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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42915 ***
+
+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 THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42915 ***
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2026-01-21 07:00:26 +0000