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!"
'T IS 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.
A FAVOURITE LOUNGE. T HE 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. A LL 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! 'T IS 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. B RIGHT 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"! H OW 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! H ER 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. 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! B ELIEVE 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! S PEAK 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. 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. T HE 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.
LOVE-LOCKS. I N 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. Y ES! 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. T HE 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. B ENEATH 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. F AREWELL, 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!
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