "Lion," - I've drifted down here with the light Summer breeze; - I land at the bank, where the turf's brown and dry on, - And lazily list to the music of trees! - O, sweet is the air, with a perfume of clover, - O, sleepy the cattle in Remenham meads! - The lull of the lasher is soothing, moreover, - The wind whistles low in the stream-stricken reeds! - With sail closely furled, and a weed incandescent-- - Made fast to a post is the swift _Shuttlecock_-- - I think you will own 'tis uncommonly pleasant - To dream and do nothing by Hambleden Lock! - - See a barge blunder through, overbearing and shabby, - With its captain asleep, and his wife in command; - Then a boatful of beauties for Medmenham Abbey, - And a cargo of campers all tired and tanned. - Two duffers collide, they don't know what they're doing-- - They're both in the ways of the water unskilled-- - But here is the Infant, so great at canoeing, - Sweet, saucy, short-skirted, and snowily frilled. - I notice the tint of a ribbon or feather, - The ripple of ruffle, the fashion of frock; - I languidly laze in the sweet Summer weather, - And muse o'er the maidens by Hambleden Lock! - - What value they give to the bright panorama-- - O, had I the pencil of Millais or Sandys!-- - The lasses with sunshades from far Yokohama, - The pretty girl-scullers with pretty brown hands! - Next the _Syren_ steams in; see the kind-eyed old colley, - On the deck, in the sun, how he loves to recline! - Note the well-ordered craft and its Skipper so jolly, - With friends, down to Marlow, he's taking to dine. - In the snug-curtained cabin, I can't help espying - A dew-clouded tankard of seltzer-and-hock, - And a plateful of peaches big babies are trying, - I note, as they glide out of Hambleden Lock! - - A punt passes in, with Waltonians laden, - And boatman rugose of mahogany hue; - And then comes a youth and a sunny-haired maiden - Who sit _vis-à-vis_ in their bass-wood canoe. - Now look at the Admiral steering the _Fairy_, - O, where could he find a much better crew than - His dutiful daughters, Flo, Nina, and Mary, - Who row with such grace in his trim-built randan? - I muse while the water is ebbing and flowing, - I silently smoke and serenely take stock - Of countless Thames toilers, now coming, now going, - Who take a pink ticket at Hambleden Lock! - - -SPRING'S DELIGHTS. - - _'Tis good-bye to comfort, to ease and prosperity, - Now Spring has set in with its usual severity!_ - - - SPRING'S Delights are now returning! - Let the Lazy Minstrel sing; - While the ruddy logs are burning, - Let his merry banjo ring! - Take no heed of pluvial patter, - Waste no time in vain regrets; - Though our teeth are all a-chatter, - Like the clinking castanets! - Though it's freezing, sleeting, snowing, - Though we're speechless from catarrh, - Though the East wind's wildly blowing, - Let us warble, _Tra la la_! - - Spring's Delights are now returning! - Let us order new great-coats: - Never let us dream of spurning - Woollen wrap around our throats. - Let us see the couch nocturnal - Snugly swathed in eider-down: - Let not thoughts of weather vernal - Tempt us to go out of Town. - Though the biting blast is cruel, - Though our "tonic's" not _sol-fa_, - Though we sadly sup on gruel, - Let us warble, _Tra la la_! - - Spring's Delights are now returning - Now the poet deftly weaves - Quaint conceits and rhymes concerning - Croton oil and mustard leaves! - Let us, though we are a fixture, - In our room compelled to stay-- - Let us quaff the glad cough mixture, - Gaily gargle time away! - Though we're racked with pains rheumatic, - Though to sleep we've said ta-ta, - Let us, with a voice ecstatic, - Wildly warble, _Tra la la_! - - Spring's Delights are now returning! - Doctors now are blithe and gay! - Heaps of money now they're earning, - Calls they're making ev'ry day. - Ev'ry shepherd swain grows colder, - As, in vain, he tries to sing; - Feels he now quite ten years older, - 'Neath the blast of blighting Spring! - Though we're doubtful of the issue, - Let us bravely shout Hurrah! - And in one superb _A-tishoo_! - Sneeze and warble _Tra la la_! - - -A MODERN SYREN. - - THE laughing ripples sing their lay, - The sky is blue, and o'er the bay - The breeze is blowing free; - For, O, the morning's fresh and fair, - And bright and bracing is the air, - Down by the summer sea. - - A pretty, winsome, merry girl, - With all her sunny hair a-curl, - Was dimpled bonny Bee; - Her laugh was light, her eyes were blue, - They always said her heart was true, - Down by the summer sea. - - The sun is hot, the day is grand, - And up and down the yellow sand - Perambulateth he: - She promised they should meet at eight, - And from her lips should learn his fate, - Down by the summer sea. - - He fancies it is getting late, - For by his watch 'tis now past eight, - Some minutes twenty-three; - The shore he scans with eyesight keen. - And notes the track of small _bottines_, - Down by the summer sea. - - He hums a merry song and strolls, - And tracks this pretty pair o' soles-- - His heart is full of glee! - For now that he has found the clue, - He follows footsteps two and two, - Down by the summer sea. - - "But ah!" he says, and stops his song-- - "This soler system is all wrong, - 'Tis plain enough to me, - Those prints are proofs--I can't tell whose-- - But 'quite another pair of shoes,' - Down by the summer sea." - - The short and narrow, long and wide, - He finds march closely side by side - By some occult decree; - And as he cons the footprints o'er, - He finds that two and two make four, - Down by the summer sea! - - He sighs, and says, "Ah, well, indeed!" - And from his pocket takes a weed, - And strikes the light fuzee: - He adds, "I think I'll now go home, - For maidens' vows are frail as foam - Down by the summer sea!" - - -REGRETS. - - O FOR the look of those pure grey eyes-- - Seeming to plead and speak-- - The parted lips, the deep-drawn sighs, - The blush on the kissen cheek! - - O for the tangle of soft brown hair, - Fanned by the lazy breeze; - The fleeting hours unshadowed by care, - Shaded by tremulous trees! - - O for the dream of those sunny days, - Their bright unbroken spell, - And thrilling sweet untutored praise-- - From lips once loved too well! - - O for the feeling of days agone, - The simple faith and truth, - The Spring of time, life's rosy dawn-- - O for the love and the youth! - - -HAMMOCKUITY. - - _If you swing in a hammock the summer day through, - And you dream with profound assiduity, - A new phase of content it will give unto you, - Which philosophers call "Hammockuity"!_ - - - ALL through the lazy afternoon, - Beneath the sycamore, - I listen to the distant Lune, - Or slumber to its roar; - 'Tis sweet to muse, to sleep or sing, - When talk is superfluity; - 'Tis sweet beneath the trees to swing, - And practise hammockuity. - - Forgotten here, I would forget - The destiny fate weaves, - The while I smoke a cigarette - To music of the leaves; - I wish my present lazy life - A lengthy continuity; - Away from trouble, care, and strife, - In happy hammockuity! - - While others work, while others play, - Or love, or laugh, or weep; - I watch the smoke-rings curl away, - And almost fall asleep! - I'd give up thought of future fame-- - Despite such incongruity-- - I'd forfeit riches, power, name, - For blissful hammockuity! - - I hate the booming busy bee - Who dares to wake me up-- - I wonder if it's time for tea, - Or grateful cyder-cup? - I would I could, beneath the trees, - Repose in perpetuity, - And swing, and sing, and take mine ease - In lasting hammockuity! - - -MY COUNTRY COUSIN. - - TO Town, about the close of dull November, - Up comes the Country Cousin, pray remember,-- - The Cattle Show to visit in December! - - Her winsome, watchet eyes, they are the sweetest, - Her _chaussure_ and her gloves they are the neatest, - Her toilette you'll consider the completest. - - She's pretty, piquante, pouting, and capricious; - So dainty, dimpled, daring, and delicious: - She's joyful, and she's jaunty and judicious. - - She loves to hear the latest tittle-tattle; - On manners, music, crinoline, and cattle, - And pictures, peers and poets will she prattle! - - She often goes out shopping with her Mother, - The Park she sometimes visits with her Brother-- - She'd much prefer to stroll there with Another! - - The gay _Mikado_ music sets her humming-- - And how she likes the Temple kettle-drumming, - With those who love to go chrysanthemumming! - - She has no views on "rights" or vivisection, - Finds politics a nuisance on reflection-- - To bores she has a most supreme objection! - - Delight she takes in anything that's merry, - She dearly loves a pleasant lunch _chez_ Verrey, - And much prefers dry Pommery to sherry! - - She rattles through a picture exhibition, - Then goes to see a circus or magician, - And does a morning concert in addition! - - Of theatres, you'll find, she'll ne'er grow weary; - Each night she'll go--let plays be good or dreary-- - And sit them through, still looking bright and cheery! - - She can't e'en rest 'twixt Saturday and Monday, - But in a hansom--despite Mrs. Grundy-- - She drives down to the Abbey on a Sunday! - - She's bright each morn--as fresh as any daisy-- - And when with seeing sights I'm nearly crazy, - She says I am "incorrigibly lazy!" - - But when one morn from Euston she has started-- - Those eyelids drooped a wee bit when we parted-- - I certainly feel dismal and down-hearted. - - That merry whirling time at last is ended!-- - And as for hearts? Pooh! pooh! I'm feeling splendid. - "Least said," the proverb hints, "is soonest mended." - - -A COMMON-SENSE CAROL. - - _By the sea, on the shore, it is pleasant to be, - The sunshine's delicious I own; - This life would be ever delightful to me, - If folks would but leave me alone!_ - - - O, HOLIDAY-MAKERS can rarely be still, - But take superhuman exertions - And make themselves hot and exhausted and ill - To organize horrid "excursions"! - Let those who enjoy it ride out in a "shay"-- - Exploring each dell and each dingle-- - But let me throw stones in the water all day - And roll on the sand and the shingle! - - They think it delightful to walk on the pier, - And try to create a sensation; - When passengers land, looking pallid and queer, - A cause is for great jubilation: - Let lunatics listen to bands when they play, - And nod to their noise and their jingle-- - But let me throw stones in the water all day - And roll on the sand and the shingle! - - Anemone-hunters roam over the rocks, - All hoping to fish up a tank-full; - They hopelessly ruin their shoes and their socks-- - O, why can't they rest and be thankful? - They rave o'er a winkle, a wrass, or a wray, - And sea-weeds that with them commingle-- - But let me throw stones in the water all day - And roll on the sand and the shingle! - - They fancy 'tis pleasant to go for a sail - With wind in a dubious quarter; - When waves "chop about," and they get very pale, - And up to their knees in the water. - Let maritime maniacs, wetted with spray, - Discourse on a cleat or a cringle-- - But let me throw stones in the water all day - And roll on the sand and the shingle! - - I'd much rather take a good pull at ozone - Without all this bustle and riot; - If well-meaning friends would but leave me alone, - To bask in the sunshine and quiet. - Such labour as theirs fills my heart with dismay-- - The thought of it makes my blood tingle-- - So I will throw stones in the water all day - And roll on the sand and the shingle! - - -SAINT MAY. - - _There's a bell that wakes the echo and renders incomplete, - The sullen shuttered silence of the solemn City street!_ - - - SAINT ALOYS the Great is both mouldy and grim, - The Decalogue's dusty, the windows are dim; - If I'm not mistaken, you'll long have to search - Before you discover this old City church: - But it's whereabouts I don't intend to betray, - Though a pilgrim each week to the shrine of Saint May! - - The one bell is cracked in its crazy old tower, - The sermon oft lasts rather more than an hour; - The parson is prosy, the clerk eighty-three, - The organ drones out in a sad minor key: - Yet how quickly the moments, I find, fly away, - I pass every week 'neath the spell of Saint May. - - She sits in a high, ancient black oaken pew, - Which almost conceals her fair face from my view; - The sweetest of pictures, it can't be denied, - With two tiny sisters who sit by her side: - And they lisp the responses and kneel down to pray, - With their little hands locked in the palm of Saint May. - - Of saints I've seen many in churches before-- - In Florence or Venice, they're there by the score; - Agnese, Maria--the rest I forget-- - By Titian, Bassano, and brave Tintoret-- - Though as pictures delightful, I fancy that they, - E'en as pictures, can't rival my gentle Saint May. - - She's almost too young and too plump for a saint, - With sweet little dimples that Millais might paint; - She wears no ascetic or mortified mien, - No wimple of yellow or vestment of green-- - But her soft golden hair throws a sunshiny ray, - Like a nimbus, around the fair face of Saint May! - - What surquayne or partlet could look better than - My saint's curly jacket of black Astracan? - What coif than her bonnet--a triumph of skill-- - Or alb than her petticoat, edged with a frill. - Would she love, would she honour, and would she _obey_? - I wonder while gazing across at Saint May! - - The sermon is finished, the blessing is o'er, - The sparse congregation drift out at the door; - I pause as I pass down the gloomy old aisle, - To see my saint pass and perchance get a smile: - I would daily change faith like the Vicar of Bray, - Could I pass all my life in adoring Saint May! - - Through the weary dull week, as it rolls on apace, - I'm haunted by thoughts of that tender young face; - And oft, O how oft, does the vision arise-- - The pureness and truth of those eloquent eyes! - And I long for the hour, and I count on the day, - When I sit at a distance and worship Saint May! - - No doubt you'll be vastly surprised when you're told - Her name, in the Calendar, ne'er was enrolled-- - They prattled of "May," the sweet sisterly pair, - I added the "Saint,"--she was canonized there! - Ah! if saints might wed sinners, I'd yield to her sway, - And I straightway would fall on my knees to Saint May! - - -A CANOE CANZONET. - - _The leaves scarce rustled in the trees, - And faintly blew the summer breeze; - A damsel drifted slowly down, - Aboard her ship to Henley town; - And as the white sail passed along, - A punted Poet sang this song!_ - - - IN your canoe, love, when you are going, - With white sail flowing, and merry song; - In your canoe, love, with ripples gleaming - And sunshine beaming, you drift along! - While you are dreaming, or idly singing, - Your sweet voice ringing, when skies are blue: - In summer days, love, on water-ways, love, - You like to laze, love,--in your canoe! - - In your canoe, love, I'd be a tripper, - If you were skipper and I were mate; - In your canoe, love, where sedges shiver - And willows quiver, we'd navigate! - Upon the River, you'd ne'er be lonely, - For, if you only had room for two, - I'd pass my leisure with greatest pleasure - With you, my treasure,--in your canoe! - - In your canoe, love, when breezes sigh light, - In tender twilight, we'd drift away; - In your canoe, love, light as a feather, - Were we together--what _should_ I say? - In sunny weather, were Fates propitious, - A tale delicious I'd tell to you! - In quiet spots, love, forget-me-nots, love, - We'd gather lots, love,--in your canoe! - -BOLNEY BACKWATER, _July_. - - -A LOVER'S LULLABY. - - MIRROR your sweet eyes in mine, love, - See how they glitter and shine! - Quick fly such moments divine, love, - Link your lithe fingers in mine! - - Lay your soft cheek against mine, love, - Pillow your head on my breast; - While your brown locks I entwine, love, - Pout your red lips when they're prest! - - Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love; - Sorrow and sighing resign: - Life is too short to repine, love, - Link your fair future in mine! - - -THE TAM O' SHANTER CAP. - - _Upon the Spa at Scarborough, the Minstrel was a panter-- - He asked a Wilful Maiden why she wore a Tam o' Shanter? - She gazed upon his furrowed face, half doubting if he chaffed her, - Then, noting well his solemn mien, she answered thus, with laughter--_ - - - LET others wear, upon the Spa, - The "Rubens" hat or bonnet; - The "Gainsborough," the Tuscan straw, - With _marguerites_ upon it-- - The "Pamela," of quaint design, - The "Zulu," or the "Planter"-- - But as for me, I much incline - To wear my Tam o' Shanter! - - Let others sport the fluffy hat, - The "Sailor Boy," or "Granny;" - The "Bargee," or some other that - Is anything but canny. - If petticoats be short or long, - Or fuller be or scanter, - Or if you think it right or wrong-- - I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter! - - I'll wear it if it's hot or cold, - Let weather what it may be! - Will this Child do "what she is told"? - Or is she _quite_ a baby? - I do not care for my Mama, - Or Cousin Charlie's banter; - Despite the chaff of dear Papa, - I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter! - - You ask me if I'll tell you why - I cannot do without it? - Because it keeps me cool and dry-- - You seem inclined to doubt it? - The reason why? There, pray don't tease! - I'll tell you that instanter. - The reason is--_Because I please_ - To wear my Tam o' Shanter! - - -A STREET SKETCH. - - UPON the Kerb, a maiden neat-- - Her hazel eyes are passing sweet-- - There stands and waits in dire distress: - The muddy road is pitiless, - And 'busses thunder down the street! - - A snowy skirt, all frill and pleat; - Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feet - Peep out, beneath her kilted dress, - Upon the Kerb! - - She'll first advance and then retreat, - Half frightened by a hansom fleet. - She looks around, I must confess, - With marvellous coquettishness!-- - Then droops her eyes and looks discreet, - Upon the Kerb! - - -A TINY TRIP. - -THE BILL OF LADING. - - SHE was cargo and crew, - She was boatswain and skipper, - She was passenger too, - Of the _Nutshell_ canoe; - And the eyes were so blue - Of this sweet tiny tripper! - She was cargo and crew, - She was boatswain and skipper! - -THE PILOT. - - How I bawled, "Ship, ahoy!" - Hard by Medmenham Ferry! - And she answered with joy, - She would like a convoy, - And would love to employ - A bold pilot so merry: - How I bawled, "Ship, ahoy!" - Hard by Medmenham Ferry! - -THE VOYAGE. - - 'Neath the trees gold and red, - In that bright autumn weather, - When our white sails were spread, - O'er the waters we sped-- - What was it she said? - When we drifted together! - 'Neath the trees gold and red, - In that bright autumn weather! - -THE HAVEN. - - Ah! the moments flew fast, - But our trip too soon ended! - When we reached land at last, - And our craft was made fast, - It was six or half-past-- - And Mama looked offended! - Ah! the moments flew fast, - But our trip too soon ended! - - -A STUDY. - -MADE IN "BRADSHAW" AT CARNFORTH JUNCTION. - - MISS DIMPLECHEEK, - Your winsome face, - Your figure full of girlish grace, - Is quite unique! - Your pretty, poutful, childlike charm, - All criticism must disarm, - Miss Dimplecheek! - - Miss Dimplecheek, - Ah! well-a-day, - I watch your pretty roses play - At hide and seek! - While York to Lancaster gives place, - And sweeter grows your pretty face-- - Miss Dimplecheek! - - Miss Dimplecheek, - I wonder if - You ever revel in a tiff, - Or pout in pique - Or droop those pretty eyelids down, - Or shake your shoulders, stamp, or frown, - Miss Dimplecheek? - - Miss Dimplecheek, - I gaze, and then-- - The most cantankerous of men - Grows mild and meek. - Your faults? Perchance you _may_ have some-- - But to your faults I'm blind and dumb-- - Miss Dimplecheek. - - Miss Dimplecheek, - If I but knew - Who was the proud papa of you - I'd quickly speak: - And get an introduction, so - Eventually I might know - Miss Dimplecheek. - - Miss Dimplecheek, - I leave you here, - For I am off to Windermere, - To stay a week: - I p'r'aps may ne'er see you again-- - But--there's the bell, and here's my train-- - Miss Dimplecheek! - - -DOCTOR BRIGHTON. - -"_One of the best physicians our city ever knew is kind, cheerful, -merry, Doctor Brighton._"--THE NEWCOMES. - - -SCENE.--King's Road, Brighton. - -THE COLONEL. BERYL (_His Niece_). - -THE COLONEL. - - THOUGH long it is since Titmarsh wrote; - His good advice we still remember, - When bad catarrh and rugged throat - Are rife in town in grey November! - So, if your temper's short or bad, - Or of engagements you are full, man; - Or if you're feeling bored or sad, - Make haste and get aboard the Pullman - And throw all physic to the dogs-- - If life's sad burden you would lighten-- - Run quick away from London fogs - And call in cheerful Doctor Brighton! - -BERYL. - - Good Doctor Brighton, a mighty magician is, - See him at once, howe'er bad you may be! - Take his advice--there no better physician is-- - Naught is his physic but Sunshine and Sea! - Come down at once then! Leave London in hazy time, - Leave it enshrouded in yellow and brown! - Come here and revel in exquisite lazy time, - Flee from the turmoil and taint of the town! - Blue is the sky and the sunshine is glorious, - Charged is the air with delicious ozone: - Gay is the cliff and most gentle is Boreas, - Come down at once and recover your "tone!" - -THE COLONEL. - - Though many years have passed away, - And countless cares to not a _few_ come, - The place is bright as in the day - Of Ethel, Clive, and Colonel Newcome: - The East Street shops are just as gay, - The turtle still as good at Mutton's; - The buns at Streeter's--so they say-- - As well-beloved by tiny gluttons! - You still can gallop o'er the Down, - Or swim at Brill's just like a Triton. - A smile will supersede your frown - When you consult kind Doctor Brighton! - -BERYL. - - Here is Mama looking anxious and serious: - List to the patter of smartly shod feet! - Dainty young damsels, whose faces ne'er weary us, - Tailor-made dresses delightfully neat! - Angular ladies in gloomy æsthetic coats, - Maudle and dawdle the afternoon through; - Graceful girlettes in the shortest of petticoats, - Flutter their frills as they walk two-and-two. - Fur-coated beauties in carriages roll about, - Jaded M.P.'s try to trot away cares, - Dandies and poets and loungers here stroll about, - Dignified dowagers bask in Bath-chairs! - -THE COLONEL. - - Though cynics swear all pleasures fade, - And cry, _O tempora mutantur_! - The bonny laughing Light Brigade, - Still on the King's Road gaily canter! - And yet upon the Lawns and Pier, - Do lots of pleasant folk commingle: - While still the old, old song we hear-- - The lullaby of surf on shingle! - Then let's remain to laugh and laze, - Where light and air enjoyment heighten-- - Too short the hours, too few the days, - We pass with merry Doctor Brighton! - - -LIZZIE. - -PAINTED BY LESLIE. - - O, WHO can paint the picture of my pet? - As 'mid the grey-green hay she childlike kneels, - Who shows a dainty slipper, then conceals - 'Neath tangled grass its celadon rosette. - A soft white robe, a broidered chemisette - Scarce veils her rounded bosom, as it steals - A subtle charm it only half reveals-- - As sweet and modest as the violet! - - A gipsy hat casts shadows, pearly grey, - Across the golden sunshine of her smile. - Her glance e'en cynics dare not disobey, - Her dimples even iron hearts beguile-- - A dainty despot on a throne of hay, - Who conquers all by magic girlish wile! - - -A MARLOW MADRIGAL. - - O, BISHAM BANKS are fresh and fair, - And Quarry Woods are green, - And pure and sparkling is the air, - Enchanting is the scene! - I love the music of the weir, - As swift the stream runs down, - For, O, the water's deep and clear - That flows by Marlow town! - - When London's getting hot and dry, - And half the Season's done, - To Marlow you should quickly fly, - And bask there in the sun. - There pleasant quarters you may find-- - The "Angler" or the "Crown" - Will suit you well, if you're inclined - To stay in Marlow town. - - I paddle up to Harleyford, - And sometimes I incline - To cushions take with lunch aboard, - And play with rod and line. - For in a punt I love to laze, - And let my face get brown; - And dream away the sunny days - By dear old Marlow town! - - I go to luncheon at the Lawn, - I muse, I sketch, I rhyme; - I headers take at early dawn, - I list to All Saints' chime. - And in the River, flashing bright, - Dull Care I strive to drown-- - And get a famous appetite - At pleasant Marlow town! - - So when, no longer, London life - You feel you can endure; - Just quit its noise, its whirl, its strife, - And try the "Marlow-cure"! - You'll smooth the wrinkles on your brow - And scare away each frown-- - Feel young again once more, I vow, - At quaint old Marlow town! - - Here Shelley dreamed and thought and wrote, - And wandered o'er the leas; - And sung and drifted in his boat - Beneath the Bisham trees. - So let _me_ sing, although I'm no - Great poet of renown-- - Of hours that much too quickly go, - At good old Marlow town! - - -IN ROTTEN ROW. - - AWAY with all sorrow, away with all gloom, - Now may is in blossom, and lilac in bloom; - The golden laburnum in gardens is gay, - The windows are bright with their floral display; - The air is delightful, and warm is the sun, - The chesnuts are snowy, the Derby is won. - Piccadilly is pleasant from daylight to dark, - And Bond Street is crowded, and gay is the Park-- - So now is the time when you all ought to go, - And sit on a Chair 'neath the trees in the Row! - - For only a penny I sit in the shade, - And gaze with delight on the gay cavalcade! - While countless romances I read if I please, - In the people I see from my Chair 'neath the trees. - 'Tis better by far than an Opera-stall, - A crowded At-home or a smart fancy ball; - Or gazing at pictures, or playing at pool, - Or playing the banjo, or playing the fool-- - When soft summer breezes from Kensington blow, - 'Tis pleasant to sit on a Chair in the Row! - - What studies of man and of woman and horse - Here pass up and down on the tan-trodden course! - The Earl and the Duke and the Doctor are there, - The author, the actor, the great millionaire; - The first-season beauties whose roses are red, - The third-season beauties whose roses have fled! - M.P.'s, upon cobs, chatting pleasantly there, - And pets, upon ponies, with long sunny hair-- - I note them all down, as they pass to and fro, - And muse in my Chair 'neath the trees in the Row! - - What countless fair pictures around may be seen, - How colours flash bright on their background of green! - A bouquet of figure, of fashion, of face, - And dainty devices in linen and lace! - The triumphs of Worth and of Madame Elise - You see as you wonder and moon 'neath the trees. - What sweet scraps of scandal afloat in the air, - And gossip you hear sitting silently there!-- - But folks are going lunchwards; I'll join them, and so - I ponder no more in my Chair in the Row! - - -A PORTRAIT. - - IN sunny girlhood's vernal life - She caused no small sensation; - But now the modest English wife - To others leaves flirtation. - She's young still, lovely, debonair, - Although sometimes her features - Are clouded by a thought of care - For those two tiny creatures. - - Each tiny, toddling, mottled mite - Asserts with voice emphatic, - In lisping accents, "Mite is right"-- - Their rule is autocratic: - The song becomes, that charmed mankind, - Their musical narcotic, - And baby lips, than Love, she'll find, - Are even more despotic! - - Soft lullaby, when singing there, - And castles ever building-- - Their destiny she'll carve in air, - Bright with maternal gilding: - Young Guy, a clever advocate-- - So eloquent and able! - A powdered wig upon his pate, - A coronet for Mabel! - - -SYMPHONIES IN FUR. - -COMPOSED DURING THE FROST. - - _In these rough rhymes I string together - Portraits of each pretty face-- - Which, in this rough and rimy weather, - Surely can't be out of place._ - - -LADY SEALSKIN. - - A DAINTY young damsel is Pearl, - Beclad in the softest of sealskin: - I'm told her papa is an Earl;-- - Just watch her most gracefully twirl, - A lovely and lissom young girl, - Whose jersey is tight as an eelskin; - A dainty young damsel is Pearl, - Beclad in the softest of sealskin. - -MISS OTTER. - - You never, I'm certain, saw such - A lithe little learner in otter! - She's ready to fall at a touch; - Behold how she's anxious to clutch - Her ebony-stick with a crutch - By which she's enabled to totter. - You never, I'm certain, saw such - A lithe little learner in otter. - -PRINCESS ERMINE. - - Pray, who is the pretty Princess, - Who is robed in the royalest ermine? - And exquisite velveteen dress, - With bangles that ring more or less; - I'm sure you're unable to guess, - And 'tis hardly for me to determine! - Pray, who is this pretty Princess, - Who is robed in the royalest ermine? - -MISS SILVER-GREY RABBIT. - - Here comes that big baby called Bee, - Who is clad in the coat of a bunny! - A romping young rebel is she-- - Her skirts only reach to her knee, - Her life's full of mischief and glee, - And a "spill" she thinks screamingly funny. - Here comes that big baby called Bee, - Who is clad in the coat of a bunny! - -THE HON. MABEL SABLE. - - O, had I ten thousand a year - I'd marry Miss Mabel in sable! - A dainty, divine little dear, - She's out of my reach though she's near-- - I'd woo her to-day without fear, - And wed her at once, were I able! - O, had I ten thousand a year - I'd marry Miss Mabel in sable! - -MISS BEARSKIN. - - And this is our sweet little Flo, - A bonny young beauty in bearskin! - How glibly she'll glide to and fro, - And sweet sunny glances bestow, - While a lovely carnational glow - Just flushes her exquisite fair skin. - And this is our sweet little Flo, - A bonny young beauty in bearskin! - - -DRIFTING DOWN. - - DRIFTING down in the grey-green twilight, - O, the scent of the new-mown hay! - The oars drip in the mystic shy light, - O, the charm of the dying day! - While fading flecks of bright opalescence - But faintly dapple a saffron sky, - The stream flows on with superb quiescence, - The breeze is hushed to the softest sigh. - Drifting down in the sweet still weather, - O, the fragrance of fair July! - Love, my Love, when we drift together, - O, how fleetly the moments fly! - - Drifting down on the dear old River, - O, the music that interweaves! - The ripples run and the sedges shiver, - O, the song of the lazy leaves! - And far-off sounds--for the night so clear is-- - Awake the echoes of bygone times; - The muffled roar of the distant weir is - Cheered by the clang of the Marlow chimes. - Drifting down in the cloudless weather, - O, how short is the summer day! - Love, my Love, when we drift together, - O, how quickly we drift away! - - Drifting down as the night advances, - O, the calm of the starlit skies! - Eyelids droop o'er the half-shy glances, - O, the light in those blue-grey eyes! - A winsome maiden is sweetly singing - A dreamy song in a minor key; - Her clear low voice and its tones are bringing - A mingled melody back to me. - Drifting down in the clear calm weather, - O, how sweet is the maiden's song! - Love, my Love, when we drift together, - O, how quickly we drift along! - - -TOUJOURS TENNIS. - -BY A WILFUL LAWNTENNISONIENNE. - - O BRING me, O bring me, my stout mackintosh, - I care not a feather for slime or for slosh! - The sky it is leaden, the lawn sopping wet, - And sodden the balls are, and slack is the net! - I've done it before and I'll do it again, - I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the rain! - - I'll don my sou'-wester, then what do I care - If weather be foul or if weather be fair? - I'll put on my furs, and I'll shorten my clothes, - I'll wear my galoshes and thick woollen hose: - I care not a pin for the storm or the flood, - I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the mud! - - I laugh as the hailstones come pattering down, - I'm spattered all over from sole unto crown! - In thunder and lightning I'll play all the same-- - I _won't_ be debarred from my favourite game! - Though weak-hearted lasses may quiver and quail, - I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the hail! - - In summer 'tis pleasant, but you ought to know - 'Tis capital fun in the winter also: - When nets are all frozen and balls can't rebound, - When chilly the air is and snow's on the ground! - Though lazy folks shiver, and say 'tis "no go," - I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the snow! - - What pleasure can equal, what exercise vies - This winter Lawn-Tennis, with snow in your eyes? - You trip and you tumble, you glance and you glide, - You totter and stumble, you slip and you slide! - With two ancient racquets strapped fast to my feet, - I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the sleet! - - In autumn, as well as in summer or spring, - In praise of Lawn-Tennis I heartily sing! - Though good at each season, and better each time, - I'm certain in winter the game's in its prime! - You doubt it? No matter! Whate'er may befall, - I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of you all! - - -TARPAULINE. - -A SKETCH AT RYDE. - - A PRETTY picture is it not, - Beneath the awning of the yacht? - A beauty of Sixteen, - She wears a trim tarpaulin hat, - So now you know the reason that - I call her Tarpauline. - - A taut serge dress of Navy blue, - A boatswain's silver whistle, too, - She wears when she's afloat; - An open collar, and I wot, - A veritable sailor's knot - Around her pretty throat. - - She has a glance that pleads and kills; - And 'mid her shy and snowy frills - A little foot appears; - She has the softest sunny locks, - The compass she knows how to box, - And, when it's needful--ears! - - The smartest little sailor-girl, - Who'll steer or "bear a hand" or furl, - And I am told she oft - Quite longs to reef her petticoats, - And gleefully to "girl the boats," - Or glibly go aloft! - - But now how lazily she lies! - And droops those tender trustful eyes - Unutterably sweet! - While snugly 'neath the bulwark curled, - Forgetting all about the world, - The _World_ is at her feet! - - With tiny, dimpled, sunburnt hand, - She pats the solemn Newfoundland - Who crouches at her side. - She's thinking--not of me nor you, - When smiling as she listens to - The lapping of the tide. - - O, were I pressed, aboard that ship, - How joyfully I'd take a trip, - For change of air and scene! - I'd soon pack up a carpet-bag, - And gladly sail beneath the flag, - Of bonny Tarpauline! - - -THE KITTEN. - - A SWEET, short-skirted, pouting pet, - A winsome, laughing, glad, girlette; - She's ten-and-thoughtless, and as yet, - By falsity unsmitten! - A merry young misogynist, - Few boyish games can she resist-- - The Kitten! - - She hates a doll and girlish toys, - She's fond of whips, and dogs, and boys, - For, truth to tell, she finds no joys - In crewel-work or tatting: - But see how smiling is her face, - Indeed, a pretty gleeful Grace-- - When batting! - - She bowls with marvellous success, - And keeps her wicket, I confess-- - Despite her graceful girlish dress-- - As well as any Briton! - She's saucy, silly, and self-willed, - The smartest longstop ever frilled-- - The Kitten! - - She's erudite in "wides" and "byes," - And I will venture to surmise, - She'll vanquish any boy her size - At games of single-wicket! - And yet, no doubt, she's good as gold, - For I'll go bail she's only bold-- - At cricket! - - But like her namesake, clad in fur, - No mischief comes amiss to her; - To me it seems it should occur, - To leave her faults unwritten. - She'll make a score, I'm sure of that, - And loves to carry out her bat-- - The Kitten! - -TUNBRIDGE WELLS, _August_. - - -IN THE TEMPLE. - - _The danger that lurks in Chrysanthemum Shows, - You'll see in this letter from Milly to Rose!_ - - - DEAR ROSE, - I never shall forget-- - That is, I always shall remember-- - The very brightest day, my pet, - We had throughout this dull November! - I went last Monday, you must know, - With Tina, Mrs. S., and Clarry, - To see the Temple flower-show, - And, best of all, to lunch with Harry! - - We saw the gardens--'twould be sport - To make the Benchers play lawn-tennis-- - And chambers in a dingy court - Where Fanny Bolton nursed Pendennis: - The rooms where Goldsmith lived and died, - The sycamore where Johnson prated; - The house where Pip did once reside, - The Fountain where sweet Ruth Pinch waited. - - We grasped a massive balustrade-- - The date, they said, was Sixteen Thirty-- - The way was dark, and I'm afraid - We found the staircase rather dirty. - Those grim old stairs to Harry's Den-- - We clomb them gaily, nothing daunted-- - They still by Warrington and Pen, - And other pleasant ghosts are haunted! - - Ah, what a spot, my dearest Rose, - To muse upon this queer old Den is! - To catalogue its curios - I'm sure unable quite my pen is! - But from its panes we gaze upon - The misty midday sun a-quiver; - The red-sailed barges drifting on, - The sparkle of the dear old River! - - Then mingling sweetly one perceives-- - 'Mid laughter light and girlish gabble-- - The sighing of the autumn leaves, - And singing of the Fountain's babble! - How quick my thoughts drift back again - To those bright happy days at Hurley-- - A pleasure strongly dashed with pain-- - (O, Harry's locks are brown and curly!) - - But, Rose, the luncheon! It was grand-- - The oak you know, my love, was sported-- - And all the speeches, understand, - Were much too good to be reported. - There's Clarry and big Charlie Clough-- - It is a case! I think they'll marry-- - I wonder who is good enough - For handsome, grey-eyed, laughing Harry? - - It soon grew dark, but I could see - That clearly no one did desire light; - For Tina and young Freddy B. - Were spooning by the fitful firelight. - We stayed till late, for Mrs. S. - The most enduring chaperone is. - And Harry sang! I must confess - His voice the richest baritone is. - - Ah, how the moments quickly flit - In song and talk and playful banter! - The motto on the sundial writ - Is _Pereunt et imputantur_. - I'm rather sad! Ah, what's the use? - I know you'll think I'm very silly; - Although I am a little goose, - I always am, your loving Milly. - - -AN UNFINISHED SKETCH. - -A SYMPHONY IN WHITE. - - _Too fair for prose, too sweet for rhyme, - A laughing lass beneath the lime!_ - - - ONE sunny day in glorious July - I lazed upon the verdant tennis lawn! - And smoking there an idle cigarette - I watched a maid who gazed upon the game, - Clad in a simple snowy cambric frock, - And all the budding beauty of Sixteen! - And as she held her racquet banjo-wise, - While dreamily she trifled with its strings, - I sketched the merry maiden as she stood, - And sang a lazy lay beneath the lime. - - An impudent down-tilted sailor hat-- - Begirt with sheeny ribbon lily white-- - That throws in shade a pair of pure grey eyes-- - Dark-lashed, delightful, luminous, and sweet-- - But lets the sunshine kiss her ripe red lips, - And mocking the carnation of her cheek, - It plays about her pretty rounded chin, - And glints amid her straying sunny curls. - - A white, white dress that artlessly reveals-- - So exquisite its fashion and its fit-- - The pouting beauty of her fair young form; - In all its dainty, dimpled girliness! - From 'neath a silken girdle at her waist - The countless gathers radiate and fall, - And give a hint of undulating grace, - That closely clinging cambric strives to mock. - Such is her choice costume so fresh and crisp; - So recently assumed, it scarce has gained - The pretty pucker and the nameless charm, - It borrows from the wearer's changeful curves; - While warm white lights start forth in bold relief, - Contrasting with the shadows pearly grey, - About her slender figure, pliant pleats - Now slyly smile and play at hide-and-seek: - And, in transparent shadow, come and go, - Shy hints of lace and subtle _broderie_! - - Observe--the filmy ruff about her throat, - The pretty ruffles at her slender wrists, - The shapely beauty of her small brown hands, - That harp upon the rigid racquet strings. - Note well the smart coquettish tennis shoon, - The shimmer of her silken, sable hose, - The while her tiny feet beat faultless time, - And flash and glitter 'neath her petticoat! - - And then----Ah, me! a cloud is o'er the sun, - The breeze is cold, and life has lost its charm; - The song has ceased--the maid has gone and left - The Sketch unfinished, and the Sketcher sad! - - -ON BOARD THE "GLADYS." - - LOUNGING at ease in the laziest attitude, - Fresh briny breezes are blowing so free; - Never once thinking of longi--or lati--tude, - Whilst our swift schooner skims over the sea. - - Smart little sailor-girls, laughing deliciously, - Soften the skipper with maidenly wiles; - Climb where they oughtn't to, pouting capriciously, - Vanquish the boatswain with sunniest smiles. - - If a squall blows--as it will most unluckily-- - Dear little damsels, the best of A. B.'s, - Face the salt spray, reef their petticoats pluckily, - Laugh at wet jackets and sing in the breeze! - - Note them, ye maidens so silly and finical, - See the brown hands of each nautical dear; - Hear them discourse on a bobstay or binnacle, - Watch their delight when permitted to steer! - - Dinners on deck are divinely delectable-- - Under the awning, well screened from the sun-- - Some folks would dine _à la Russe_ and respectable; - Give _us_ the laughing, the quaffing, and fun! - - Dreaming when heats of the noontide so hazily - Shimmer around our becalmed little craft; - Smoking and mooning, so languidly lazily, - Whilst some one reads 'neath the awning abaft. - - Dreaming in soft summer night so mysterious, - Watching the waves as they dash from the bows; - Prattle becoming first sober, then serious, - Laughter soon softened to tremulous vows. - - Drifting from chaff into "something particular," - Though you intended but simply to "spoon:" - Starlight is good for confession auricular, - Lunatics thrive in the light of the moon! - - Down in the cabin at night, you most willingly - Cluster to hear, round the small pianette, - Sweet voices warble low, tender and thrillingly, - Syren-like songs that you fain would forget. - - Far from the boredom of vapid society, - Leaving all care and all worry at home, - Swift speed the days in an endless variety, - While the trim _Gladys_ flies over the foam! - - -CIGARETTE RINGS. - - HOW it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night: - I'm too sleepy to read, and too lazy to write; - So I'll watch the blue rings, as they eddy and twirl, - And in gossamer wreathings coquettishly curl. - In the stillness of night and the sparseness of chimes - There's a fleetness in fancy, a frolic in rhymes: - There's a world of romance that persistently clings - To the azurine curving of Cigarette Rings! - - What a picture comes back from the past-away times!-- - They are lounging once more 'neath the sweet-scented limes: - See, how closely he watches the Queen of Coquettes, - As her white hands roll deftly those small cigarettes! - He believes in her smiles and puts faith in her sighs, - While he's dazzled by light from her fathomless eyes: - Ah! the dearest of voices delightfully sings - Through the weird intertwining of Cigarette Rings! - - How sweet was her song in the bright summer-time, - When winds whispered low, 'neath the tremulous lime! - How sweet too that bunch of forget-me-nots blue-- - The love he thought lasting, the words he thought true!... - _Ah! the words of a woman concerning such things - Are weak and unstable as Cigarette Rings!_ - - -AT CHARING CROSS. - - A BUSY scene, I must confess, - The Continental Mail Express! - The babbling of boys and porters, - The shouting of the luggage-sorters. - Indeed a vast and varied sight, - Beneath the pale electric light; - The roll of trucks, the noise, the hustle, - The bawling "By yer leave!" and bustle. - While anxious tourists blame and bless - The Continental Mail Express! - - Though wanting minutes ten to Eight, - Still people hurry through the gate: - Now London's dull, the Season over, - They flit from Charing Cross to Dover; - They take their tickets, pay their fare, - They're booked right through to everywhere! - To lead a life of hopeless worry, - With _Bradshaw_, _Baedeker_, and _Murray_. - And yet they hail with eagerness - The Continental Mail Express! - - I think of toil by rail and boat, - And cackle at the _table d'hôte_; - Of coin of somewhat doubtful mintage, - And wine of very gruesome vintage; - Of passes steep that try the lungs, - And chattering in unknown tongues. - Of Rhenish hills, Italian fountains, - Of forests dark, and snowy mountains-- - To start, I'd give all I possess, - By Continental Mail Express! - - 'Tis Eight o'clock, save minutes two-- - Here comes a stout, fur-capped Mossoo; - He's in a fluster at the wicket - Because he cannot find his ticket; - And over there may be espied - A pretty little two days' bride. - How bored she'll be with six weeks' spooning, - How wearied with the honeymooning. - Yet _lots_ go, leaving no address, - By Continental Mail Express! - - Eight-five! The luggage is complete, - The last arrival in his seat; - The porters' labours almost ended, - The latest evening paper vended. - We wish departing friends "Good-night!" - A whistle blows, the Guard says "Right!" - We watch the red-light's coruscation, - Then slowly, sadly, leave the station. - All London's gone, say more or less, - By Continental Mail Express! - - -THE MUSIC OF LEAVES. - - THE chesnuts droop low by the river, - And shady are Ankerwycke trees; - The dragon-flies flash and they quiver - To somnolent humming of bees! - But here is a spot of the past time-- - I'm many a mile from the Weir-- - I'll rest and think over the last time - I ventured to meditate here. - O, chesnuts are shady, and golden are sheaves, - And sweet is the exquisite music of leaves! - - I pause in this quaint little harbour, - Quite out of the swirl of the stream; - With leaves overhead like an arbour, - I smoke, and I ponder, and dream. - The bank, with its rough broken edges, - Exists as in days now remote; - There's still the faint savour of sedges - And lilies fresh crushed by the boat. - O, breezes are soft, and the dreamer receives - The rarest refrain from the music of leaves! - - A brown-eyed and trustful young maiden - Then steered this identical skiff, - Her lap with forget-me-nots laden. - I now am forgotten; but if?-- - No matter! I see the sweet glory - Of love in those fathomless eyes; - I tell her an often-told story-- - They sparkle with light and surprise! - O, rivers are rapid, and Syrens were thieves, - Their music was naught to the music of leaves! - - Ah, Love, do you ever remember - The stream and its musical flow? - The story I told in September, - The song of the leaves long ago? - Our love was a beautiful brief song, - As sweet as your voice and your eyes; - But frail as a lyrical leaf-song, - Inspired by the short summer sighs! - O, summer is short, and the sculler still grieves, - His sorrow is echoed in music of leaves! - - - - -CASUAL CAROLS. - - - - -IN A BELLAGIO BALCONY. - - _The Lazy Minstrel hastes to own he - Prefers the "o" long in "BalcOny!"_ - - - I'LL dream and moon, O will I not? - My views just now are somewhat hazy; - I fancy I am very hot, - I'm certain I am very lazy! - I cannot read, I dare not think, - I'm idle as a _lazzarone_; - So in the sunshine I will blink-- - In this BalcOny. - - Mama o'er _Tauchnitz_ takes a nap, - Papa is reading _Galignani_, - And Loo is conning _Murray's_ map, - And humming airs from _Puritani_. - There's Tom-boy Ten in shortened skirts-- - Which just reveal her frilled _calzoni_-- - And Sweet-and-Twenty, Queen of Flirts, - In this BalcOny! - - I've nothing in the world to do, - I like the _dolce far niente_; - I love the eyes of peerless blue, - And nameless grace of Sweet-and-Twenty! - I've lunched with dainty Violet - Off nectarines and fried _agoni_; - And now I'll smoke a cigarette, - In this BalcOny. - - I do not think I care to talk, - I am not up to much exertion; - I'm not inclined to ride or walk, - I loathe the very word excursion! - Now shall I heated effort make, - And climb the hill to Serbelloni? - I'd rather gaze upon the lake-- - From this BalcOny. - - Or rather gaze on Violet, - This sunny day in sweet September: - Her eyes I never can forget, - Her voice I always shall remember! - P'r'aps lazy lovers oft are slow-- - I whispered _con espressione_-- - And what I _meant_ to say I know, - In this BalcOny! - - Alas! that _Murray_ dropped by Loo, - Mama awakens in a minute! - Papa has read his paper through, - And finds, of course, there's nothing in it! - And Tom-boy Ten is full of fun, - She's off somewhere to ride a pony, - And Vi has gone! So fades the sun-- - From this BalcOny! - - -A RIVERAIN RHYME. - - BESIDE the river in the rain-- - The sopping sky is leaden grey-- - I watch the drops run down the pane! - - Assuming the Tapleyan vein-- - I sit and drone a dismal lay-- - Beside the river in the rain! - - With pluvial patter for refrain; - I've smoked the very blackest clay; - I watch the drops run down the pane. - - I've gazed upon big fishes slain, - That on the walls make brave display, - Beside the river in the rain. - - It will not clear, 'tis very plain, - The rain will last throughout the day-- - I watch the drops run down the pane. - - I almost feel my boundless brain - At last shows signs of giving way; - Beside the river in the rain. - - O, never will I stop again-- - No more will I attempt to stay, - Beside the river in the rain, - To watch the drops run down the pane! - - -THE LITTLE REBEL. - - PRINCESS of pretty pets, - Tomboy in trouserettes; - Eyes are like violets-- - Gleefully glancing! - Skin, like an otter sleek, - Nose, like a baby-Greek, - Sweet little dimple-cheek-- - Merrily dancing! - - Lark-like her song it trills, - Over the dale and hills, - Hark how her laughter thrills! - Joyously joking. - Yet, should she feel inclined, - I fancy you will find, - She, like all womankind, - Oft is provoking! - - Often she stands on chairs, - Sometimes she unawares - Slyly creeps up the stairs, - Secretly hiding: - Then will this merry maid-- - She is of nought afraid-- - Come down the balustrade, - Saucily sliding! - - Books she abominates, - But see her go on skates, - And over five-barred gates - Fearlessly scramble! - Climbing up apple-trees, - Barking her supple knees, - Flouting mama's decrees-- - Out for a ramble. - - Now she is good as gold, - Then she is pert and bold, - Minds not what she is told, - Carelessly tripping. - She is an April miss, - Bounding to grief from bliss, - Often she has a kiss-- - Sometimes a whipping! - - Naughty but best of girls, - Through life she gaily twirls, - Shaking her sunny curls-- - Careless and joyful. - Ev'ry one on her dotes, - Carolling merry notes, - Pet in short petticoats-- - Truly tomboyful! - - -CANOEBIAL BLISS. - - _My Pegasus won't bear a bridle, - A bit, or a saddle, or shoe: - I'm doing my best to be idle, - And sing from my bass-wood canoe!_ - - O, SUMMER is sweet, and its sky is so blue-- - The days are so long, and my heart is so light, - When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe! - - Where am I? No matter! It's nothing to you-- - The breeze is so pleasant, the sun is so bright-- - O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue! - - I glory in thinking there's nothing to do. - I moon and I ponder from morn until night, - When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe! - - My face and my hands are of tropical hue. - In spotless white flannel my limbs are bedight. - O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue! - - But O, it is pleasant to dream the day through, - Half-hidden by rushes, and well out of sight, - When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe! - - I crush the white lilies, 'tis almost "too too;" - I dream to the song of the dragon-flies' flight-- - O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue! - - Somewhere on the Thames, I can't give you a clue, - Be able to find me, you possibly might, - When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe! - - And if you are pleasant, and I'm in the cue, - Through azurine smoke you may hear me recite-- - O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue, - When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe! - - -ROSIE. - -DRAWN BY LEECH. - - DOWN on the sands there strolls a merry maid, - Aglow with ruddy health and gladsome glee; - She breasts the breezes of the summer sea, - And lets each zephyr trifle with each braid; - Laughs gaily as her petticoats evade - Her girlish grasp and wildly flutter free, - As, bending to some boisterous decree, - The neatest foot and ankle are displayed. - - Her youthful rounded figure you may trace - Half pouting, as rude Boreas unfurls - A wealth of snowy frillery and lace, - A glory of soft golden rippled curls. - Comes, blushing with a rare unconscious grace, - The bonniest of England's bonny girls! - - -SKINDLE'S IN OCTOBER. - - OCTOBER is the time of year; - For no regattas interfere, - The river then is fairly clear - Of steaming "spindles," - You then have space to moor your punt, - You then can get a room in front - Of Skindle's. - - When Taplow Woods are russet-red, - When half the poplar-leaves are shed, - When silence reigns at Maidenhead, - And autumn dwindles, - 'Tis good to lounge upon that lawn, - Though beauties of last June are gone - From Skindle's. - - We toiled in June all down to Bray, - And yarns we spun for Mab and May; - O, who would think such girls as they - Would turn out swindles? - But _now_ we toil and spin for jack, - And in the evening we get back - To Skindle's. - - And after dinner--passing praise-- - 'Tis sweet to meditate and laze, - To watch the ruddy logs ablaze; - And as one kindles - The big post-prandial cigar, - My friend, be thankful that we are - At Skindle's. - - -IN MY EASY CHAIR. - - 'TIS simply detestable weather! - At home I'm determined to stay; - A fortune I've spent in shoe-leather, - And ruined three hats ev'ry day! - Umbrellas I've borrowed and broken, - And angered their owners no doubt: - These things I consider a token, - 'Tis not the least use to go out! - But let the weather be foul or fair, - I'll sit and smile in my Easy Chair! - - The morning's uncertain and hazy-- - I can't be quite sure of the time-- - I'm feeling exhausted and lazy, - Not equal to reason or rhyme! - While streets still are muddy and sloppy, - While bitter the easterly breeze, - I'll maunder and nod like a poppy, - And take forty winks at mine ease! - My dreams are pleasant, so _I_ don't care. - I'll sit and snooze in my Easy Chair! - - There's nothing of note in the papers, - There's nothing to do or to say: - We suffer extremely from "vapours"-- - The fog and the damp of each day. - Though cities be frozen or flooded, - 'Tis useless to fume or to fret; - Though friends are bespattered and mudded-- - I'll smoke a serene cigarette! - And all the burdens I have to bear, - I'll smoke away in my Easy Chair! - - Within it is snug and quiescent, - Without it persistently pours; - My chair is well-cushioned and pleasant, - Though life's full of angles and bores! - My room is deliciously torrid, - By frost or by rain I'm unvext; - The world is decidedly horrid-- - So call me the month after next! - The world may roll and may tear its hair, - I'll roll and laugh in my Easy Chair! - - -BLANKTON WEIR. - - 'TIS a queer old pile of timbers, all gnarled and rough and green, - Both moss-o'ergrown and weed-covered, and jaggèd too, I ween! - 'Tis battered and 'tis spattered, all worn and knocked about, - Beclamped with rusty rivets, and bepatched with timbers stout; - A tottering, trembling structure, enshrining memories dear, - This weather-beaten barrier, this quaint old Blankton Weir. - - While leaning on those withered rails, what feelings oft come back, - As I watch the white foam sparkling and note the current's track; - What crowds of fleeting fancies come dancing through my brain! - And the good old days of Blankton, I live them o'er again; - What hopes and fears, gay smiles, sad tears, seem mirrored in the - mere, - While looking on its glassy face by tell-tale Blankton Weir! - - I've seen it basking 'neath the rays of summer's golden glow, - And when sweetly by the moonlight, silver ripples ebb and flow; - When Nature starts in spring-time, awakening into life; - When autumn leaves are falling, and the yellow corn is rife; - 'Mid the rime and sleet of winter, all through the live-long year, - I've watched the water rushing through this tide-worn Blankton Weir. - - And I mind me of one even, so calm and clear and bright, - What songs we sang--whose voices rang--that lovely summer night. - Where are the hearty voices now who trolled those good old lays? - And where the silvery laughter that rang in bygone days? - Come back, that night of long ago! Come back, the moonlight clear! - When hearts beat light, and eyes were bright, about old Blankton Weir. - - Was ever indolence so sweet, were ever days so fine, - As when we lounged in that old punt and played with rod and line? - 'Tis true few fish we caught there, but the good old ale we quaffed, - As we chatted, too, and smoked there, and idled, dreamed, and laughed: - Then thought we only of to-day, of morrow had no fear, - For sorrow scarce had tinged the stream that flowed through - Blankton Weir. - - Those dreamy August afternoons, when in our skiff we lay, - To hear the current murmuring as slow it swirled away; - The plaintive hum of dragon-fly, the old weir's plash and roar, - While _Some-one's_ gentle voice, too, seems whispering there once - more; - Come back, those days of love and trust, those times of hope and fear, - When girls were girls, and hearts were hearts, about old Blankton Weir! - - Those brilliant sunny mornings when we tumbled out of bed, - And hurried on a few rough clothes, and to the river sped! - What laughing joyaunce hung about those merry days agone, - We clove the rushing current at the early flush of dawn! - Tremendous headers took we in the waters bright and clear, - And splashed and dashed, and dived and swam, just off old - Blankton Weir. - - Then that pleasant picnic-party, when all the girls were there, - In pretty morning dresses and with freshly-braided hair; - Fair Annie, with those deep-blue eyes, and rosy, laughing Nell, - Dark Helen, sunny Amy, and the stately Isobel; - Ah! Lizzie, 'twas but yesterday--at least 'twould so appear-- - We plighted vows of constancy, not far from Blankton Weir. - - Those flashing eyes, those brave true hearts, are gone, and few remain - To mourn the loss of sunny hours that ne'er come back again: - Some married are--ah! me, how changed--for they will think no more - Of how they joined our chorus there, or helped to pull the oar: - One gentle voice is hushed for aye--we miss a voice so dear-- - Who cheered along with evensong our path by Blankton Weir. - - Amid the whirl of weary life--I hear it o'er and o'er, - That plaintive well-loved lullaby--the old weir's distant roar: - It gilds the cloud of daily toil with sunshine's fitful gleams, - It breaks upon my slumber, and I hear it in my dreams: - Like music of the good old times, it strikes upon mine ear-- - If there's an air can banish care, 'tis that of Blankton Weir! - - I know the river's rushing, but it rushes not for me, - I feel the morning blushing, though I am not there to see; - For younger hearts now live and love where once we used to dwell, - And others laugh, and dream, and sing, in spots we loved so well; - Their motto "_Carpe diem_"--'twas ours for many a year-- - As show these rhymes of sunny times about old Blankton Weir. - - -DIFFERENT VIEWS. - -A CHRISTMAS DUET. - - O, CHRISTMAS comes but once a year! - (_And even that is once too many;_) - Hurrah for all its right good cheer! - (_I wish I had my share of any!_) - What flavour of the good old times! - (_What hopeless and egregious folly!_) - What evergreens and merry chimes! - (_What prickles ever lurk in holly!_) - - Indeed it is a merry time; - (_But O! those countless Christmas numbers!_) - For now we see the pantomime, - (_And now the waits disturb our slumbers._) - We've kisses 'neath the mistletoe-- - (_I hate such rough, unseemly capers!_) - And hearty welcomes, frost and snow; - (_Yes, in the illustrated papers._) - - Around the groaning Christmas board, - (_Which never equals expectations,_) - Where old and young are in accord-- - (_I hate the most of my relations!_) - I view the turkey with delight, - (_A tough old bird beyond all question!_) - The blazing pudding--what a sight! - (_'Tis concentrated indigestion!_) - - Laugh on, ye merry girls and boys! - (_Each year the Christmas boxes strengthen,_) - Each year brings with it countless joys; - (_The Christmas bills each year they lengthen._) - To all we pledge the brimming glass! - (_What days of gorging and unreason!_) - Too quick such merry moments pass-- - (_Why can't we skip the "festive season"?_) - - -TWO NAUGHTY GIRLS. - -A SCULLER'S SKETCH. - - AS I go slowly drifting by, - Two lazy lasses I espy; - Two pretty pets who lounge and moon, - Who dream and take their ease, - And chatter through the afternoon, - Beneath the trees. - - The one is Beatie, t'other Bell, - No pow'r on earth will make me tell - The surname of each lovely flow'r-- - This pair of busy B's, - Who _don't_ improve each shining hour, - Beneath the trees! - - Ah! why should one sweet damsel frown, - And droop her pretty eyelids down? - Or quickly hush her merry notes, - And clasp her pliant knees? - A pouting pet in petticoats, - Beneath the trees! - - Has Bell at Beatie dared to sneer, - Or Beatie chanced at Bell to jeer? - Has either vented girlish spite, - Because she likes to tease? - Or loves, like dogs, to bark and bite, - Beneath the trees! - - Has either called the other "flirt"? - Does Bell object to Beatie's skirt? - Or Bella's sweet forget-me-nots, - Miss Beatrix displease?-- - I'd like to read them Doctor Watts, - Beneath the trees. - - I drift and leave each dainty maid, - Still sweet and sulky in the shade, - With all their sunny laughing curls - A-flutter in the breeze: - Two nice but very naughty girls, - Beneath the trees! - - I said unto myself, Ha! ha! - My dears, if I were your mama, - Most quickly I'd pack off to bed - Two naughty busy B's-- - Who quarrel and make eyelids red, - Beneath the trees! - - -COULEUR DE ROSE. - -A SIX MONTHS' COURTSHIP. - - HER soft sables, you must know, - Kept off winter's frost and snow, - And the cruel wind did blow - When we met: - The demurest little nun, - Though she'd sometimes change in fun, - Like a snowflake in the sun,-- - Little pet! - - Pray what meant those frequent sighs, - When those fathomless brown eyes - Sometimes gazed with glad surprise - Into mine? - It was joy to be alone, - With my arm around her zone, - And to claim her for my own - Valentine! - - 'Fore the romping wind of March - Was she bending like a larch, - As her glance seemed yet more arch - Through her curls; - Came in view the ankles neat, - Were revealed the dainty feet, - And the _chaussure_ of my sweet - Girl of girls! - - Ah! my brightest fay of fays - Was most fickle in her ways, - In chameleon April days-- - Sun and rain! - She would sometimes be put out, - She would laugh or cry and pout; - Smiling through her tears in doubt, - Joy and pain! - - But in May so freshly fair - She would cull its blossoms rare, - Just to twine them in her hair-- - Gay and wild: - A sweet pæan of perfume, - A gay sunny song of bloom, - She would chase away all bloom-- - Laughing child! - - Ah! her cheek will shame the rose, - With the tint that comes and goes, - And more radiantly glows, - When it's prest! - Whilst her loving eyes flash bright, - With a sweet and sparkling light, - And white roses scarce look white - In her breast! - - In the balmy summer time, - With gay roses in their prime, - No one deems it is a crime - Then to "spoon"! - Ah! how quick the time then sped, - Now I wonder what we said, - 'Neath the roses white and red-- - Once in June? - - O! when summer skies were blue, - And we fancied hearts were true, - While the long day loving through-- - Who'd suppose? - Our grand castles built in Spain, - Or that love could ever wane, - And its fragrance but remain, - Like the rose? - - -IN STRAWBERRY TIME. - - HOT, hot glows the sunshine in laughing July. - Scarce flutter the leaves in the soft summer sigh: - The rooks scarcely swing on the tops of the trees, - While river-reeds nod to the lime-scented breeze: - A roseleaf, a-bask in the sunshiny gleam, - Half sleeps in the dimples that chequer the stream; - The dragon-fly hushes his day-dreamy lay, - The silver trout sulks in his sedge-shaded bay-- - While our thoughts sweetly run in a soft singing rhyme, - As we lazily loiter in strawberry time! - - Sweet, sweet is the scent of the newly-mown hay, - Light borne by the breeze on a bright summer's day; - And cool is the sound of the musical plash, - As bright bubbles fall in the fountain and flash. - 'Tis joy then to wander in gay golden hours, - And dream 'mid the hues of the bright-tinted flow'rs; - When the velvety lawn is most soft to the tread, - And ruddy fruit hangs in the leaf-covered bed-- - Then the roundest, the sweetest, the best of the prime, - Will we gather together in strawberry time! - - Joy, joy 'tis to whisper and laugh in the shade, - And pluck the ripe fruit for my hazel-eyed maid; - To watch her delight as she eagerly clips - A pink British Queen with her soft pouting lips! - While lovingly gazing I'm apt to compare - The warm blushing berries with lips of my fair; - I'm doubtful, indeed, if the fruit of the South - Could equal the charm of her ripe little mouth-- - 'Tis so round and so soft, 'twould be scarcely a crime - All my doubts to dispel in sweet strawberry time! - - Light, light is the laughter that carelessly rings, - And sweet is the carol she tenderly sings! - I murmur a story we all of us know-- - Her soft dainty dimples, they come and they go; - Her eyelids droop down o'er those sweet little eyes, - Her laughter is hushed in a tumult of sighs: - Those pretty, plump fingers, red-stained to the tips, - All tremble, while pouting are rosy-red lips. - Then the bard whispers low, 'neath the tremulous lime, - "Lips sweeter than fruit are in strawberry time!" - - -NUMBER ONE. - -PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG LADY. - -"_No._ 1," _in a collection of one thousand five hundred and eighty-three -works of art, at the Exhibition of the Royal Academy._ - - - MY favourite, you must know, - In the Piccadilly Show, - Is the portrait of a lass - Bravely done. - 'Mid the fifteen eighty-three - Works of art that you may see, - There is nothing can surpass-- - "Number One"! - - Very far above the line - Is this favourite of mine; - You may see her smiling there - O'er the crowds. - If you bring a good _lorgnette_, - You may see my dainty pet; - Like the Jungfrau, pink and fair, - 'Mid the clouds. - - My enchanting little star, - How I wonder what you are, - With your rosy laughing lips - Full of fun. - Have you many satellites, - Do you shine so bright o' nights, - That there's nothing can eclipse - "Number One"? - - Are you constant in your loves? - Do you change them with your gloves? - Pray does Worth pervade your train-- - Or your heart? - Are you fickle, are you leal, - Are your sunny tresses real, - Or your roses only vain - Works of art? - - I sincerely envy him - Who the fortune had to limn - Your bewitching hazel eyes - With his brush: - Who could study ev'ry grace - In your winsome little face, - And the subtle charm that lies - In your blush. - - I am sure it is a shame - That your pretty face and frame, - Ruthless hangers out of view - Seek to hide: - But no doubt Sir Frederick L----, - And his myrmidons as well, - Fancy angels such as you, - Should be "skyed"! - - Ah! were I but twenty-two, - I would hinge the knee to you, - And most humbly kiss your glove - At your throne: - Thrice happy he whose sighs - Draw this sweet Heart Union prize - In the lottery of Love - For his own! - - If I knew but your papa, - Could I only "ask mama," - It is clear enough to me - As the sun, - That all through this weary life, - 'Mid its pleasure, pain, and strife, - All my care and love should be - "Number One." - - -AFTER BREAKFAST. - - THE ruddy ripe tomata, - In china bowl of ice; - And grouse worth a sonata, - Undoubtedly are nice! - A pint of sound Hocheimer, - A dainty speckled trout, - Suffices for the Rhymer, - To break his fast no doubt! - I watch the busy bees on - The leaf beneath the lime: - It's much too hot for reason, - And far too warm for rhyme! - - 'Tis hot as in the tropics-- - Too hot to ride or walk-- - I have no store of topics, - I do not care to talk! - No matutinal journal - Has reached me--Do I fret? - 'Neath leafy shade supernal, - I smoke a cigarette! - I care not for the Season, - Trade, Politics, or Crime: - It's much too hot for reason, - And far too warm for rhyme! - - Pray, who would wear a tall hat? - Or buttoned in frock coat, - Would countless places call at, - When he might moon in boat? - Exploring river reaches, - And doing naught at all, - But plucking juicy peaches - That ripen on the wall! - I put just what I please on, - I take no heed of time: - It's much too hot for reason, - And far too warm for rhyme! - - My thoughts all run together, - Regretfully I find; - They're melted by the weather, - To shapeless mass of mind! - It's much too hot for thinking, - Too sultry 'tis to chaff; - For eating or for drinking, - Too torrid e'en to laugh! - I know this sounds like treason-- - I do not care one dime-- - It's much too hot for reason, - And far too warm for rhyme! - - -IN AN OLD CITY CHURCH. - - ONE dull, foggy day in December, - When biting and bleak was the air, - I once lost my way, I remember, - And paused in a quaint City square. - Though lacking all splendour or gladness, - The flavour of good long ago - Clung close to the place in its sadness, - And grave-yard half covered with snow; - While the black, puny branches, all leafless and bare, - Seemed to add to the gloom of this dull City square! - - The railings were rusty and rimy, - The church looked so mouldy and grim; - The houses seemed haunted and grimy, - The windows were gruesome and dim. - The iron gate scrooped on its hinges, - The clock struck a querulous chime, - As though it were feeling some twinges - 'Twas almost forgotten by Time. - But I opened the door, and the picture was fair, - In the fine ancient church, in this sad City square! - - A fair little lass, holly-laden-- - With eyes of cerulean blue-- - Is helping a sweet dark-eyed maiden - Twine ivy with laurel and yew; - How busy the deft taper fingers! - What taste and what art they display! - How lovingly each of them lingers, - Adjusting a leaf or a spray!---- - I close the door softly, I've no business there, - And drift out in the fog of the grim City square. - - -A LITTLE LOVE-LETTER. - - O PRETTY pet with the tangled hair, - Down by the sighing summer sea-- - O dimpled darling with checks so fair, - Tell me, O dearest, when musing there, - Will you think of me? - - O sweetest sweet, when the salt breeze sighs - 'Mid silken locks ever flowing free, - While gulls glint white against sleepy skies, - Will looks of those bright brown loving eyes - E'er be turned to me? - - Ah, laughing child, when your eyes beam bright, - And lips are parted in girlish glee; - When the shore is glad in still summer night, - With your sweet soft smile, and your laughter light, - Do you smile on me? - - When the moon is up, and sleeps the land - To tender music in minor key; - When the silver-ripples hush the strand - And scarcely dimple the golden sand, - Will you dream of me? - - Poor little heart! when your cheeks are wet - With tears that sadden one's heart to see, - Your moist lips tremble--you can't forget - Sometimes the sun through the rain shines, pet, - When you weep for me! - - -STRAY SUNBEAMS. - - AWAY with great-coats and umbrellas! - Put all furry garments away! - Let glossiest hats--all you fellas-- - Gleam bright in the light of to-day! - The air it is balmy and vernal, - We feel a new life has begun: - For gone is the weather hibernal-- - And here is the Sun! - - The genial sunbeams, in-streaming, - Flash bright on my pen as I write! - The paper is glowing and gleaming-- - My eyes are quite dazed with the light! - No longer I growl or I shiver, - Nor each fellow-creature I shun: - I dream of the joys of the River-- - For here is the Sun! - - For England, the atmosphere's splendid, - We live and we breathe now again! - We fancy our trouble is ended, - For gone is the fog and the rain: - I laugh and I sing and I chuckle, - I rhyme and I dance and I pun! - I knock on the pane with my knuckle-- - For here is the Sun! - - What portents of pleasure I fancy - Return with these bright sunny rays! - What visions of lazing I _can_ see, - Of languorous, sweet Summer days; - Of yachting and sea-side diversions, - And getting as brown as a bun: - Of rambles and Alpine excursions-- - For here is the Sun! - - I think of long days at lawn-tennis, - Of dreams in my bass-wood canoe, - Of gondola-lounging at Venice, - And skies sempiternally blue! - I muse o'er the pleasures of playtime, - Of laziness, laughter, and fun; - Of lime-scented zephyrs and haytime-- - But _where_ is the Sun? - -[_Sun retires behind clouds, rain patters on the pane, and the Lazy One -goes to bed._ - - -PEARL. - - PEARL, O Pearl! - Naught but a lissom English girl, - So sweet and simple; - Naught but the charm of golden curl, - Of blush and dimple-- - Pearl, O Pearl! - - Sweet, ah, sweet! - 'Tis pleasant lolling at your feet - In summer playtime; - Ah, how the moments quickly fleet - In sunny hay-time-- - Sweet, ah, sweet! - - Dream, ah, dream! - The sedges sing by swirling stream - A lovely brief song; - The poplars chant in sunny gleam - A lulling leaf-song-- - Dream, ah, dream! - - Stay, O stay! - We cannot dream all through the day, - Demure and doubtful: - When shines the sun we must make hay, - When lips are poutful-- - Stay, O stay! - - -A NUTSHELL NOVEL. - -VOL. I. - - A WINNING wile, - A sunny smile, - A feather: - A tiny talk, - A pleasant walk, - Together! - -VOL. II. - - A little doubt, - A playful pout, - Capricious: - A merry miss, - A stolen kiss, - Delicious!! - -VOL. III. - - You ask mama, - Consult papa, - With pleasure: - And both repent, - This rash event, - At leisure!!! - - -THE PINK OF PERFECTION. - - _With manly step and stalwart stride, - The Minstrel paced the pier at Ryde! - And as he shook those hoary locks, - He gazed upon the pink, pink frocks!_ - - WITH frocks and their wearers to dazzle my eyes, - Their glories, I scarce dare to sing 'em: - I timidly gaze and I glance in surprise, - At beauties in cambric and gingham! - A Paris I feel in this Garden of Dress, - And, had I to make a selection-- - The Apple of Gold, I most freely confess, - I'd give to the Pink of Perfection! - - It must not remind you of raspberry ice, - Nor cheek of a milkmaid or cotter; - A lobster-like redness is not at all nice, - Nor feverish glow of the blotter; - It should not recall a Bardolphian nose, - Nor yet a pomegranate bisection-- - Throughout the whole garden you'll scarce find a rose, - A match for the Pink of Perfection! - - A strawberry crushed, almost smothered in cream, - Nearly matches the colour it may be; - The Jungfrau just flushed with the earliest beam, - The hue of the palm of a baby: - The faint ruddy tone you may see in a shell, - The rose in a young girl's complexion-- - All or any of these, it is easy to tell, - Will pass for the Pink of Perfection! - - This frock when it's made with most exquisite taste, - And fits like a glove on the shoulder; - With yoke and full pleats and a band at the waist, - Will gladden the passing beholder! - With lace and with buttons of mother o' pearl-- - You'll say, on maturest reflection, - The best of all garbs for a pretty young girl, - No doubt is the Pink of Perfection! - - Then if such a dress you meet down by the sea, - And find, when you've carefully eyed it, - In make and in fashion 'tis good as can be, - With a neat little figure inside it; - And a sweet little face peeping over a ruff, - Which laughs at your lengthy inspection, - I think you'll admit I have said quite enough-- - You've found out the Pink of Perfection! - - -THE IMPARTIAL. - -A BOAT-RACE SKETCH. - - IN sorrow and joy she has seen the beginning-- - Her lightness of spirit half dashed by the "blues"-- - With cheers in her heart for the crew who are winning, - While tears fill her eyes for those fated to lose. - - If you'll narrowly watch, 'mid the noise and contention, - You'll note, as her Arab paws proudly the dust, - A deftly-twined bouquet of speedwell and gentian - Beneath her white collar half carelessly thrust! - - The tint of a night in the still summer weather - Her tight-fitting habit just serves to unfold, - While delicate cuffs are scarce fastened together - By dainty-wrought fetters of turquoise and gold. - - Ah! climax of sweet, girlish, neutral devices-- - What smiles for the winners, for losers what sighs!-- - She has twined her fair hair with the colours of Isis, - While those of the Cam glitter bright in her eyes! - - -A TRAVELLER'S TARANTELLA. - - _Written in "Murray's Handbook," while the band in the Piazza San - Marco was playing the Tarantella, from Masaniello._ - - - ALL that the tourist can dream of or hear about, - Crowds on your sight as you carelessly peer about, - Quaint water streets you so carefully steer about, - See the Rialto, and Square of St. Mark! - Floating in gondolas, laughing and jollity, - Cyprian wine of the very best quality, - At Florian's _caffè_--mid fun and frivolity-- - Venice delightful from daylight to dark! - Musicians in plenty, - Play "_Ecco ridente_," - Or "_Com e gentil_," in the still summer night; - If you're in a hurry, - Pray look in your _Murray_-- - You'll find his description is perfectly right! - - Albergo Reale and English society, - _Bric-à-brac_ shops in their endless variety, - Plenty of pigeons not fearful of pie-ety, - Flutter and peck 'neath the bluest of skies. - Dreaming in Venice? Ah, wildest of fallacies-- - Bronzes and sculpture, mosaics and chalices, - Convents and churches, and prisons and palaces, - See as you stand on the grim Bridge of Sighs! - The ballads of Byron, - You'll find will environ - The Doges and dodges and Brides of the Sea. - Don't get in a flurry, - But read it in _Murray_-- - If you don't care about it, then listen to me! - - Thousands of thirsty mosquitoes are biting one, - Silvery moonlight is ever delighting one, - Music and mirth every moment inviting one-- - Dreary old London we quickly forget! - Shylock and Portia--in short, the whole kit of 'em, - Readers of Shakespeare recall ev'ry bit of 'em; - Troublesome guides, you can never get quit of 'em-- - Pictures by Titian and old Tintoret! - The sock and the buskin, - With Rogers and Ruskin, - Are mixed in a muddle with palace and sight! - It may be a worry, - But don't forget _Murray_, - He'll throw on your darkness some excellent light! - -CAFFÈ FLORIAN, VENEZIA. - - -IN A MINOR KEY. - - I'M sick of the world and its trouble, - I'm weary of pleasures that cloy, - I see through the bright-coloured bubble, - And find no enjoyment in joy. - - Is all that we earn worth the earning? - Is all that we gain worth the prize? - Is all that we learn worth the learning? - Is pleasure but pain in disguise? - - Is sorrow e'er worth our dejection? - Is fame but a flatterer's spell? - Is love ever worth our affection? - _Le jeu vaut-il, donc, la chandelle?_ - - O, where are the eyes that enthralled us, - And where are the lips that we kissed? - Where the syren-like voices that called us, - And where all the chances we missed? - - We know not what mortals call pleasure-- - For clouded are skies that were blue; - To dross now has melted our treasure, - And false are the hearts that were true. - - The flowers we gathered are faded, - The leaves of our laurels are shed; - Our spirit is broken and jaded, - The hopes of our youth are all dead. - - We feel life is hopeless and dreary, - Now night has o'ershadowed our day; - Bright fruits of this earth only weary, - They ripen--to fall and decay! - - I'm sick of the world and its trouble, - For rest and seclusion I thirst; - I'm tired of the gay tinted bubble, - That brighteneth only to burst! - - -A SHOWER-SONG. - - MY heart was light and whole aboard-- - As I sculled swift by Harleyford - The rain began to patter-- - But when I saw in Hurley Lock - That Naiad in a gingham frock, - 'Twas quite another matter! - The banks are soft with mud and slosh, - And shiny is each mackintosh, - Each hat and coat well soaken: - My spirits droop, and as I scan - That Beauty in a trim randan, - I fear my heart is broken! - She hath a graceful little head, - Her lips are ripe and round and red, - Her teeth are short and pearly; - And on a rosy sun-kissed cheek - Her dimples play at hide-and-seek, - Within the lock at Hurley! - - I strive to make a mental note, - The while she lounges in her boat - Beneath the big umbrella. - I wonder if she's Gwendoline, - Or Gillian, or Geraldine, - Or Sylvia, or Stella? - Is she engaged to Stroke or Bow? - I would they could assure me now - She loves to flirt with others! - Will stalwart Sculls e'er claim her hand? - How gladly would I understand - Her Crew are naught but brothers! - Her hat with lilies is bedight, - Her voice is low, her laugh is light, - Her figure slight and girly. - How cheerfully I'd take a trip, - With such a Pilot for my ship, - And sail away from Hurley! - - I wonder if her heart is true? - I know her eyes are peerless blue, - Long lashes downward sweeping; - A snow-white ruff around her throat, - Beneath her pouting petticoat - A little foot out-peeping. - O, is she wooed and is she won, - Or is she very fond of fun? - I make a thousand guesses! - A sweet young face, so full of hope, - A dainty hand on tiller-rope, - And raindrops in her tresses. - Three tiny rosebuds lightly rest - Within the haven of her breast-- - Her locks are short and curly. - The sun is gone! Down comes the rain! - I leave my heart cleft well in twain - Within the Lock at Hurley! - -HURLEY LOCK, _June_. - - - - -THE SOCIAL ZODIAC. - - - - -JANUARY. - - UPON the Ice, 'tis nice to glide, - A merry maiden by your side! - The air is keen, the day is fine, - You think the sport is most divine, - When skimming o'er the frozen tide. - - To Miss Chinchilla you confide, - How proud you are to be her guide; - Then try to cut some quaint design - Upon the Ice. - - With measured motion, rhythmic stride, - You put on speed and put on side: - You cut the figures Eight and Nine-- - And sometimes on your back recline! - Such falls will sometimes come to pride, - Upon the Ice. - - -FEBRUARY. - - SAINT VALENTINE! The post is late! - No letters come--'tis long past Eight! - But on this bright auspicious day - Frivolity holds laughing sway, - And sober people have to wait! - - The burdened postmen moan their fate, - This Festival they reprobate; - And often think they'd like to flay - Saint Valentine! - - But in these views you'll find Miss Kate - Does not at all participate; - And Beryl, Baby, Minnie, May, - With Gertie, Ethel, Lily, Fay, - Right gleefully commemorate-- - Saint Valentine! - - -MARCH. - - O WIND of March! O biting breeze! - It nips the nose and nips the trees; - It whirls with fury down the street, - It makes us flee in quick retreat, - And gives us cold and makes us sneeze! - - It makes us cough and choke and wheeze, - With painful back and aching knees; - With dire discomfort 'tis replete, - O Wind of March! - - Our hands we're glad enough to squeeze, - In cuffs and muffs and muffatees; - 'Tis charged with blinding, cutting sleet, - It spoils our temper, chills our feet, - And brings the Doctor lots of fees-- - O Wind of March! - - -APRIL. - - AN April Day, so fresh and bright-- - (_'Twill rain, I'm sure, before the night!_) - We've done with Winter blasts unkind-- - (_Don't leave your mackintosh behind, - 'Twould be a fatal oversight!_) - - In Spring-like garb we'll go bedight-- - (_'Tis sure to rain, just out of spite! - And most perplexing you will find, - An April Day!_) - - The sky is blue, the clouds are light-- - (_I trust your Gamp is water-tight!_) - To sing and laugh we feel inclined-- - (_Here comes a storm of rain and wind! - And hail, that's quite enough to blight, - An April Day!_) - - -MAY. - - A PRIVATE View? 'Tis plain to you, - 'Tis neither "private" nor a "view"! - And yet for tickets people rush, - To mingle in the well-dressed crush, - And come and wonder who is who. - - The beauties, poets, actors, too, - With patrons, painters--not a few, - Are elements that help to flush - A Private View. - - The pictures, you can't hope to do; - You're angered by the "precious" crew, - And pallid maids who flop and gush. - While carping critics who cry "Tush!" - And wildly wrangle, make you rue - A Private View. - - -JUNE. - - IN Rotten Row, 'tis nice, you know, - To see the tide of Fashion flow! - Though hopeless cynics carp and croon-- - I do not care one macaroon-- - But love to watch the passing show! - - You'll find it anything but slow, - To laugh and chaff with those you know; - And pleasant then to sit at noon, - In Rotten Row! - - When Summer breezes whisper low, - And countless riders come and go; - Beneath the trees in leafy June, - I love to sit and muse and moon-- - While beauties canter to and fro-- - In Rotten Row! - - -JULY. - - ON Henley Bridge, in sweet July, - A gentle breeze, a cloudless sky! - Indeed it is a pleasant place, - To watch the oarsmen go the pace, - As gasping crowds go roaring by. - - And O, what dainty maids you spy, - What tasteful toilets you descry, - What symphonies in frills and lace, - On Henley Bridge! - - But if you find a luncheon nigh-- - A _mayonnaise_, a toothsome pie-- - The chance you'll hasten to embrace! - You'll soon forget about the Race, - And take your Giesler cool and dry-- - On Henley Bridge! - - -AUGUST. - - BESIDE the Sea, upon the strand - The sun is hot, the day is grand: - I think you will agree with me, - Upon the shore 'tis nice to be, - Amid the shingle and the sand. - - Your hands get brown, your face is tanned, - You bathe or noddle to the band; - Or slowly ride a solemn "gee" - Beside the Sea. - - You pace the pier, you idle and - The offing never leave unscanned: - And study, 'neath some grateful lee, - The "blue, the fresh, the ever free"! - The air is pure, your lungs expand, - Beside the Sea! - - -SEPTEMBER. - - A FOREIGN Tour? I apprehend - A hand-bag I should recommend; - A roll of useful notes from Coutts, - A pocketful of good cheroots, - And _Murray_ for your faithful friend. - - Some French, on which you can depend, - A chosen chum, you can't offend; - Are things to make--with tourist-suits-- - A Foreign Tour. - - You'll visit "lions" without end; - And all the snowy peaks ascend; - With _alpenstocks_ and hob-nailed boots: - Or ride on mules--the sullen brutes-- - There's lots of sport, if you intend - A Foreign Tour! - - -OCTOBER. - - ONCE more at Home! We've ploughed the main, - We've gone by _diligence_ and train; - Endured the oft-repeated snub, - Of insolent official cub-- - In Switzerland, in France, and Spain. - - For weeks we've struggled, all in vain, - Some toilet comforts to obtain; - But _now_ we hail our roomy "tub" - Once more at Home. - - Though back we come to fog and rain - And chills and bills, we don't complain! - We've heaps of friends, a quiet "rub," - A pleasant dinner at the Club-- - True happiness we now regain, - Once more at Home! - - -NOVEMBER. - - A LONDON Fog, 'tis always here - At this inclement time of year! - When people hang themselves or drown, - And Nature wears her blackest frown, - While all the world is dull and drear. - - All form and colour disappear - Within this filthy atmosphere: - 'Tis sometimes yellow, sometimes brown, - A London Fog! - - It chokes our lungs, our heads feel queer, - We cannot see, can scarcely hear: - So when this murky pall drops down-- - Though dearly loving London town-- - We feel we cannot quite revere - A London Fog! - - -DECEMBER. - - 'NEATH Mistletoe, should chance arise, - You may be happy if you're wise! - Though bored you be with Pantomime - And Christmas fare and Christmas rhyme-- - One fine old custom don't despise. - - If you're a man of enterprise - You'll find, I venture to surmise, - 'Tis pleasant then at Christmas-time - 'Neath Mistletoe! - - You see they scarcely can disguise - The sparkle of their pretty eyes: - And no one thinks it is a crime, - When goes the merry Christmas chime, - A rare old rite to exercise - 'Neath Mistletoe! - - - - -IDLE SONGS. - - - - -MOTHER O' PEARL. - - O, PEARL is the sweetest creation - E'er shod with the tiniest boots-- - I wish she had ne'er a relation, - I wish I'd a balance with Coutts! - They say Pearl is so like her mother; - Was she like my pet when a girl? - Will pet become just such another - Some day as the Mother o' Pearl? - - My Pearl is the prettiest kitten, - She laughs--will she ever grow fat? - Or e'er, with mad jealousy smitten, - Develop the mind of a cat? - Her figure get round as a bubble? - Her hair lose its exquisite curl? - Her chin get undimpled and double, - Like that of the Mother o' Pearl? - - Will Pearl become pert and capricious, - And haughty and give herself airs? - (I thought, when she looked so delicious - Last night when we sat on the stairs.) - Will she patronise _me_ in her bounty, - And boast of her uncle the Earl? - Or talk with cold pride of the county, - As often does Mother o' Pearl? - - Will Pearl ever sneer at her betters, - Or e'er act the amateur spy? - And try to read other folk's letters, - Or listen at doors on the sly?... - If boy to the man be the father, - Mama to the woman is--girl-- - As daughter-in-law I would rather - Not father the Mother o' Pearl! - - -A LAY OF THE "LION." - - _At the "Red Lion," Henley-on-Thames, Shenstone scratched the - following well-known lines upon the window-pane:_ - - - "_Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round, - Where'er his stages may have been, - May sigh to think that he has found - His warmest welcome at an inn!_" - - 'TIS joyful to run from the turmoil of town, - To flee from its worry and bustle; - To put on your flannels and get your hands brown - Is good for the mind and the muscle. - When Goodwood is done and the Season is o'er, - 'Tis pleasant the river to ply on, - Or lounge on the lawn, free from worry and bore, - At the "Lion"! - - 'Tis a finely toned, picturesque, sunshiny place, - Recalling a dozen old stories; - With a rare British, good-natured, ruddy-hued face, - Suggesting old wines and old Tories: - Ah, many's the magnum of rare crusted port, - Of vintage no one could cry fie on, - Has been drunk by good men of the old-fashioned sort - At the "Lion"! - - O, sweet is the exquisite lime-scented breeze - Awaft o'er the Remenham reaches! - What lullaby lurks in the music of trees, - The concert of poplars and beeches! - Shall I go for a row, or lounge in a punt, - The stream--half asleep--throw a fly on? - Or watch pretty girls feed the cygnets in front - Of the "Lion"! - - I see drifting by such a smart little crew, - Bedight in most delicate colours, - In ivory-white and forget-me-not blue-- - A couple of pretty girl-scullers. - A pouting young puss, in the shortest of frocks-- - A nice little nautical scion-- - The good ship she steers, like a clever young "cox," - Past the "Lion"! - - I lazily muse and I smoke cigarettes, - While rhymes I together am stringing; - I listen and nod to the dreamy duets - The girls on the first-floor are singing. - The sunshine is hot and the summer-breeze sighs, - There's scarcely a cloudlet the sky on-- - Ah! were it but cooler, how I'd moralize - At the "Lion"! - - But who can be thoughtful, or lecture, or preach, - While Harry is flirting with Ella, - Or the red lips of Rosie pout over a peach, - Half hid by her snowy umbrella? - The Infant is drifting down in her canoe, - The Rector his cob canters by on; - The church clock is chiming a quarter-past two, - Near the "Lion"! - - Shall I drop off to sleep, or moon here all day, - And drowsily finish my ballad? - No! "Luncheon is ready," I hear some one say; - "A lobster, a chicken, a salad:" - A cool silver cup of the beadiest ale, - The white table-cloth I descry on-- - So clearly 'tis time I concluded my tale - Of the "Lion"! - - -JENNIE. - -SKETCHED BY GAINSBOROUGH. - - AH! thrice happy the crumpled red rose leaves - Asleep on her bosom so warm and white! - And the turquoise ribbon half lost to sight, - In the silken tresses it interweaves! - Thrice happy the mortal who once receives, - From her fathomless eyes so brown and bright, - The radiant glances of inner light, - That glitter and gleam 'neath their drooping eaves. - - Ah! sweet are those eloquent lips a-pout, - Whose pleadings a stoic could scarce resist, - Now rounded in rapture, now drooped in doubt, - But daintily red as if newly kist. - 'Tis joy to believe in the truth that lies - Far down in the depths of those sweet brown eyes! - - -A FAVOURITE LOUNGE. - - THE Season is now at its height, - And crowded each street and each square; - At nightly receptions we fight, - And pant for a place on the stair! - If you're getting as cross as a bear, - If life you consider a bore, - If not quite the man that you were-- - O, toddle down Bond Street at Four! - - The scene is bewitching and bright, - The street is beyond all compare; - The shops are all richly bedight, - The jewellers' windows are rare. - If money you've plenty to spare, - And want to buy presents galore, - Or wish to burk trouble and care-- - O, toddle down Bond Street at Four! - - In Art if you take a delight, - Of pictures you'll find plenty there; - And stalls you may get for to-night, - Or visit your artist in hair. - If dulness you hope to forswear, - And wish to meet friends by the score, - Or revel in sunshine and air-- - O, toddle down Bond Street at Four! - - If driven by duns to despair, - If snubbed by the girl you adore; - If feeling quite out of repair, - O, toddle down Bond Street at Four! - - -SPRING CLEANING. - - ALL peace and all pleasure are banished: - Abroad now I gladly would roam, - My quiet and comfort have vanished, - A desolate wreck is my home! - The painters are all in possession, - And charwomen come by the score; - The whitewashers troop in procession, - And spatter from ceiling to floor. - I own I must make a confession-- - Spring Cleaning's a terrible bore! - - They come in the morning at daybreak, - Just when I'm forgetting my cares, - And into my slumbers how _they_ break! - With bustle and tramp on the stairs. - They laugh, and they whistle, and chatter; - They paint, and they varnish, and size; - They thump, and they wrangle, and clatter, - And drive away sleep from my eyes. - They make me as mad as a hatter, - And cause me quite early to rise! - - The staircase is all barricaded, - The handle removed from each door; - My own sacred Den is invaded-- - My papers all strewn on the floor! - My books and my letters are scattered, - My pens are nowhere to be found; - My blue-and-white china is shattered, - My songs have no space to resound; - My hat with pink priming's bespattered, - My Banjo is crushed on the ground! - - I dare not complain, notwithstanding-- - I'm faint with the fumes of whitelead; - And trip over pails on the landing, - And paint-pots fall down on my head! - When right through my hall I go stumbling-- - I'm sick, and I'm sorry, and sore; - O'er planks and o'er ladders I'm tumbling, - And get my great-coat painted o'er. - To myself I can scarcely help mumbling-- - Spring Cleaning's a terrible bore! - - -TAKEN IN TOW. - - _How blithely the beauties break into a canter, - And over the sward how their feet pit-a-pat! - The limber young lass in a white Tam o' Shanter, - The pouting young puss in a sailor-boy hat!_ - - O, PANGBOURNE is pleasant in sweet Summertime, - And Streatley and Goring are worthy of rhyme: - The sunshine is hot and the breezes are still, - The River runs swift under Basildon Hill! - To lounge in a skiff is delightful to me, - I'm feeling as lazy as lazy can be; - I don't care to sail and I don't care to row-- - Since I'm lucky enough to be taken in tow! - - Though battered am I, like the old _Teméraire_, - My tow-ers are young and my tow-ers are fair: - The one is Eleven, the other Nineteen, - The merriest maidens that ever were seen. - They pull with a will and they keep the line tight, - Dimpled Dolly in blue and sweet Hetty in white; - And though you may think it is not _comme il faut_, - 'Tis awfully nice to be taken in tow. - - I loll on the cushions, I smoke and I dream, - And list to the musical song of the stream; - The boat gurgles on by the rushes and weeds, - And, crushing the lilies, scroops over the reeds. - The sky is so blue and the water so clear, - I'm almost too idle to think or to steer! - Let scullers delight in hot toiling, but O!-- - Let _me_ have the chance to be taken in tow! - - The dragon-fly hums and the skiff glides along, - The leaves whisper low and the stream runneth strong: - But still the two maidens tramp girlfully on, - I'll reward them for this when we get to the "Swan;" - For then shall be rest for my excellent team, - A strawberry banquet, with plenty of cream!-- - Believe me, good people, for _I_ ought to know, - 'Tis capital fun to be taken in tow! - - -THROWN! - - _If letters ne'er were written, - Or never were received! - If postmen were confounded, - And postage stamps impounded, - Throughout the whole of Britain, - What peace would be achieved! - If letters ne'er were written. - Or never were received!_ - - 'TIS the dullest of days, - And my heart it is sad, - So I make the logs blaze, - For the weather is bad; - I have half done the _Times_, - And have quite done my toast; - While I'm reading of crimes - Comes the Ten O'clock post. - There's a merry rat-tat, - And a letter from You; - 'Tis so temptingly fat, - That I quickly undo - All its seals in a trice, - And the blossoms release-- - It is awfully nice - To have flowers from Nice! - - What a dainty perfume - Do your messengers bring, - And they scare away gloom - With their savour of Spring; - There's the violet blue, - The pale lily, the rose-- - But a letter from You - They all fail to disclose! - It puzzles me quite, - And I fail to divine - Why you did not just write - Just one brief little line? - While the ponds are all ice, - And East winds never cease-- - It is awfully nice - To have flowers from Nice! - - Ah! your cheek all a-flush - Most undoubtedly shows - Both the pallor and blush - Of the lily and rose; - And your eyes are as blue - As the sweet violet; - They are trustful and true, - And you never forget-- - Ah! I now understand; - Here's your portrait complete, - In a floral short hand - Is your _carte de visite_! - A most dainty device - Is this charming conceit-- - It is awfully nice - To have flowers from Nice! - - Stop a moment, for I-- - The most luckless of bards-- - Neath _fleur d'orange_ spy - Two absurd little cards! - Had I only been wise, - And have finished my _Times_, - 'Twould have opened my eyes, - And have spared you my rhymes! - One can't always depend - On the word of a Rose. - My poem's at an end, - And my life's full of prose! - Here's a handful of rice - For a couple of geese-- - _Is_ it awfully nice - To have flowers from Nice? - - -BAGGAGE ON THE BRAIN. - -A LUGGAGERIAL LYRIC. - -_Sung by a Victim at a Foreign Custom House._ - - O, WOULD you know the perplexity of travelling - With ladies and their luggage on a railway train? - Stay while my lay I am rapidly unravelling, - The sad effects of Baggage on the human Brain! - Powerful portmanteaux here, all brazen-bound and leathery, - Porters hate, for in their weight they're anything but feathery; - Bursting bags, so very full, you'll never get to snap at all, - Fat and frequent boxes quite impossible to strap at all. - - Stay--what display, both of quantity and quality, - These rummaging _douaniers_ oft bring to light; - Ev'ry description of feminine frivolity,-- - They rumple it and crumple it in fiendish spite! - Coloured bows and silken hose, with snowiest of petticoats, - Little loves of tiny gloves, and bugle-broidered jetty coats, - Morning caps and evening wraps, with handkerchiefs and quillery, - Dinner dresses, golden tresses, ribbon, lace, and frillery! - - Here you may peer at a galaxy of tiny boots, - Of every kind of cobblery, exposed to view; - Shoes you may choose, and infinity of shiny boots, - And coverings for little feet in bronze and blue; - Bonny little Balmorals, to shoe a fair pedestrian, - Some with furs, and some with spurs, for exercise equestrian; - Slipperettes, with smart rosettes and ornament bombastical, - Snowy kid to lightly trip upon the toe fantastical! - - There you may stare, at her brushes backed in ivory, - In dressing-bag--all monogram and silver top, - Combery, and scissory, and tweezery, and knivery, - Enough to stock the window of a cutler's shop! - _Ess. Bouquet_, and _Eau des Fées_, and Jockey Club, in handy flask, - Powder-puff, and rouge enough; a silver baby brandy-flask; - Besides a thousand articles a lady's sure to bring about, - I haven't time to put in rhyme, nor leisure now to sing about! - - -HAYTIME. - - BRIGHT is the sunshine, the breeze is quiescent-- - Leaves whisper low in the Upper Thames reaches-- - Blue is the sky, and the shade mighty pleasant, - Under the beeches: - Midsummer night is, they say, made for dreaming; - Better by far are the visions of daytime-- - Pink and white frocks in the meadow are gleaming-- - Helping in Haytime! - - Sunshine, I'm told, is productive of freckles-- - Sweet are the zephyrs, hay-scented and soothful-- - Work is, of all things, so says Mr. Eccles, - Good for the youthful! - Here let me lounge, 'neath the beeches umbrageous; - Here let me smoke, let me slumber, or slay time, - Gazing with pleasure on toilers courageous-- - Working in Haytime! - - Fair little _faneuses_ in pretty pink dresses, - Merry young maidens in saucy sun-bonnets, - Dainty young damsels with hay in their tresses-- - Worthy of sonnets! - Lazy the cattle are, red are the rowers, - Making a toil of the sweet summer playtime; - Hot are the hay-makers, weary the towers, - Thirsty in Haytime! - - Under the beech, round a flower-decked table, - Pouring the cream out and crushing the berry, - Georgie and Gracie and Milly and Mabel - Gladly make merry! - Laughing young labourers, doubtless judicious, - Come for reward when they fancy it's paytime; - Splendid the cake is, the tea is delicious-- - Grateful in Haytime! - - -PET'S PUNISHMENT. - - O, IF my love offended me, - And we had words together, - To show her I would master be, - I'd whip her with a feather! - - If then she, like a naughty girl, - Would tyranny declare it, - I'd give my pet a cross of pearl, - And make her always bear it. - - If still she tried to sulk and sigh, - And threw away my posies, - I'd catch my darling on the sly, - And smother her with roses! - - But should she clench her dimpled fists, - Or contradict her betters, - I'd manacle her tiny wrists - With dainty golden fetters. - - And if she dared her lips to pout-- - Like many pert young misses-- - I'd wind my arm her waist about, - And punish her--with kisses! - - -THE BABY IN THE TRAIN. - - _Let babies travel--leave me lonely-- - In carriages "For Babies Only"!_ - - - HOW merrily, how cheerily we ride along the rail! - We think not of the driving rain, nor care about the gale! - I'm comfortably seated in a snug back corner seat, - With woolly rugs about my knees, and warmers at my feet: - I've all the morning papers in a heap upon my lap, - I read and calmly contemplate, and think about a nap; - A nap indeed? Impossible! You'll find it all in vain, - To have the slightest slumber with the Baby in the Train! - - His rule is autocratic, and his language it is terse, - He freely fists his dear Mama, and domineers o'er Nurse! - He wrinkles up his forehead like an ancient chimpanzee's, - And babbles of the "puff-puff," and prattles of "gee-gees:" - He guggles and he struggles, and he will not stand not sit, - But he gives an imitation of an apoplectic fit. - I am not very captious, and I wish not to complain-- - But _what_ a crying grievance is the Baby in the Train! - - I wish to feign the friendly, but most shrewdly I reflect-- - In silly finger-snapping I must lose my self-respect: - Can I crow or can I chuckle with a countenance serene? - Is "kitchee-kitchee" fitted for my gravity of mien? - Can I talk of "doggie-oggies," or prate of "ittle dears"? - Is "peep-bo" fit amusement for a person of my years? - And though I do my very best to try to entertain, - I'm thought a vile impostor by the Baby in the Train! - - He knows that I am longing to make faces on the sly, - How spitefully I'd pinch him if no guardians were nigh! - He clutches at my watch-chain, he smiles upon my suit, - He tries to eat my eye-glass, he jumps upon my boot; - He takes away my walking-stick, he crumples up my _Punch_; - He burrows deep in paper-bags in foraging for lunch; - And cups of milk, at stations oft, how eagerly he'll drain, - With sighs of satisfaction, will this Baby in the Train! - - O bold Directors, build a car to take such household pets! - And fit it up with cots and cribs and rocking basinettes, - And lullabies and picture-books and bon-bons, cakes, and toys, - To soothe the savage bosoms of these little girls and boys. - Brim high the cup with caudle then! Let Soothing Syrup flow! - Let roasted mutton deck the board, and milky rice also! - And let all Railway Companies immediately maintain - A separate compartment for the Baby in the Train! - - -MISS SAILOR-BOY. - - _I pause and watch the boats pass by, - And paint her portrait on the sly!_ - - - HER age is twelve; half bold, half coy-- - Her friends all call her "Sailor-Boy"-- - With sweet brown eyes beyond compare, - And close-cropped, curling, sunny hair; - Her smart straw hat you'll notice, and - See "Jennie" broidered on the band, - Her sailor's knot, and lanyard too, - With jersey trim of navy blue; - Her short serge frock distinctly shows - Well shapen legs in sable hose - And symphonies in needlework, - Where dimpled pearly shadows lurk-- - Which, as she swings her skirts, you note - Peep out beneath her petticoat. - This sunburnt baby dives and floats, - She manages canoes or boats; - Can steer and scull, can reef or row, - Or punt or paddle, fish or tow. - The lithest lass you e'er could see - In all Short-petticoaterie! - -MAPLEDURHAM LOCK, _August_. - - -A PRIVATE NOTE. - -PICKED UP ON THE TENNIS LAWN. - - I NEVER can tell you, my dear little Loo-- - And useless to help me I'm certain my pen is-- - Concerning my dress of forget-me-not blue, - I'm taking to Dingle to play at lawn-tennis. - - The buttons are silver, of quaint filigree, - The cuffs and the collar quite artfully quilted; - The pouch the most perfect you ever could see, - The skirt is of flannel most cunningly kilted! - - The latter is short, and it serves to disclose-- - _Entre nous_ I am told that my ankles are killing-- - A glimpse of the clocks on cerulean hose, - The slightest suspicion of Honiton frilling! - - My hat is cream-white, with a kingfisher's wing-- - A dainty device of my special designing-- - My smart ulsterette, e'en a poet might sing, - 'Tis white corduroy, with a rose-coloured lining! - - The daintiest dress! 'Twould exactly suit you-- - I think you'll allow it is awfully jolly-- - Come over and see it! Till then, my dear Loo, - Believe me to be, yours devotedly, Dolly! - - -L'INCONNUE. - - FAR, far from the town, - I spied drifting down, - Cheeks ruddy and brown-- - Eyes so blue-- - A sweet sailor-girl, - With hair all a-curl-- - In canoe. - - She dreams in her boat, - And sweet is the note - That white little throat - Carols through: - She languidly glides, - And skilfully guides-- - Her canoe. - - 'Neath tremulous trees, - She loiters at ease, - And I, if you please, - Wonder who - May be the sweet maid, - Who moons in the shade-- - _Inconnue._ - - Pray tell me who can, - Is she Alice or Anne? - Is she Florrie or Fan? - Is she Loo? - The laziest pet, - You ever saw yet-- - In canoe. - - The river's like glass-- - As slowly I pass, - This sweet little lass, - Raises two - Forget-me-not eyes, - In laughing surprise-- - From canoe. - - And as I float by, - Said I, "Miss, O why? - O why may not I - Drift with you?" - Said she, with a start, - "I've no room in my heart-- - Or canoe!" - - -FALLACIES OF THE FOG. - - _A London Fog when it arises - All London soon demoralizes!_ - - - BELIEVE me, I'd shatter the indolent fetters - That long have enchained me and held me too fast; - I'd earnestly try to reply to my letters, - That should have been answered the week before last; - I'd get up betimes, and I ne'er would be surly, - Nor slumber till twelve like an underbred hog; - I wouldn't play pool, and I'd go to bed early-- - But can't on account of the Fog! - - My mind I'd improve--I would e'en give up smoking-- - Grow earnest and useful in all sorts of ways-- - I'd soon become staid, never laughing or joking, - Preferring statistics to novels or plays! - No more at the weather would I be a railer; - No longer our climate I'd ceaselessly slog. - I'd settle at once with my hatter and tailor-- - But can't on account of the Fog! - - I'd go and take part in the dullest of dinners, - The prosiest praters I ne'er try to snub; - And Borewell would find me the best of all grinners - At all the old stories he tells at the Club. - At slow Kettledrums I would often be present, - And talk like a fool or a prim pedagogue; - To rudest relations I'd sometimes be pleasant-- - But can't on account of the Fog! - - I'd pay all those calls I so long have neglected, - And highest opinions deservedly earn; - And do proper things such as none e'er expected-- - That borrowed umbrella at once I'd return. - I'd browse in a pasture of virtuous clover, - I cannot detail all the long catalogue - Of countless new leaves I would gladly turn over-- - But can't on account of the Fog! - - -THE MERRY YOUNG WATER-GIRL. - -A NEW SONG TO AN OLD AIR. - - I WAITED last Monday at Medmenham Ferry, well-- - Anxious for some one to ferry me o'er: - The man was at dinner, and I could tell very well - He would not return for an hour or more. - So I sat me down and smoked so steadily. - What should I do? I could not tell readily. - A maiden rowed by who had soft sunny hair, - Whose dimples and eyes were beyond all compare-- - This Water-Girl was so uncommonly fair! - - But only to think, as I pondered there wearily, - And gazed at the Abbey, and thought it a bore, - She leant on her sculls, and she offered most cheerily - To row me across to the opposite shore! - I said, "How kind!" She pouted capriciously! - I stepped aboard, and she smiled deliciously! - And rowed off at once with so charming an air, - And feathered her sculls with such neatness and care-- - This Water-Girl was so delightfully fair! - - For once I'm in luck--there is not the least doubt of it! - Alas that the voyage is concluded so soon! - The skiff's by the shore, and I slowly get out of it, - And wish the fair damsel "a good afternoon." - I raise my hat, and she looks so thrillingly! - I thank her much, and depart unwillingly! - She smiles, and she ripples her soft sunny hair; - And leaves a heart broken beyond all repair!-- - This Water-Girl was so surpassingly fair! - - -A SECULAR SERMON. - - _As I sit on the shore and gaze at the sea - Where children are wading with infinite glee, - Comes Mama unto Molly--a mischievous imp-- - Whose tiny pink toes were coercing a shrimp: - "O Molly, how thoughtless! My darling," said she, - "Be kind to dumb creatures where'er you may be!" - Then I think, as I gaze on the laughing young elf, - From this text, what a sermon I'll preach to myself!_ - - - SPEAK gently to the herring, and kindly to the calf, - Be blithesome with the bunny, at barnacles don't laugh! - Give nuts unto the monkey, and buns unto the bear, - Ne'er hint at currant jelly if you chance to see a hare! - O, little girls, pray hide your combs, when tortoises draw nigh, - And never in the hearing of a pigeon whisper Pie! - But give the stranded jelly-fish a shove into the sea-- - Be always kind to animals wherever you may be! - - Be lenient with lobsters, and ne'er be cross with crabs, - And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs; - Chase not the cochin-china, chaff not the ox obese, - And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese! - O, never gape at dormice, with crickets ne'er be bold, - Don't overtax the mussel, or let your eels be sold: - When talking to a turtle don't mention calipee-- - Be always kind to animals wherever you may be! - - O, make not game of sparrows, nor faces at the ram, - And ne'er allude to mint sauce when calling on a lamb! - Don't beard the thoughtful oyster, don't dare the cod to crimp, - Don't cheat the pike or ever try to pot the playful shrimp. - Tread lightly on the turning worm, don't braise the butterfly, - Don't ridicule the wry-neck, nor sneer at salmon-fry; - O, ne'er delight to make dogs fight, nor bantams disagree-- - Be always kind to animals wherever you may be! - - Be patient with black-beetles, be courteous to cats, - And be not harsh with haddocks, nor rigorous with rats; - Don't speak of "blind-man's holiday," if e'er you meet a mole; - And if you have a frying-pan, don't show it to a sole! - O, chirrup with the grasshopper, be merry with the grig, - But never quote from Bacon in the presence of a pig! - Don't hurry up the slothful snail, let flies drop in to tea-- - Be always kind to animals wherever you may be! - - -ON THE FRENCH COAST. - - TALK about lazy time!-- - Come to this sunny clime-- - Life is a flowing rhyme-- - Pleasant its cadence! - Zephyrs are blowing free - Over the summer sea, - Sprinkling deliciously - Merry Mermaidens! - - Despite the torrid heat, - Toilettes are quite complete; - White are the little feet, - Fair are the tresses: - Maidens here swim or sink, - Clad in blue serge--I think - Some are in mauve or pink-- - Gay are the dresses! - - If you know Etretât, - You will know _M'sieu là_-- - O, such a strong papa!-- - Ever out boating. - You'll know his babies too, - Toto and Lolalou, - All the long morning through - Diving and floating. - - Look at that merry crew! - Fresh from the water blue, - Rosy and laughing too-- - Daring and dripping! - Notice each merry mite, - Held up a dizzy height, - Laughing from sheer delight-- - Fearless of slipping! - - He hath a figure grand-- - Note, as he takes his stand, - Poised upon either hand, - Merry young mer-pets: - Drop them! You strong papa, - Swim back to Etretât! - Here comes their dear Mama, - Seeking for _her_ pets! - - -AT THE "LORD WARDEN." - - O, HOW she pouts o'er _Bradshaw's Guide_, - This dainty little two weeks' bride! - Pray has she found, on reaching Dover, - Her lot no longer cast in clover? - Do honeymooning moments drag, - Or has she lost her dressing bag? - - Or does she grieve for kith and kin? - Or has she lost her _Bound to Win_? - Or does she find her golden fetter - Now binds her more to worse than better? - Or has she lost her left-hand glove? - Or does she mourn a bygone love? - - Perhaps she wants a cup of tea, - Or very much dislikes the sea; - And views with greatest dread and sorrow - The crossing over on the morrow! - Or thinks it much too long to wait - For dinner until half-past eight! - - Perhaps she cannot find her keys, - Perhaps she's difficult to please:-- - I know not which, but it is fearful - To see those pretty eyes so tearful! - Her face--it cannot be denied-- - Too sad is for a two weeks' bride! - -DOVER, _September_. - - -BOLNEY FERRY. - - THE way was long, the sun was high, - The Minstrel was fatigued and dry! - From Wargrave he came walking down, - In hope to soon reach Henley town; - And at the "Lion" find repast, - To slake his thirst and break his fast. - Alas! there's neither punt or wherry - To take him over Bolney Ferry! - - He gazes to the left and right-- - No craft is anywhere in sight, - Except the horse-boat he espied - Secure upon the other side; - No skiff he finds to stem the swirl, - No ferryman, nor boy, nor girl! - He sits and sings there "Hey down derry!" - But can't get over Bolney Ferry! - - No ferry-girl? Indeed I'm wrong, - For she--the subject of my song-- - So dainty, dimpled, young, and fair, - Is coolly sketching over there. - She gazes, stops, then seems to guess - The reason of the Bard's distress. - A brindled bull-dog she calls "Jerry," - Comes with her over Bolney Ferry! - - She pulls, and then she pulls again, - With shapely hands, the rusty chain; - She smiles, and, with a softened frown, - She bids her faithful dog lie down. - As she approaches near the shore - She shows her dimples more and more. - Her short white teeth, lips like a cherry - Unpouting show, at Bolney Ferry! - - With joy he steps aboard the boat, - The Rhymer's rescued and afloat! - She chirps and chatters, and the twain - Together pull the rusty chain: - He sighs to think each quaint clink-clank - But brings him nearer to the bank! - His heart is sad, her laugh is merry, - And so they part at Bolney Ferry! - - The Minstrel sitting down to dine - To retrospection doth incline; - "A faultless figure, watchet eyes - As sweet as early summer skies! - What pretty hands, what subtle grace, - And what a winsome little face!" - In Mrs. Williams' driest sherry - He toasts the Lass of Bolney Ferry! - - -DOT. - - O, HAD I but a fairy yacht, - I know quite well what I would do-- - I soon would sail away with Dot! - - I'd quickly weave a cunning plot, - Had I but fairies for my crew-- - O, had I but a fairy yacht! - - I'd soon be off just like a shot, - Far, far across the ocean blue; - I soon would sail away with Dot! - - What happiness would be my lot, - With nought to do all day but woo-- - O, had I but a fairy yacht! - - To some sweet unfrequented spot-- - If I but thought that hearts were true-- - I soon would sail away with Dot! - I'd sail away, not minding what, - My friends approve, or foes pooh-pooh-- - O, had I but a fairy yacht! - - For name or fame care not a jot, - I'd leave behind no trace or clue-- - I soon would sail away with Dot! - - Forgetting all, by all forgot, - I'd live and love the whole day through-- - O, had I but a fairy yacht! - - In distant lands I'd build a cot, - And live alone with I know who-- - I soon would sail away with Dot! - - I'd start at once--O, would I not? - If I were only twenty-two-- - O, had I but a fairy yacht, - I soon would sail away with Dot! - -COWES, _August_. - - -A RIVERSIDE LUNCHEON. - - OUR Crew it is stalwart, our Crew it is smart, - But needeth refreshment at noon; - Let's land at the lawn of the cheery "White Hart," - Now gay with the glamour of June! - For here can we lunch to the music of trees-- - In sight of the swift river running-- - Off cuts of cold beef and a prime Cheddar cheese, - And a tankard of bitter at Sonning! - - The garden is lovely, the host is polite, - His rose-trees are ruddy with bloom, - The snowy-clad table with tankards bedight, - And pleasant that quaint little room; - So sit down at once, at your inn take your ease-- - No man of our Crew will be shunning-- - A cut of cold beef and a prime Cheddar cheese, - And a tankard of bitter at Sonning! - - We've had a long pull, and our hunger is keen, - We've all a superb appetite! - The lettuce is crisp, and the cresses are green, - The ale it is beady and bright; - New potatoes galore, and delicious green peas-- - The Skipper avers they are "stunning"-- - With cuts of cold beef and a prime Cheddar cheese, - And a tankard of bitter at Sonning! - - The windows are open, the lime-scented breeze - Comes mixed with the perfume of hay; - We list to the weir and the humming of bees - As we sit and we smoke in the bay! - Then here's to our host, ever anxious to please, - And here's to his brewers so cunning! - The cuts of cold beef and the prime Cheddar cheese, - And the tankards of bitter at Sonning! - - -LOVE-LOCKS. - - IN Arcady's fair groves there dwells - A Wizard, and 'tis there he sells - All sorts of canning beauty spells, - From snow-white skins to blushes: - For pretty girls are scented toys; - Young men can buy _pomade Hongroise_; - There's hair-dye for the gay old boys, - And ivory-backed brushes. - - There beauty's tresses are unfurled, - There blonde moustachios are twirled, - And darlings who have curls are curled, - While those who've none buy plenty: - The Wizard keeps the key, 'tis true, - To turn grey locks to raven hue, - And makes bald coots of sixty-two - Become smart youths of twenty. - - My hair is getting thin, and so - To Arcady I sometimes go - In search of "balm," for you must know - I hold "_Dum spiro, spero_:" - Though washes of all sorts I've tried, - And countless ointments have applied, - Old Time has made my parting wide, - And sunk my hopes to zero. - - The other day it came to pass, - I sat me down before the glass, - And saw reflected there, alas! - A face grown old and jaded: - That face was scored by lines of care, - The forehead was quite high and bare; - For, strange to say, the thick brown hair - Of other days had faded! - - Ah, how that face has changed since times - Long passed away, when at "The Limes" - My laughter rang with midnight chimes-- - My song was gay and early! - Then hearts were hearts, and blue were skies, - And tender were sweet Lucy's eyes-- - When I believed in woman's sighs, - My locks were thick and curly! - - As Mr. Wizard snips and snips, - I think of Lucy's laughing lips, - And whilst he just takes off the tips, - I muse on bygone pleasures: - At home I have a tiny tress - Of soft brown hair; I must confess, - Although it caused me much distress, - 'Tis treasured 'mid my treasures. - - Ah, would that night come back again - When she took from her _châtelaine_ - Her scissors!--it was not in vain. - I hear her laugh the while her - Fingers, dimpled soft and fair, - Thrill as she clips one lock of hair; - While I, like Samson, sit still there, - And smile on sweet Delilah. - - When blonde and brown locks interlace, - Or scented tresses sweep your face, - While laughter unto sighs give place, - And pouting lips are present; - Or meek grey eyes droop still more meek, - And dimples play at hide-and-seek, - There's but one language lips can speak-- - 'Tis brief, but rather pleasant! - - In place of Lucy's hand I feel - The chilly touch of Wizard's steel, - Who brings me back from the ideal, - By talk of lime-juice water; - And beauty's fingers no more hold - My locks--they're by the barber sold - To stuff arm-chairs; sometimes, I'm told, - They're used to mix with mortar! - - And Lucy? She's at Bangalore, - And married to old Colonel Bore; - They say she flirts from ten to four-- - Indeed, I do not doubt them. - 'Tis hard to steer among the rocks - Of life without some awkward knocks; - They say that "Love laughs loud at locks"-- - He howls at those without them! - - -A STREATLEY SONATA. - - YES! Here I am! I've drifted down-- - The sun is hot, my face is brown-- - Before the wind from Moulsford town, - So pleasantly and fleetly! - I know not what the time may be-- - It must be half-past Two or Three-- - And so I think I'll land and see, - Beside the "Swan" at Streatley! - - And when you're here, I'm told that you - Should mount the Hill and see the view; - And gaze and wonder, if you'd do - Its merits most completely: - The air is clear, the day is fine, - The prospect is, I know, divine-- - But most distinctly I decline - To climb the Hill at Streatley! - - My Doctor, surely he knows best, - Avers that I'm in need of rest; - And so I heed his wise behest - And tarry here discreetly: - 'Tis sweet to muse in leafy June, - 'Tis doubly sweet this afternoon, - So I'll remain to muse and moon - Before the "Swan" at Streatley! - - But from the Hill, I understand - You gaze across rich pasture-land; - And fancy you see Oxford and - P'r'aps Wallingford and Wheatley: - Upon the winding Thames you gaze, - And, though the view's beyond all praise, - I'd rather much sit here and laze - Than scale the Hill at Streatley! - - I sit and lounge here on the grass, - And watch the river-traffic pass; - I note a dimpled, fair young lass, - Who feathers low and neatly: - Her hands are brown, her eyes are grey, - And trim her nautical array-- - Alas! she swiftly sculls away, - And leaves the "Swan" at Streatley! - - She's gone! Yes, now she's out of sight! - She's gone! But still the sun is bright, - The sky is blue, the breezes light - With thyme are scented sweetly: - She _may_ return! So here I'll stay, - And, just to pass the time away, - I smoke and weave a lazy lay - About the "Swan" at Streatley! - - -THE MIDSHIPMAID. - - THE sea is calm, the sky is blue; - I've nothing in the world to do - But watch the sea-gulls flap and veer, - From 'neath the awning on the Pier; - And as I muse there in the shade, - I see a merry Midshipmaid. - - The sauciest of bonny belles, - In broidered coat with white lappels; - Her ample tresses one descries - Are closely plaited, pig-tail-wise. - A smart cocked hat, a trim cockade, - Are sported by this Midshipmaid. - - I wonder, in a dreamy way, - If e'er she lived in Nelson's day? - Was she a kind of "William Carr," - Or did she fight at Trafalgar? - And could she wield a cutlass-blade, - This laughing little Midshipmaid? - - Was she among the trusty lads-- - Before the time of iron-clads-- - Those reckless, brave young Hearts of Oak, - Who looked on danger as a joke? - Or did she ever feel afraid, - This dainty little Midshipmaid? - - She might have fought, indeed she should, - In time of Howe or Collingwood; - She might have--but I pause and note - She wears a kilted petticoat; - And 'neath it you may see displayed - Trim ankles of the Midshipmaid! - - My dream is past! This naval swell - Is naught but pretty Cousin Nell! - "You Lazy Thing," she says, "confess - You're quite enchanted with my dress. - Just take me down the Esplanade!"-- - _I'm captured by the Midshipmaid!_ - - -A PANTILE POEM. - - BENEATH the Limes, 'tis passing sweet - To shelter find from noontide heat; - At Tunbridge Wells, in torrid days, - This leafy shade's beyond all praise-- - A picturesque, cool, calm retreat! - - I sit upon a penny seat, - And noddle time with languid beat, - The while the band brave music plays - Beneath the Limes! - - I watch the tramp of many feet, - And passing friends I limply greet, - Well shielded from the solar rays; - I sit and weave some lazy lays, - When hours are bright and time is fleet-- - Beneath the Limes! - - Beneath the Limes, 'tis good, you know, - To lounge here for an hour or so, - And sit and listen if you please - To sweet leaf-lyrics of the trees-- - As balmy August breezes blow! - - You'll dream of courtly belle and beau, - Who promenaded long ago, - Who flirted, danced, and took their ease-- - Beneath the Limes! - - No doubt they made a pretty show - In hoop, in sack, and furbelow; - These slaves to Fashion's stern decrees, - These patched and powdered Pantilese, - With all their grand punctilio-- - Beneath the Limes! - - Beneath the Limes, perchance you'll fret - For bygone times, and may regret - The manners of the time of Anne, - The graceful conduct of a fan, - And stately old-world etiquette! - - The good old days are gone, and yet - You never saw, I'll freely bet, - More beauty since the Wells began-- - Beneath the Limes! - - For Linda, Bell, and Margaret, - With Nita, Madge, and Violet, - Alicia, Phyllis, Mona, Nan, - And others you'll not fail to scan, - Will make you bygone times forget-- - Beneath the Limes! - - -HENLEY IN JULY. - - O, COME down to Henley, for London is horrid; - There's no peace or quiet to sunset from dawn. - The Row is a bore, and the Park is too torrid, - So come down and lounge on the "Red lion" Lawn! - Then, come down to Henley, no time like the present, - The sunshine is bright, the barometer's high-- - O, come down at once, for Regatta-time's pleasant, - Thrice pleasant is Henley in laughing July! - - Now, gay are the gardens of Fawley and Phyllis, - The Bolney backwaters are shaded from heat; - The rustle of poplars on Remenham Hill is, - Mid breezes æstival, enchantingly sweet! - When hay-scented meadows with oarsmen are crowded-- - Whose bright tinted blazers gay toilettes outvie-- - When sunshine is hot and the sky is unclouded, - O, Henley is splendid in lovely July! - - Ah me! what a revel of exquisite colours, - What costumes in pink and in white and in blue, - By smart _canoistes_ and by pretty girl-scullers, - Are sported in randan, in skiff, and canoe! - What sun-shaded lasses we see out a-punting, - What fair _gondoliere_ perchance we espy. - And house-boats and launches all blossom and bunting-- - O, Henley's a picture in merry July! - - If it rains, as it may, in this climate capricious, - And Beauty is shod in the gruesome galosh; - While each dainty head-dress and toilette delicious - Is shrouded from view in the grim mackintosh! - We'll flee to the cheery "Athena" for shelter-- - The _pâté_ is perfect, the Giesler is dry-- - And think while we gaze, undismayed, at the "pelter," - That Henley is joyous in dripping July! - - The ancient grey bridge is delightful to moon on, - For ne'er such a spot for the mooner was made; - He'll spend, to advantage, a whole afternoon on - Its footway, and loll on its quaint balustrade! - For this, of all others, the best is of places - To watch the brown rowers pull pantingly by, - To witness the splendour, the shouting, the races, - At Henley Regatta in charming July! - - When athletes are weary and hushed is the riot, - When launches have vanished and house-boats are gone, - When Henley once more is delightfully quiet-- - 'Tis soothing to muse on the "Red Lion" Lawn! - When the swans hold their own and the sedges scarce shiver-- - As sweet summer breezes most tunefully sigh-- - Let us laze at the ruddy-faced Inn by the River, - For Henley is restful in dreamy July! - - -THE MINSTREL'S RETURN. - -A MOORE OR LESS MELODY. - - FAREWELL, O farewell to the Holiday Season! - (Thus murmured a Minstrel just back from the sea.) - I'm glad to return unto rhyme and to reason; - In London once more I'm delighted to be! - - Ah! sweet were the days in the Upper Thames reaches, - How happy the doing of nothing at all! - And sweet, too, the flavour of ripe sunny peaches, - That dropped in our hands from the Rectory wall. - - But long shall I cherish, through dreary December, - The thought of that even we drifted away; - The twilight, the silence, I long shall remember, - The flash of the oar and the perfume of hay. - - And still, when "_My Queen_" the street-organ is playing, - Or "_Patience_" is blown by cacophonous bands, - I smile on the discord, I nod to the braying, - And muse with delight upon Scarborough Sands. - - The young laughing maids, with their salt-sprinkled tresses, - Let artfully down on their shoulders to dry; - I see, on the Spa, in their pretty pink dresses: - Maud, Winnie, and Connie, and Daisy, and Di. - - Nor did Cook and his _coupons_ a moment forget me; - My _passeport_ was _visé_ the length of my flight; - While _Murray_ and _Bradshaw_ did aid and abet me. - And Coutts with the circular notes was all right. - - Farewell--when at bedtime I sink on my pillow - I dream of my toil up the snow-covered steep, - While mules, _vetturini_, and boats on the billow, - And polyglot waiters embitter my sleep! - - Ah, me! oft at night how I painfully worry-- - And think where on earth I have possibly been?-- - O'er towns, half forgotten, I saw in a hurry, - And ghosts of the "lions" I ought to have seen! - - And now, when the Club becomes cheerful and crowded, - And men are returning all hearty and brown; - When rooms with the vesper tobacco are clouded-- - 'Tis doubly delightful to get back to town! - - Farewell, O farewell, for dear London is pleasant-- - No longer I feel inclination to roam-- - I think, as I stir up the coals incandescent, - I'm happy indeed to be once more at home! - - - - -A SINGER'S SKETCH-BOOK. - - - - -DOVER. - - ON Dover Pier, brisk blew the wind, - The Fates against me were combined; - For when I noticed standing there, - Sweet Some-one with the sunny hair-- - To start I felt not much inclined. - - Too late! I cannot change my mind, - The paddles move! I am resigned-- - I only know I would I were, - On Dover Pier! - - I wonder--will the Fates be kind? - On my return, and shall I find - That grey-eyed damsel passing fair, - So bonny, blithe, and debonair, - The pretty girl I left behind? - On Dover Pier! - - -CHAMOUNI. - - A CLIMBING Girl, I met, you know, - Above the Valley in the snow; - I raised my hat, she deigned to speak, - She pointed out each pass and peak, - And sombre pine-trees down below. - - We watched the sunset's ruddy glow, - We watched the lengthened shadows grow, - Her eyes and dimples were unique-- - A Climbing Girl! - - To Chamouni our pace was slow, - It darker grew, we whispered low; - Her dimples played at hide-and-seek-- - Ah me! 'twas only Tuesday week - She married Viscount So-and-so-- - A Climbing Girl! - - -BAVENO. - - BENEATH the Vines, Hotel Belle Vue, - I'm very certain I know who - Here loves to trifle, I'm afraid, - Or lounge upon the balustrade, - And watch the Lake's oft changing hue. - - 'Tis sweet to dream the morning through, - While idle fancies we pursue, - To pleasant plash of passing blade-- - Beneath the Vines! - - I love to laze; it's very true, - I love the sky's supernal blue; - To sit and smoke here in the shade, - And slake my thirst with lemonade, - And dream away an hour or two-- - Beneath the Vines! - - -AT TABLE D'HÔTE. - - AT _Table d'hôte_, I quite decline - To sit there and attempt to dine! - Of course you never dine, but "feed," - And gobble up with fearsome greed - A hurried meal you can't define. - - The room is close, and, I opine, - I should not like the food or wine; - While all the guests are dull indeed - At _Table d'hôte_. - - The clatter and the heat combine - One's appetite to undermine. - When noisy waiters take no heed, - But change the plates at railway speed-- - I feel compelled to "draw my line" - At _Table d'hôte_! - - -AT ETRETÂT. - - A DIVING Belle! Pray who is she? - For swimming thus armed _cap-à-pie_. - (The sea is like a sea of Brett's.) - A graceful girl in trouserettes, - And tunic reaching to the knee. - - Her voice is in the sweetest key, - Her laugh is full of gladsome glee; - Her eyes are blue as violets-- - A Diving Belle! - - I wonder what her name can be? - Her sunny tresses flutter free; - Now with the ripples she coquets, - First one white foot, then two, she wets. - A splash! She's vanished in the sea-- - A Diving Belle! - - -HOMESICK. - - 'MID Autumn Leaves, now thickly shed, - We wander where our paths o'erspread, - With yellow russet, red and sere: - The country's looking dull and drear, - The sky is gloomy overhead. - - The equinoctial gales we dread, - The summer's gone, the sunshine's fled; - We've rambled far enough this year-- - 'Mid Autumn Leaves! - - Though fast our travel-time has sped, - On London's flags we long to tread; - The latest laugh and chaff to hear, - To find the Club grown doubly dear; - Its gas burns bright, its fire glows red-- - 'Mid Autumn Leaves! - - -SKREELIESPORRAN. - -A SONG FOR BAGPIPES. - - HAGGIS broo is bla' and braw, - Kittle kail is a' awa'; - Gin a lassie kens fu' weel, - Ilka pawkie rattlin reel. - Hey the laddie! Ho the plaidie! - Hey the sonsie Finnie haddie! - Hoot awa'! - - Gang awa' wi philibegs, - Maut's nae missed frae tappit kegs; - Sound the spleuchan o' the stanes, - Post the pibroch i' the lanes! - Hey the swankie, scrievin' shaver! - Ho the canny clishmaclaver! - Hoot awa'! - - Parritch glowry i' the ee, - Mutchkin for a wee drappee; - Feckfu' is the barley-bree-- - Unco' gude! Ah! wae is me! - Hey the tousie Tullochgorum! - Ho the mixtie-maxtie jorum! - Hoot awa'! - - -A CHRISTMAS CAROL. - - 'TIS merry 'neath the mistletoe, - When holly-berries glisten bright; - When Christmas fires gleam and glow - When wintry winds so wildly blow, - And all the meadows round are white-- - 'Tis merry 'neath the mistletoe! - - How happy then are Fan and Flo, - With eyes a-sparkle with delight! - When Christmas fires gleam and glow, - When dainty dimples come and go, - And maidens shrink with feignëd fright-- - 'Tis merry 'neath the mistletoe! - - A privilege 'tis then, you know, - To exercise time-honoured rite; - When Christmas fires gleam and glow - When loving lips may pout, although - With other lips they oft unite-- - 'Tis merry 'neath the mistletoe! - - If Florry then should whisper "No!" - Such whispers should be stifled quite, - When Christmas fires gleam and glow; - If Fanny's coy objecting "O!" - Be strangled by a rare foresight-- - 'Tis merry 'neath the mistletoe! - - When rosy lips, like Cupid's bow, - Assault provokingly invite, - When Christmas fires gleam and glow, - When slowly falls the sullen snow, - And dull is drear December night-- - 'Tis merry 'neath the mistletoe! - - -SOUND WITHOUT SENSE. - -A POEM FOR RECITATION. - - (_A Certain Person, staying at Sniggerton-on-Sea, was asked by the - Vicar to give a recitation at one of the Penny Readings. But when - the evening came he found, as usual, he had been too lazy to learn - anything. Nothing daunted, he stepped on the platform, with a - profound bow and a defiant air, and said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I - am about to attempt a recitation of the celebrated poem, so widely - known as 'The Capstan Bar.'" Great applause. Awkward people, - regardless of grammar, whisper, "Who by?" Officious people, - regardless of truth, say, "Byron, Longfellow, Tennyson, Wendell - Holmes, Browning, Bret Harte, &c., &c." Mild people say, "O, yes, - of course, how stupid; recollect the piece very well now you - mention it." Impatient people say, "S-s-s-sh!" and the C. P., - fixing a nervous old Lady in the front row with his eye, - thus begins_)-- - - AH! the days are past when we clomb the mast and sat on the peerless - peak, - And laughed aloud at the topping lift and jeered at the garboard - streak! - Yet the wayward windlass is blithe and gay, there's brass in the - County Bank, - There is ale to drink as we sit and think, and knots in the - oaken plank: - But the fretful foam of the summer sea, the scent of the seething tar, - Alas and alack they ever bring back, the fate of the Capstan Bar! - - (_"O, Bravo!" shout those who pretended they knew the poem. The - Vicar nods his head approvingly. "How sweet!" says a gushing young - Lady of uncertain age who contributes to "Poet's Corner" in the - "Sniggerton Sentinel." The C. P. thinks he has made an impression, - and, putting on an air of intense pain, he proceeds._) - - O! we toil and moil and we moil and toil for the scanty wage we earn, - As the mud may spatter the hansom-cab and freckle the fitful fern: - But never again in the wreathing rain, a-roll on the raucous rink, - Do we clasp the hand of the German band and swim in the sable ink! - While the pallid hencoop may pass away and the juggëd hare may jar, - With a gruesome groan as he sits alone and stares at the Capstan Bar! - - (_Two old Ladies shed tears, the Poetess tells her friend that she - has "quite a lump in her throat" and the Landlord of the "Jocund - Jellyfish," thinking the "Bar" is something convivial, vows he - will ask the Recitor what he will please to take directly the - performance is over. The C. P. changes his tone to one of hearty - joviality and proceeds merrily._) - - But our hearts beat high for the Strasbourg pie, for two-pronged forks - are keen, - And our knives are sharp as we twang the harp and batter the - old tureen! - While the limpets laugh and the winkle wails and the hermit-crab - is sore, - And the pensive puffin tries hard to learn the Song of the - Steve_dore_; - For the gleesome gull flaps his white, white wings and longs for a - mild cigar, - As the simple lads smoke Intimidads and sigh for the Capstan Bar! - - (_Hearty applause from the umbrella of the principal tobacconist. - The Vicar shakes his head, and fears the poem is getting a little - too convivial. The C. P. only wishes he knew how it was going to - end. But, putting on the expression of a bland Bishop on a - bicycle, in a sweet voice, tinged with sorrow, he continues._) - - Ah! 'tis passing sweet when the day is done, and the craven - cringles croon, - And the snackfrews start in the village cart, in sight of the - silver moon; - When the gloomy gargler has gone to sleep, and the busy buzwigs snore, - As the lovers stalk with a catlike walk on the cataleptic shore! - And gay Lantern Jack and fair Amberanne are happy enough--but har! - There's bold Sparrer Gus with his blunderbuss lies hid by the - Capstan Bar! - - (_He gives the last line with such tragic force that he frightens - the Old Ladies out of their wits, and makes the Vicar nearly jump - out of his chair. The C. P. then delivers the following verse with - frenzied energy and marvellous rapidity. He contorts his - countenance, he shakes his fist, he stamps, and he shouts._) - - A howl and a yowl, as the rivals close, with a frantic force they - fight; - A smash and a crash, and the pebbles fly, as they kick and scream - and bite! - A thump and a bump and a blackened eye, a sprain and a broken nose! - A crack and a smack and a fractured leg--a bundle of tattered clothes! - But bold Sparrer Gus, when the red sun rose, was nought but a - bruisëd scar, - And gay Lantern Jack he never came back that night from the - Capstan Bar! - - (_Terrific applause, as every one thinks it is over. Great - disappointment of the Audience when the C. P., after bowing low, - holds up his hand as a token that he will try their patience a few - moments longer. He gives a deep sigh, and in a low plaintive voice - recites the remainder._) - - Ah! our tale is told! But we oft come here and gaze on the - haunted mill, - For the noxious nugget no longer chirps and the captious carp is still! - When the gaping grampus is all forlorn and the muffineers are beat, - When the scallywag, with his carpet-bag, refuses to drink or eat, - When the careful crumpet no longer tries to plunder the Pullman car, - When the day is past and the tide runs fast--we weep for the - Capstan Bar! - - (_A whirlwind of applause, during which the C. P. retires, jumps - into a cab, just catches the mail train, and is in London before - the Vicar and the good people of Sniggerton have quite decided who - was the Author of the notable Poem they had heard recited._) - - -THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY. - -A REALISTIC STUDY. - - _A Song of May? Who can essay-- - When nights are cold and skies are grey, - When clad in winterly attire, - When crooning o'er the ruddy fire-- - A merry laughing roundelay? - When raw and rainy is each day, - With nothing Springlike to inspire - This hopeless, dull, catarrhic lyre-- - Who can essay a Song of May?_ - - O, MAY is the month when the madly æsthetical - Plunge deep into nonsense profoundly poetical! - They sing and they shout about sunshine and greenery, - Of beauty and blossom and song-birds and scenery: - I own that my notion of May is a hazy one, - And don't think its weather is good for the Lazy One; - To go out of doors I have not the temerity-- - Now May has set in with its usual severity! - - The weather, distressing for man and for beast it is, - The sky is o'erclouded, the wind in the East it is; - The streets and the footways detestably muddy are, - Our cheeks are all blue, and our noses all ruddy are: - We've coughs, and we've colds, and we've pains most rheumatical, - Our temper is short, and our language emphatical! - There's nothing but hopeless, dull, gloomy austerity-- - Now May has set in with its usual severity! - - The mornings are dark, and the nights demoniacal, - We're dismal, depressed, and we're hypochondriacal! - O, May is a fraud--there's no trace of blue skies about, - The month that all poets have told lots of lies about! - Let's all stop at home, and in easy-chairs ruminate, - The curtains draw close and the lamps now illuminate; - And pile on the logs with most cheerful celerity-- - Now May has set in with its usual severity! - - -TWO AND TWO. - -A SONG OF SCHOOL-GIRLS. - - COME the little ones in frocks, - With their pretty shoes and socks, - And their tangled sunny locks-- - Laughing crew! - Come the dainty dimpled pets, - With their tresses all in nets, - And their peeping pantalettes - Just in view: - Come the gay and graceful girls, - With their fringes and their curls-- - Sweetest string of Beauty's pearls, - Two and two! - - What delicious laughter trills, - As "rude Boreas" oft wills, - Just to flutter frocks and frills - All askew! - And the "blust'ring railer" shows-- - 'Neath the curt and kilted clothes-- - Hints of shapely sable hose - Unto you-- - With a glimpse of ankles neat, - And small, deftly booted feet, - All a-patter down the street-- - Two and two! - - Here the coming flirt appears, - With the belle of after-years, - And the beauty even peers - May pursue: - Each Liliputian fair - Gallant Guardsmen may ensnare, - Or enthral a millionaire, - And subdue! - Who would think such mischief lies - In the future of their sighs, - Or such pretty childlike eyes-- - Two and two? - - There are eyes of peerless brown, - That in time may take the town; - There are others drooping down-- - Black or blue-- - Whose bright flashes you may find - Will bedazzle--nay, may blind-- - E'en the wisest of mankind, - False and true. - There are lips we cannot miss, - Sweet foreshadowings of bliss-- - Which, in truth, seem made to kiss, - Two and two! - - On the Book of Beauty's page - Fairer girls of ev'ry age, - Skilful artist, I'll engage, - Never drew. - As they prattle, laugh, and play, - It is sad to think some day, - That Old Time their spirits gay, - May subdue! - That young maidens, slim and shy, - May grow old and stout and sly-- - Makes one grieve as they pass by - Two and two! - - -A SHORTHAND SONNET. - -WRITTEN ON THE FAN OF A FLIRT. - - THEY are blue, - As the skies-- - Those sweet eyes, - Made to woo! - But can you - E'er surmise-- - Are her sighs, - False or true? - - To beguile, - And to hurt - With a smile - And desert; - Is the wile, - Of a Flirt! - - -IN A GONDOLA. - - WEARY of show and sight, with pictures bored, - Sick of _palazzi_ and of churches tired; - Here let me rest, and for awhile forget - The "lions" of the City of the Sea! - My friend to see some masterpiece has gone, - When he returns he will of Titian talk, - Of Veronese will he babble on, - Gush o'er Bassano, rave o'er Tintoret! - While he's away I'll rest and muse in peace, - Beneath the _felsa_ will I laze and smoke, - And through the sable doorway gaze upon - The brightly tinted sunny water-sheet! - So quaint, so full of harmony it seems-- - Like some rare picture in an ebon frame! - The foreground shows our trusty gondolier, - White-clad, brown-skinned, recumbent, fast asleep! - Above--the gondola's bright, sheeny prow - That flashes, gleams, and glisters in the sun; - On either side are mouldy, tide-washed walls, - Cracked, blistered, weed-covered, decayed, and damp - Reflecting oft the passing polished prow, - Re-echoing the cry of gondolier! - Here ruddy rust and verdant fungoid growth - Meet in the shattered stone and fissured brick-- - Evolving thence rare harmonies in red, - In brown, in yellow, and in green and grey. - A flight of battered, bankrupt marble steps - Of mildewed aspect, fractured, seamed, and scarred-- - Worn by the lapping of the countless tides, - Made hollow by the tread of centuries-- - Lead to a sculptured archway, where the door, - Massive and iron-bound, now stands ajar, - While footsteps echo through the sombre hall, - To clink of keys and voices partly hushed! - See melancholy windows closely barred - By tangled iron-work of choice design; - And groups of quaintly headed mooring-posts, - Reflected quaintly in the green canal: - Beyond are rare effects of light and shade-- - Strange fitful freaks of colour, hot and cold; - A picturesque low bridge, with life replete, - As figures, gaily dight, pass to and fro. - A mass of cool grey shadow--rising thence, - Behold the fabric of some grand old church, - With blue-faced clock, whose blurred gold figures show - The hour of our luncheon draweth nigh; - Beyond a glint of silver light shows where - The Canalazzo sparkles in the sun; - And, over all, a deep blue sky 'gainst which - But list! In yon balcOny do I hear - The voice of maid, the twang of mandoline! - There, where the sea-green shutters are thrown back, - There, where bright blossoms flout the rugged stone, - From 'neath the awning, gay and saffron-striped, - Comes rippling a Venetian _barcarolle_! - The dreamy song, the tinkling mandoline, - The mild narcotic of the cigarette, - The lulling motion of my lazy craft, - The pleasant, peaceful, plash of passing oar-- - All help to form a soothing lullaby, - Which soon transports me to the Land of Dreams! - I dream I am a Doge of mighty fame; - And I, in gorgeous raiment fitly clad, - Aboard the _Bucentoro_ take mine ease, - And issue mandates none dare disobey! - All tourists are accounted criminal, - And sight-seeing a capital offence; - To the Piombi, bores I quickly send, - My foes unto the Pozzi I consign! - And on the _Bucentoro_ entertain - My friends, like any house-boat on the Thames-- - _A merry laugh! My friend returns! I wake! - My dream is o'er! Alas! no longer Doge, - I dread the countless "lions" yet unseen! - Let us to Danieli's go and lunch!_ - - -_THE LAST LEAF._ - - _A GRAND old Garden by the sea-- - I muse beneath the ilex tree, - And musing, see across the bay, - The white sails gleaming far away! - The flash of foam, the sunshine's glint, - The ever-changing tone and tint, - Of purple, grey, and malachite, - And shadows flitting 'fore the light. - While overhead the summer breeze - Plays sweet leaf music in the trees! - And 'neath the cliff, a muffled roar-- - The ceaseless sigh of surf on shore! - O lilt of leaves! O song of sea! - O mingled thrillful harmony! - Now sweet, now sad, it seems to me. - This touching, tender, minor key. - To such rare music would I sing, - The while I in the hammock swing! - Ah! could the Rhymer but impart - The magic of the Poet's art, - In order that this Leaf might be - A triumph of bright minstrelsy! - O were it not too hot to think, - And if I had but pen and ink; - Or were it not this afternoon, - And if my Banjo were in tune; - Or if the weather were not fine, - And could I rouse this Muse of mine; - Why then.... But there, I can't pretend-- - The Minstrel's lazy to_ - -_THE END._ - - - - -OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON THE FIRST EDITION. - -_St. James's Gazette._--"One of the lightest and brightest writers of -_vers de société_." - -_Saturday Review._--"Mr. J. Ashby-Sterry is a facile and agreeable -versifier, with a genuine gift of expression, a light and dexterous -touch, and a grace that is really individual." - -_The World._--"Sweet and musical. His musical melodies are set in an -appropriately dainty shrine." - -_Daily Telegraph._--"'The Lazy Minstrel' commends itself both by outward -form and inward merit to the lover of choice and dainty literature." - -_Daily News._--"Mr. Ashby-Sterry is a merry bard. He very seldom brings -'the eternal note of sadness in.'" - -_Punch._--"The first edition of his 'Lays' went off with a bang that -must have astonished His Laziness." - -G. A. S. in the _Illustrated London News_.--"Emphatically 'nice' in the -nicest--the old-fashioned sense of the word.... A delicate little -tome.... Graceful and, on occasion, tender." - -_The Globe._--"The bard not only of the lazy but the leisured.... Mr. -Ashby-Sterry is a humourist, too, who sees the ludicrous as well as the -pleasant side of life, and describes it with much gusto.... There is as -much variety in his rhythms as there is ingenuity in his rhymes." - -_The Queen._--"One of the most facile writers of light and pleasant -rhyme." - -_Vanity Fair._--"He is the Laureate of the Upper Thames, and no one has -so completely seized as he has the sentiment of the lovely river." - -_Observer._--"There are few cultivated tastes for which 'The Lazy -Minstrel' does not provide in his characteristic way." - -_The Bookbuyer_ (NEW YORK).--"Mr. Sterry has the lightness and sureness -of touch, without which this kind of verse is of all verse the flattest, -stalest, and most unprofitable. He has a keen eye for those significant -details which make up a picture, an easy indolence which excludes all -appearance of labour, and the self-possession of a man of the world who -amuses himself with the making of verse." - -_Court Circular._--"He is one of the foremost writers of _vers de -société_ of the day, and his productions are distinguished by poetic -fancy and neat workmanship." - -_Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News._--"One of the most welcome of -the lighter singers." - -_The Theatre._--"There never was such a songster." - -_Morning Advertiser._--"He is always in tune with his subject, and knows -how to rhyme with facility and expression." - -_Court Journal._--"Whether witty or pathetic, the lays and carols are -equally well written and entertaining." - -_Newcastle Chronicle._--"Few writers can impart so much grace to -everything he touches, and none have so light and aerial a muse as Mr. -Sterry." - -_North British Daily Mail._--"For fluency of expression, ready command -of the fitting epithet at all times, tender grace and gentle humour, Mr. -Ashby-Sterry is indeed a marvel; and the public are under heavy -obligations to the man who furnishes such a pleasant feast of -mirth-provoking rhymes." - -_Liverpool Daily Post._--"The humour of them is the airy, well-bred -humour of the man of the world." - -_Sheffield Weekly Telegraph._--"Quaint and droll, perfect in design and -diction, light, bright, and musical, these poems are the most cheerful -verses we can meet with in latter-day literature." - -_Liverpool Mercury._--"A delightful little book, delightful to read and -not less delightful to look upon." - -_Brighton Herald._--"Mr. J. Ashby-Sterry is past-master in the art of -manufacturing dainty verses, little bubbles of song that, like bubbles -of another kind, are delightful because they are so fragile and pretty." - -_Liverpool Courier._--"It is a pleasure to meet with verses so -vivacious; to come in contact with a humorous fancy so fresh and -individual." - -_Publishers' Circular._--"It lightens and brightens one's heart to read -Mr. Sterry's charming songs and carols; their good humour and delicious -style, so free from anything like care or worldly taint, seems to be -infectious." - -_Yorkshire Post._--"Here and there 'The Lazy Minstrel' becomes -sentimental, but there is always a touch of gay insouciance about his -sentiment, and a consistent absence of the mawkishness too often found -in the drawing-room ballad." - -_Sheffield Independent._--"Quaint, melodious, finished with marvellous -care, and full of unexpected oddities of form and expression." - -_Liverpool Review._--"He infuses a sunshine and breeziness into his -descriptions of scenes and people which make them live before us. His -laziness never degenerates into languor, or his sentiment into -insipidity." - -_Wakefield Free Press._--"The Lazy one is master of his art--he chooses -all that is fair, serene, and summer-like for his subjects, and treats -them with a soft colour and a musical rhythmic flow that leaves nothing -to be desired." - -_New York Times._--"The metre is perfect, the music of the verse well -sustained, and there is that fun and merry quip in 'The Lazy Minstrel' -which becomes _vers de société_." - - * * * * * - -LONDON: - -T. FISHER UNWIN, 26, PATERNOSTER SQUARE. - - - - -Corrections. - -The first line indicates the original, the second the correction. - - -p. 25: - - A LOVER'S LULLABY - A LOVER'S LULLABY. - -p. 26: - - I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter, - I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter! - -p. 46: - - Her ebony-stick with a crutch. - Her ebony-stick with a crutch - -p. 98: - - Or oves, like dogs, to bark and bite, - Or loves, like dogs, to bark and bite, - -p. 134: - - (_'Twill rain, I'm sure, before the night!_ - (_'Twill rain, I'm sure, before the night!_) - -p. 148: - - The good ship she steers, like a clever young "cox.," - The good ship she steers, like a clever young "cox," - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Lazy Minstrel, by Joseph Ashby-Sterry - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAZY MINSTREL *** - -***** This file should be named 42915-8.txt or 42915-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/9/1/42915/ - -Produced by Irma Špehar, Eleni Christofaki and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/42915-8.zip b/42915-8.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index b3b4296..0000000 --- a/42915-8.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/42915-h.zip b/42915-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 5a776fb..0000000 --- a/42915-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/42915-h/42915-h.htm b/42915-h/42915-h.htm index 7d3a4ab..8ffe042 100644 --- a/42915-h/42915-h.htm +++ b/42915-h/42915-h.htm @@ -2,7 +2,7 @@ "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> <title> The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Lazy Minstrel, by J. Ashby-Sterry. @@ -96,45 +96,7 @@ div.bd {margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 25%;} </style> </head> <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lazy Minstrel, by Joseph Ashby-Sterry - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Lazy Minstrel - -Author: Joseph Ashby-Sterry - -Release Date: June 11, 2013 [EBook #42915] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAZY MINSTREL *** - - - - -Produced by Irma Špehar, Eleni Christofaki and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - -</pre> - +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42915 ***</div> <div class="bd"> <div class="transnote"> @@ -532,10 +494,10 @@ reproduction.</em></p> <tr><td><a href="#BAVENO">Baveno</a></td> <td class="tdr">215</td></tr> <tr> -<td><a href="#AT_TABLE_DHOTE">At Table d'Hôte</a></td> +<td><a href="#AT_TABLE_DHOTE">At Table d'Hôte</a></td> <td class="tdr">216</td></tr> <tr> -<td><a href="#AT_ETRETAT">At Etretât</a></td> +<td><a href="#AT_ETRETAT">At Etretât</a></td> <td class="tdr">217</td></tr> <tr> <td><a href="#HOMESICK">Homesick</a></td> @@ -575,7 +537,7 @@ reproduction.</em></p> <div class="i0"><em>No project to "improve the mind"!</em></div> <div class="i0"><em>No "purpose" lurks within these lays—</em></div> <div class="i0"><em>These idle songs of idle days.</em></div> -<div class="i0"><em>They're seldom learnëd, never long—</em></div> +<div class="i0"><em>They're seldom learnëd, never long—</em></div> <div class="i0"><em>The best apology for song!</em></div> <div class="i0"><em>Should e'er they chance to have the pow'r,</em></div> <div class="i0"><em>To pass away some lazy hour—</em></div> @@ -634,7 +596,7 @@ reproduction.</em></p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">5</a></span><div class="i0">A punt passes in, with Waltonians laden,</div> <div class="i2">And boatman rugose of mahogany hue;</div> <div class="i0">And then comes a youth and a sunny-haired maiden</div> -<div class="i2">Who sit <em>vis-à-vis</em> in their bass-wood canoe.</div> +<div class="i2">Who sit <em>vis-à -vis</em> in their bass-wood canoe.</div> <div class="i0">Now look at the Admiral steering the <em>Fairy</em>,</div> <div class="i2">O, where could he find a much better crew than</div> <div class="i0">His dutiful daughters, Flo, Nina, and Mary,</div> @@ -1387,7 +1349,7 @@ merry, Doctor Brighton.</em>"—<span class="smcap">The Newcomes.</span></p> <div class="i2">List to the patter of smartly shod feet!</div> <div class="i0">Dainty young damsels, whose faces ne'er weary us,</div> <div class="i2">Tailor-made dresses delightfully neat!</div> -<div class="i0">Angular ladies in gloomy æsthetic coats,</div> +<div class="i0">Angular ladies in gloomy æsthetic coats,</div> <div class="i2">Maudle and dawdle the afternoon through;</div> <div class="i0">Graceful girlettes in the shortest of petticoats,</div> <div class="i2">Flutter their frills as they walk two-and-two.</div> @@ -2079,7 +2041,7 @@ merry, Doctor Brighton.</em>"—<span class="smcap">The Newcomes.</span></p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">63</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> <div class="i0">Dinners on deck are divinely delectable—</div> <div class="i2">Under the awning, well screened from the sun—</div> -<div class="i0">Some folks would dine <em>à la Russe</em> and respectable;</div> +<div class="i0">Some folks would dine <em>à la Russe</em> and respectable;</div> <div class="i2">Give <em>us</em> the laughing, the quaffing, and fun!</div> </div><div class="stanza"> <div class="i0">Dreaming when heats of the noontide so hazily</div> @@ -2171,7 +2133,7 @@ merry, Doctor Brighton.</em>"—<span class="smcap">The Newcomes.</span></p> <div class="i0">The Continental Mail Express!</div> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">68</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> <div class="i0">I think of toil by rail and boat,</div> -<div class="i0">And cackle at the <em>table d'hôte</em>;</div> +<div class="i0">And cackle at the <em>table d'hôte</em>;</div> <div class="i2">Of coin of somewhat doubtful mintage,</div> <div class="i2">And wine of very gruesome vintage;</div> <div class="i0">Of passes steep that try the lungs,</div> @@ -2601,7 +2563,7 @@ merry, Doctor Brighton.</em>"—<span class="smcap">The Newcomes.</span></p> <div class="center"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> <div class="i0"><div class="dropcap">'T</div>IS a queer old pile of timbers, all gnarled and rough and green,</div> -<div class="i0">Both moss-o'ergrown and weed-covered, and jaggèd too, I ween!</div> +<div class="i0">Both moss-o'ergrown and weed-covered, and jaggèd too, I ween!</div> <div class="i0">'Tis battered and 'tis spattered, all worn and knocked about,</div> <div class="i0">Beclamped with rusty rivets, and bepatched with timbers stout;</div> <div class="i0">A tottering, trembling structure, enshrining memories dear,</div> @@ -2832,7 +2794,7 @@ merry, Doctor Brighton.</em>"—<span class="smcap">The Newcomes.</span></p> <div class="i0">She would cull its blossoms rare,</div> <div class="i0">Just to twine them in her hair—</div> <div class="i12">Gay and wild:</div> -<div class="i0">A sweet pæan of perfume,</div> +<div class="i0">A sweet pæan of perfume,</div> <div class="i0">A gay sunny song of bloom,</div> <div class="i0">She would chase away all bloom—</div> <div class="i12">Laughing child!</div> @@ -3381,7 +3343,7 @@ San Marco was playing the Tarantella, from Masaniello.</em></p> <div class="i2">See the Rialto, and Square of St. Mark!</div> <div class="i0">Floating in gondolas, laughing and jollity,</div> <div class="i0">Cyprian wine of the very best quality,</div> -<div class="i0">At Florian's <em>caffè</em>—mid fun and frivolity—</div> +<div class="i0">At Florian's <em>caffè</em>—mid fun and frivolity—</div> <div class="i2">Venice delightful from daylight to dark!</div> <div class="i6">Musicians in plenty,</div> <div class="i6">Play "<em>Ecco ridente</em>,"</div> @@ -3391,7 +3353,7 @@ San Marco was playing the Tarantella, from Masaniello.</em></p> <div class="i2">You'll find his description is perfectly right!</div> </div><div class="stanza"> <div class="i0">Albergo Reale and English society,</div> -<div class="i0"><em>Bric-à-brac</em> shops in their endless variety,</div> +<div class="i0"><em>Bric-à -brac</em> shops in their endless variety,</div> <div class="i0">Plenty of pigeons not fearful of pie-ety,</div> <div class="i2">Flutter and peck 'neath the bluest of skies.</div> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">123</a></span><div class="i0">Dreaming in Venice? Ah, wildest of fallacies—</div> @@ -3421,7 +3383,7 @@ San Marco was playing the Tarantella, from Masaniello.</em></p> <div class="i2">He'll throw on your darkness some excellent light!</div> </div> </div></div> -<p><span class="smcap">Caffè Florian, Venezia.</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Caffè Florian, Venezia.</span></p> <hr class="chap" /> <p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">124</a></span></p> <h3><a name="IN_A_MINOR_KEY" id="IN_A_MINOR_KEY">IN A MINOR KEY.</a></h3> @@ -4125,7 +4087,7 @@ window-pane:</em></p> <div class="i0">I don't care to sail and I don't care to row—</div> <div class="i0">Since I'm lucky enough to be taken in tow!</div> </div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i0">Though battered am I, like the old <em>Teméraire</em>,</div> +<div class="i0">Though battered am I, like the old <em>Teméraire</em>,</div> <div class="i0">My tow-ers are young and my tow-ers are fair:</div> <div class="i0">The one is Eleven, the other Nineteen,</div> <div class="i0">The merriest maidens that ever were seen.</div> @@ -4283,7 +4245,7 @@ window-pane:</em></p> <div class="i2">In dressing-bag—all monogram and silver top,</div> <div class="i0">Combery, and scissory, and tweezery, and knivery,</div> <div class="i2">Enough to stock the window of a cutler's shop!</div> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">162</a></span><div class="i0"><em>Ess. Bouquet</em>, and <em>Eau des Fées</em>, and Jockey Club, in handy flask,</div> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">162</a></span><div class="i0"><em>Ess. Bouquet</em>, and <em>Eau des Fées</em>, and Jockey Club, in handy flask,</div> <div class="i0">Powder-puff, and rouge enough; a silver baby brandy-flask;</div> <div class="i0">Besides a thousand articles a lady's sure to bring about,</div> <div class="i0">I haven't time to put in rhyme, nor leisure now to sing about!</div> @@ -4724,8 +4686,8 @@ window-pane:</em></p> <div class="i0">Some are in mauve or pink—</div> <div class="i4">Gay are the dresses!</div> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">182</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i0">If you know Etretât,</div> -<div class="i0">You will know <em>M'sieu là</em>—</div> +<div class="i0">If you know Etretât,</div> +<div class="i0">You will know <em>M'sieu là </em>—</div> <div class="i0">O, such a strong papa!—</div> <div class="i4">Ever out boating.</div> <div class="i0">You'll know his babies too,</div> @@ -4747,7 +4709,7 @@ window-pane:</em></p> <div class="i0">Poised upon either hand,</div> <div class="i4">Merry young mer-pets:</div> <div class="i0">Drop them! You strong papa,</div> -<div class="i0">Swim back to Etretât!</div> +<div class="i0">Swim back to Etretât!</div> <div class="i0">Here comes their dear Mama,</div> <div class="i4">Seeking for <em>her</em> pets!</div> </div></div> @@ -5008,7 +4970,7 @@ window-pane:</em></p> <div class="i4">'Tis treasured 'mid my treasures.</div> </div><div class="stanza"> <div class="i0">Ah, would that night come back again</div> -<div class="i0">When she took from her <em>châtelaine</em></div> +<div class="i0">When she took from her <em>châtelaine</em></div> <div class="i0">Her scissors!—it was not in vain.</div> <div class="i4">I hear her laugh the while her</div> <div class="i0">Fingers, dimpled soft and fair,</div> @@ -5237,7 +5199,7 @@ window-pane:</em></p> <div class="i0">Now, gay are the gardens of Fawley and Phyllis,</div> <div class="i2">The Bolney backwaters are shaded from heat;</div> <div class="i0">The rustle of poplars on Remenham Hill is,</div> -<div class="i2">Mid breezes æstival, enchantingly sweet!</div> +<div class="i2">Mid breezes æstival, enchantingly sweet!</div> <div class="i0">When hay-scented meadows with oarsmen are crowded—</div> <div class="i2">Whose bright tinted blazers gay toilettes outvie—</div> <div class="i0">When sunshine is hot and the sky is unclouded,</div> @@ -5257,7 +5219,7 @@ window-pane:</em></p> <div class="i0">While each dainty head-dress and toilette delicious</div> <div class="i2">Is shrouded from view in the grim mackintosh!</div> <div class="i0">We'll flee to the cheery "Athena" for shelter—</div> -<div class="i2">The <em>pâté</em> is perfect, the Giesler is dry—</div> +<div class="i2">The <em>pâté</em> is perfect, the Giesler is dry—</div> <div class="i0">And think while we gaze, undismayed, at the "pelter,"</div> <div class="i2">That Henley is joyous in dripping July!</div> </div><div class="stanza"> @@ -5315,7 +5277,7 @@ window-pane:</em></p> <div class="i2">Maud, Winnie, and Connie, and Daisy, and Di.</div> </div><div class="stanza"> <div class="i0">Nor did Cook and his <em>coupons</em> a moment forget me;</div> -<div class="i2">My <em>passeport</em> was <em>visé</em> the length of my flight;</div> +<div class="i2">My <em>passeport</em> was <em>visé</em> the length of my flight;</div> <div class="i0">While <em>Murray</em> and <em>Bradshaw</em> did aid and abet me.</div> <div class="i2">And Coutts with the circular notes was all right.</div> </div><div class="stanza"> @@ -5424,10 +5386,10 @@ window-pane:</em></p> <p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">216</a></span></p> -<h3><a name="AT_TABLE_DHOTE" id="AT_TABLE_DHOTE">AT TABLE D'HÔTE.</a></h3> +<h3><a name="AT_TABLE_DHOTE" id="AT_TABLE_DHOTE">AT TABLE D'HÔTE.</a></h3> <div class="center"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i0"><div class="dropcap">A</div>T <em>Table d'hôte</em>, I quite decline</div> +<div class="i0"><div class="dropcap">A</div>T <em>Table d'hôte</em>, I quite decline</div> <div class="i0">To sit there and attempt to dine!</div> <div class="i2">Of course you never dine, but "feed,"</div> <div class="i2">And gobble up with fearsome greed</div> @@ -5436,25 +5398,25 @@ window-pane:</em></p> <div class="i0">The room is close, and, I opine,</div> <div class="i0">I should not like the food or wine;</div> <div class="i2">While all the guests are dull indeed</div> -<div class="i6">At <em>Table d'hôte</em>.</div> +<div class="i6">At <em>Table d'hôte</em>.</div> </div><div class="stanza"> <div class="i0">The clatter and the heat combine</div> <div class="i0">One's appetite to undermine.</div> <div class="i2">When noisy waiters take no heed,</div> <div class="i2">But change the plates at railway speed—</div> <div class="i0">I feel compelled to "draw my line"</div> -<div class="i6">At <em>Table d'hôte</em>!</div> +<div class="i6">At <em>Table d'hôte</em>!</div> </div></div> </div> <hr class="chap" /> <p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">217</a></span></p> -<h3><a name="AT_ETRETAT" id="AT_ETRETAT">AT ETRETÂT.</a></h3> +<h3><a name="AT_ETRETAT" id="AT_ETRETAT">AT ETRETÂT.</a></h3> <div class="center"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> <div class="i0"><div class="dropcap">A</div> DIVING Belle! Pray who is she?</div> -<div class="i2">For swimming thus armed <em>cap-à-pie</em>.</div> +<div class="i2">For swimming thus armed <em>cap-à -pie</em>.</div> <div class="i0">(The sea is like a sea of Brett's.)</div> <div class="i2">A graceful girl in trouserettes,</div> <div class="i0">And tunic reaching to the knee.</div> @@ -5550,7 +5512,7 @@ window-pane:</em></p> <div class="i2">With eyes a-sparkle with delight!</div> <div class="i0">When Christmas fires gleam and glow,</div> <div class="i0">When dainty dimples come and go,</div> -<div class="i2">And maidens shrink with feignëd fright—</div> +<div class="i2">And maidens shrink with feignëd fright—</div> <div class="i0">'Tis merry 'neath the mistletoe!</div> </div><div class="stanza"> <div class="i0">A privilege 'tis then, you know,</div> @@ -5628,7 +5590,7 @@ proceeds.</em>)</p></blockquote> <div class="i0">As the mud may spatter the hansom-cab and freckle the fitful fern:</div> <div class="i0">But never again in the wreathing rain, a-roll on the raucous rink,</div> <div class="i0">Do we clasp the hand of the German band and swim in the sable ink!</div> -<div class="i0">While the pallid hencoop may pass away and the juggëd hare may jar,</div> +<div class="i0">While the pallid hencoop may pass away and the juggëd hare may jar,</div> <div class="i0">With a gruesome groan as he sits alone and stares at the Capstan Bar!</div> </div></div> </div> @@ -5687,7 +5649,7 @@ he shakes his fist, he stamps, and he shouts.</em>)</p></blockquote> <div class="i0">A smash and a crash, and the pebbles fly, as they kick and scream and bite!</div> <div class="i0">A thump and a bump and a blackened eye, a sprain and a broken nose!</div> <div class="i0">A crack and a smack and a fractured leg—a bundle of tattered clothes!</div> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">226</a></span><div class="i0">But bold Sparrer Gus, when the red sun rose, was nought but a bruisëd scar,</div> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">226</a></span><div class="i0">But bold Sparrer Gus, when the red sun rose, was nought but a bruisëd scar,</div> <div class="i0">And gay Lantern Jack he never came back that night from the Capstan Bar!</div> </div></div> </div> @@ -5736,7 +5698,7 @@ the notable Poem they had heard recited.</em>)</p></blockquote> </div> <div class="center"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i0"><div class="dropcap">O,</div> MAY is the month when the madly æsthetical</div> +<div class="i0"><div class="dropcap">O,</div> MAY is the month when the madly æsthetical</div> <div class="i0">Plunge deep into nonsense profoundly poetical!</div> <div class="i0">They sing and they shout about sunshine and greenery,</div> <div class="i0">Of beauty and blossom and song-birds and scenery:</div> @@ -5998,7 +5960,7 @@ the notable Poem they had heard recited.</em>)</p></blockquote> FIRST EDITION.</h2> <p><em>St. James's Gazette.</em>—"One of the lightest and -brightest writers of <em>vers de société</em>."</p> +brightest writers of <em>vers de société</em>."</p> <p><em>Saturday Review.</em>—"Mr. J. Ashby-Sterry is a facile and agreeable versifier, with a genuine gift of @@ -6054,7 +6016,7 @@ world who amuses himself with the making of verse."</p> <p><em>Court Circular.</em>—"He is one of the foremost -writers of <em>vers de société</em> of the day, and his productions +writers of <em>vers de société</em> of the day, and his productions are distinguished by poetic fancy and neat workmanship."</p> @@ -6134,7 +6096,7 @@ leaves nothing to be desired."</p> <p><em>New York Times.</em>—"The metre is perfect, the music of the verse well sustained, and there is that fun and merry quip in 'The Lazy Minstrel' which -becomes <em>vers de société</em>."</p> +becomes <em>vers de société</em>."</p> <hr class="tb" /> @@ -6187,386 +6149,6 @@ becomes <em>vers de société</em>."</p> </div> </div> - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Lazy Minstrel, by Joseph Ashby-Sterry - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAZY MINSTREL *** - -***** This file should be named 42915-h.htm or 42915-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/9/1/42915/ - -Produced by Irma Špehar, Eleni Christofaki and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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