To set to roundelay
Life's sad and sunny hours,--
To weave into a lay
Life's golden years and grey,
Its sweet and bitter flowers,--
To sweep with hands that stray
In many a devious way
Its harp of sun and showers?
Nor in this life of ours,
Whereon the sky oft lowers,
Is any lovelier thing
Than in the wild wood bowers
The cloud of green that towers,
The blithe birds welcoming
The vivid vernal hours
Among the painted flowers
And all the pomp of Spring.
True, life is on the wing,
And all the birds that sing,
And all the flowers that be
Amid the glow and ring,
The pomp and glittering
Of Spring's sweet pageantry,
Have here small sojourning,
And all our bright hours bring
Death nearer, as they flee.
Yet this thing learn of me;
The sweet hours fair and free
That we have had of yore,
The fair things we did see
The linkéd melody
Of waves upon the shore
That rippled in their glee,
Are not lost utterly,
Though they return no more.
But in the true heart's core
Thought treasures evermore
The tune of birds and breeze:
And there the slow years store
The flowers our dead Springs wore
And scent of blossomed leas:
There murmurs o'er and o'er
The sound of woodlands hoar
With newly burgeoned trees.
So for the sad soul's ease
Remembrance treasures these
Against Time's harvesting,
That so, when mild Death frees
The soul from Life's disease
Of strife and sorrowing,
In glass of memories
The new hope looks and sees
Through Death a brighter Spring.
JOHN PAYNE.
JULY.
(VIRELAI NOUVEAU.)
Good-bye to the Town!--good-bye!
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
In the street the flower-girls cry;
In the street the water-carts ply;
And a fluter, with features a-wry,
Plays fitfully, "Scots, wha hae"--
And the throat of that fluter is dry;
Good-bye to the Town!--good-bye!
And over the roof-tops nigh
Comes a waft like a dream of the May;
And a lady-bird lit on my tie;
And a cock-chafer came with the tray;
And a butterfly (no one knows why)
Mistook my Aunt's cap for a spray;
And "next door" and "over the way"
The neighbours take wing and fly:
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
To Buxton, the waters to try,--
To Buxton goes old Mrs. Bligh;
And the Captain to Homburg and play
Will carry his cane and his eye;
And even Miss Morgan Lefay
Is flitting--to far Peckham Rye;
And my Grocer has gone--in a "Shay,"
And my Tailor has gone--in a "Fly;"--
Good-bye to the Town!--good-bye!
And it's O for the sea and the sky!
And it's O for the boat and the bay!
For the white foam whirling by,
And the sharp, salt edge of the spray!
For the wharf where the black nets fry,
And the wrack and the oarweed sway!
For the stroll when the moon is high
To the nook by the Flag-house gray!
For the _risus ab angulo_ shy
From the Some-one we designate "Di!"
For the moment of silence,-the sigh!
"How I _dote_ on a Moon!" "So do I!"
For the token we snatch on the sly
(With nobody there to say Fie!)
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
So Phillis, the fawn-footed, hie
For a hansom. Ere close of the day
Between us a "world" must lie,-
Good-bye to the Town!-GOOD-BYE!
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
AUSTIN DOBSON.
#Burlesques, Pasquinades, etc., in Ballade, Chant Royal, Rondeau, and
Villanelle forms.#
If an apology seem needful for the presence of this section, this
quotation will explain why it was included:-
"_We maintain that far from converting virtue into a paradox, and
degrading truth by ridicule, Parody will only strike at what is
chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a
critical exposition._"
ISAAC D'ISRAELI.
THE BALLADE OF THE SUMMER-BOARDER.
Let all men living on earth take heed,
For their own souls' sake, to a rhyme well meant;
Writ so that he who runs may read--
_We are the folk that a-summering went._
Who while the year was young were bent--
Yea, bent on doing this self-same thing
Which we have done unto some extent,
_This is the end of our summering._
We are the folk who would fain be freed
From wasteful burdens of rate and rent--
From the vampire agents' ravening breed--
_We are the folk that a-summering went._
We hied us forth when the summer was blent
With the fresh faint sweetness of dying spring,
A-seeking the meadows dew-besprent
_This is the end of our summering._
For O the waiters that must be fee'd,
And our meat-time neighbour, the travelling "gent;"
And the youth next door with the ophicleide!
_We are the folk that a-summering went!_
Who from small bare rooms wherein we were pent,
While birds their way to the southward wing,
Come back, our money for no good spent--
_This is the end of our summering._
_Envoy._
Citizens! list to our sore lament--
While the landlord's hands to our raiment cling--
_We are the folk that a-summering went:_
_This is the end of our summering._
H. C. BUNNER.
A YOUNG POET'S ADVICE.
(A Ballade.)
You should study the bards of to-day
Who in England are now all the rage;
You should try to be piquant and gay:
Your lines are too solemn and sage.
You should try to fill only a page,
Or two at the most with your lay;
And revive the quaint verse of an age
That is fading forgotten away.
Study Lang, Gosse, and Dobson, I pray--
That their rhymes and their fancies engage
Your thought to be witty as they.
You must stand on the popular stage.
In the bars of an old fashioned cage
We must prison the birds of our May,
To carol the notes of an age
That is fading forgotten away.
Now this is a 'Ballade'-I say,
So one stanza more to our page,
But the "Vers de Société,"
If you can are the best for your 'wage.'
Though the purists may fall in a rage
That two rhymes go thrice in one lay,
You may passably echo an age
That is fading forgotten away.
_Envoy._
Bard--heed not the seer and the sage,
'Afflatus' and Nature don't pay;
But stick to the forms of an age
That is fading forgotten away.
C. P. CRANCH.
A BALLAD OF OLD METRES.
When, in the merry realm of France,
Bluff Francis ruled and loved and laughed,
Now held the lists with knightly lance,
Anon the knightly beaker quaffed;
Where wit could wing his keenest shaft
With Villon's verse or Montaigne's prose,
Then poets exercised their craft
In ballades, triolets, rondeaux.
O quaint old times! O fitting chants!
With fluttering banners fore and aft,
With mirth of minstrelsy and dance,
Sped Poesy's enchanted craft;
The odorous gale was blowing abaft
Her silken sails, as on she goes,
Doth still to us faint echoes waft
Of ballades, triolets, rondeaux.
But tell me with what countenance
Ye seek on modern rhymes to graft
Those tender shoots of old Romance-
Romance that now is only chaffed?
O iron days! O idle raft
Of rhymesters! they are '_peu de chose_,'
What Scott would call supremely "saft"
_Your_ ballades, triolets, rondeaux.
_Envoy._
Bards, in whose vein the maddening draught
Of Hippocrene so wildly glows,
Forbear, and do not drive us daft
With ballades, triolets, rondeaux.
_The Century._
BALLADE OF CRICKET.
(To T. W. Lang.)
The burden of hard hitting: slog away!
Here shalt thou make a "five" and there a "four,"
And then upon thy bat shalt lean and say,
That thou art in for an uncommon score.
Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,
And thou to rival THORNTON shalt aspire,
When low, the Umpire gives thee "leg before,"-
"This is the end of every man's desire!"
The burden of much bowling, when the stay
Of all thy team is "collared," swift or slower,
When "bailers" break not in their wonted way,
And "yorkers" come not off as heretofore.
When length balls shoot no more, ah never more,
When all deliveries lose their former fire,
When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,-
"This is the end of every man's desire!"
The burden of long fielding, when the clay
Clings to thy shoon in sudden showers downpour,
And running still thou stumblest, or the ray
Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,
And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,
Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a "skyer"
And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,--
"This is the end of every man's desire!"
_Envoy._
Alas, yet liefer on youth's hither shore
Would I be some poor Player on scant hire
Than king among the old who play no more,-
"_This_ is the end of every man's desire!"
ANDREW LANG.
THE PRODIGALS.
(Dedicated to Mr. Chaplin, M.P., and Mr. Richard Power, M.P.
and 223 who followed them.)
Ministers!-you, most serious,
Critics and statesmen of all degrees,
Hearken awhile to the motion of us,-
Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!
Nothing we ask of posts or fees;
Worry us not with objections pray!
Lo,-for the speakers wig we seize-
Give us-ah! give us-the Derby Day.
Scots most prudent, penurious!
Irishmen busy as humblebees!
Hearken awhile to the motion of us,-
Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!
For Sir Joseph's sake, and his owner's, please!
(Solomon raced like fun, they say)
Lo for we beg on our bended knees,-
Give us-ah! give us-the Derby Day.
Campbell-Asheton be generous!
(But they voted such things were not the cheese)
Sullivan, hear us, magnanimous!
(But Sullivan thought with their enemies.)
And shortly they got both of help and ease
For a mad majority crowded to say-
"Debate we've drunk to the dregs and lees;
Give us--ah! give us--the Derby Day."
_Envoi._
Prince, most just was the motion of these
And many were seen by the dusty way,
Shouting glad to the Epsom breeze
Give us--ah! give us--the Derby Day.
ANONYMOUS (_after Austin Dobson_).
VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVES.
"Tout aux tavernes et aux filles."
Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack?
Or fake the broads? or fig a nag?
Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack?
Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?
Suppose you duff? or nose and lag?
Or get the straight, and land your pot?
How do you melt the multy swag?
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;
Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;
Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;
Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag;
Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;
Rattle the tats, or mark the spot;
You can not bank a single stag;
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
Suppose you try a different tack,
And on the square you flash your flag?
At penny-a-lining make your whack,
Or with the mummers mug and gag?
For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag!
At any graft, no matter what,
Your merry goblins soon stravag:
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
THE MORAL.
It's up the spout and Charley Wag
With wipes and tickers and what not.
Until the squeezer nips your scrag,
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
W. E. HENLEY.
A BALLADE OF BALLADE-MONGERS.
(After the manner of Master FRANÇOIS VILLON of Paris.)
In _Ballades_ things always contrive to get lost,
And Echo is constantly asking where
Are last year's roses and last year's frost?
And where are the fashions we used to wear?
And what is a "gentleman," what is a "player?"
Irrelevant questions I like to ask:
Can you reap the _tret_ as well as the _tare_?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?
What has become of the ring I tossed
In the lap of my mistress, false and fair?
Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed;
But who is to be the next Lord Mayor,
And where is King William of Leicester Square?
And who has emptied my hunting flask?
And who is possessed of Stella's hair?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?
And what has become of the knee I crossed,
And the rod, and the child they would not spare?
And what will a dozen herring cost
When herring are sold at threehalfpence a pair?
And what in the world is the Golden Stair?
Did Diogenes die in a tub or a cask,
Like Clarence for love of liquor there?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?
_Envoy._
Poets, your readers have much to bear,
For _Ballade_-making is no great task.
If you do not remember, I don't much care
Who was the Man in the Iron Mask.
AUGUSTUS M. MOORE.
ON NEWPORT BEACH.
(Rondeau.)
On Newport beach there ran right merrily,
In dainty navy blue clothed to the knee,
Thence to the foot in white _au naturel_,
A little maid. Fair was she, truth to tell,
As Oceanus' child Callirrhoë.
In the soft sand lay one small shell, its wee
Keen scallops tinct with faint hues, such as be
In girlish cheeks. In some old storm it fell
On Newport Beach.
There was a bather of the species _he_,
Who saw the little maid go toward the sea;
Rushing to help her through the billowy swell,
He set his sole upon the little shell,
And heaped profanely phraséd obloquy
On Newport Beach.
H. C. BUNNER.
CULTURE IN THE SLUMS.
(Inscribed to an Intense Poet.)
I. RONDEAU.
"O crikey, Bill!" she ses to me, she ses.
"Look sharp," ses she, "with them there sossiges.
Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree!
For lo!" she ses, "for lo! old pal," ses she,
"I'm blooming peckish, neither more nor less."
Was it not prime--I leave you all to guess
How prime!----to have a jude in love's distress
Come spooning round, and murmuring balmilee,
"O crikey, Bill!"
For in such rorty wise doth Love express
His blooming views, and asks for your address,
And makes it right, and does the gay and free.
I kissed her--I did so! And her and me
Was pals. And if that ain't good business,
O crikey, Bill!
II. VILLANELLE.
Now ain't they utterly too-too
(She ses, my Missus mine,[11] ses she),
Them flymy little bits of Blue.
Joe, just you kool 'em-nice and skew
Upon our old meogginee,
Now ain't they utterly too-too?
They're better than a pot'n' a screw,
They're equal to a Sunday spree,
Them flymy little bits of Blue!
Suppose I put 'em up the flue,
And booze the profits, Joe? Not me.
Now ain't they utterly too-too?
I do the 'Igh Art fake, I do.
Joe, I'm consummate; and I _see_
Them flymy little bits of Blue.
Which, Joe, is why I ses te you--
Æsthetic-like, and limp, and free--
Now _ain't_ they utterly too-too,
Them flymy little bits of Blue?
I often does a quiet read
At Booty Shelly's[12] poetry;
I thinks that Swinburne at a screed
Is really almost too-too fly;
At Signor Vagna's[13] harmony
I likes a merry little flutter;
I've had at Pater many a shy;
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.
My mark's a tidy little feed,
And 'Enery Irving's gallery,
To see old 'Amlick do a bleed,
And Ellen Terry on the die,
Or Franky's ghostes at hi-spy,[14]
And parties carried on a shutter.[15]
Them vulgar Coupeaus is my eye!
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.
The Grosvenor's nuts-it is, indeed!
I goes for 'Olman 'Unt like pie.
It's equal to a friendly lead
To see B. Jones's judes go by.
Stanhope he makes me fit to cry.
Whistler he makes me melt like butter.
Strudwick he makes me flash my cly--
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.
_Envoy._
I'm on for any Art that's 'Igh;
I talks as quite as I can splutter;
I keeps a Dado on the sly;
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter!
W. E. HENLEY.
[11] An adaptation of "Madonna mia."
[12] Probably Botticelli.
[13] Wagner (?)
[14] This seems to be a reference to _The Corsican Brothers_.
[15] _Richard III._ (?)
THE STREET SINGER.
(Villanelle from my window.)
He stands at the kerb and sings.
'Tis a doleful tune and slow,
Ah me, if I had but wings!
He bends to the coin one flings,
But he never attempts to go,-
He stands at the kerb and sings.
The conjurer comes with his rings,
And the Punch-and-Judy show.
Ah me, if I had but wings!
They pass like all fugitive things--
They fade and they pass, but lo!
He stands at the kerb and sings.
All the magic that Music brings
Is lost when he mangles it so--
Ah me, if I had but wings!
But the worst is a thought that stings!
There is nothing at hand to throw!
He stands at the kerb and sings--
Ah me, if I had but wings!
AUSTIN DOBSON.
MALAPROPOS.
(Rondeau.)
Imitated from the French of Count Anthony Hamilton.
Malàpropos do English wits revive
The Rondeau, which our beauties hear with scorn;
Hide in an extinct form a heart alive,
And woo bright lasses, whom they wish to wive,
Malàpropos, with Gaulish verse outworn.
More fondly would these rosebuds of the morn
Unfold to airs-gay, playful, amative-
Even Astrophel five phrases would contrive--
Malàpropos.
O dazzling youth, to fashion's follies sworn,
Would you their breasts with love's sweet pains were torn?
Rondeau and Ballade to the Devil drive;
Use honest English when for them you strive,
Since never to their hearts would thus arrive--
Malàpropos.
G. H. (_In "The Lute."_)
BEHOLD THE DEEDS!
(Chant Royal.)
[Being the Plaint of Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, Salesman of Fancy
Notions, held in durance of his Landlady for a failure to connect
on Saturday night.]
I.
I would that all men my hard case might know;
How grievously I suffer for no sin:
I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo!
I, of my landlady am lockéd in,
For being short on this sad Saturday,
Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay;
She has turned and is departed with my key;
Wherefore, not even as other boarders free,
I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stones
When for ten days they expiate a spree):
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
II.
One night and one day have I wept my woe;
Nor wot I when the morrow doth begin,
If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co.,
To pray them to advance the requisite tin
For ransom of their salesman, that he may
Go forth as other boarders go alway----
As those I hear now flocking from their tea,
Led by the daughter of my landlady
Piano-ward. This day for all my moans,
Dry bread and water have been servéd me.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
III.
Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and so
The heart of the young he-boardér doth win,
Playing "The Maiden's Prayer," _adagio_--
That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the banco skin
The innocent rustic. For my part, I pray:
That Badarjewska maid may wait for aye
Ere sits she with a lover, as did we
Once sit together, Amabel! Can it be
That all that arduous wooing not atones
For Saturday shortness of trade dollars three?
_Behold_ the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
IV.
Yea! she forgets the arm was wont to go
Around her waist. She wears a buckle whose pin
Galleth the crook of the young man's elbów;
_I_ forget not, for I that youth have been.
Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay.
Yet once, I mind me, Smith was forced to stay
Close in his room. Not calm, as I, was he;
But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily.
Small ease he gat of playing on the bones,
Or hammering on his stove-pipe, that I see.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
V.
Thou, for whose fear the figurative crow
I eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin!
Thee will I show up-yea, up will I shew
Thy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thin.
Ay! here I dare thee, ready for the fray!
Thou dost _not_ "keep a first-class house," I say!
It does not with the advertisements agree.
Thou lodgest a Briton with a puggaree,
And thou hast harboured Jacobses and Cohns,
Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee!
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
_Envoy._
Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye:
She hath stolen my trousers, that I may not flee
Privily by the window. Hence these groans,
There is no fleeing in a _robe de nuit_.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
H. C. BUNNER.
* * * * *
THE WALTER SCOTT PRESS, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.
Transcriber's Notes:
Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors
were corrected.
Italics markup is enclosed in _underscores_.
Greek text has been transliterated and enclosed in ~tildes~.
Fancy font markup is enclosed in #number signs#.