JANUARY. U PON 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. S AINT 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. A N 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. I N 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. O N 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. B ESIDE 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. O NCE 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. 'N EATH 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!
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