'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._