The Lazy Minstrel

A PORTRAIT

IN sunny girlhood's vernal lifeShe caused no small sensation;But now the modest English wifeTo others leaves flirtation.She's young still, lovely, debonair,Although sometimes her featuresAre clouded by a thought of careFor those two tiny creatures.Each tiny, toddling, mottled miteAsserts 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 togetherPortraits of each pretty face —Which, in this rough and rimy weather,Surely can't be out of place.LADY SEALSKINA 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 OTTERYou never, I'm certain, saw suchA lithe little learner in otter!She's ready to fall at a touch;Behold how she's anxious to clutchHer ebony-stick with a crutchBy which she's enabled to totter.You never, I'm certain, saw suchA lithe little learner in otter.PRINCESS ERMINEPray, 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 RABBITHere 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 SABLEO, had I ten thousand a yearI'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 yearI'd marry Miss Mabel in sable!MISS BEARSKINAnd 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 glowJust 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 opalescenceBut 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 isCheered 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 singingA dreamy song in a minor key;Her clear low voice and its tones are bringingA 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 careIf 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 viesThis 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 thatI 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 knotAround her pretty throat.She has a glance that pleads and kills;And 'mid her shy and snowy frillsA 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 oftQuite 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 eyesUnutterably 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 NewfoundlandWho crouches at her side.She's thinking – not of me nor you,When smiling as she listens toThe 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 joysIn 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 sizeAt 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 sportTo make the Benchers play lawn-tennis —And chambers in a dingy courtWhere 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 afraidWe 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 curiosI'm sure unable quite my pen is!But from its panes we gaze uponThe 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 againTo 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 enoughFor handsome, grey-eyed, laughing Harry?It soon grew dark, but I could seeThat 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 confessHis voice the richest baritone is.Ah, how the moments quickly flitIn song and talk and playful banter!The motto on the sundial writIs 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 JulyI lazed upon the verdant tennis lawn!And smoking there an idle cigaretteI 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 waistThe 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 gainedThe 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 pleatsNow 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 leftThe 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 hazilyShimmer 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 willinglyCluster 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 chimesThere's a fleetness in fancy, a frolic in rhymes:There's a world of romance that persistently clingsTo 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 singsThrough 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 thingsAre 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 blessThe 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 eagernessThe 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 wicketBecause he cannot find his ticket;And over there may be espiedA 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 quiverTo 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 timeI 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 sedgesAnd lilies fresh crushed by the boat.O, breezes are soft, and the dreamer receivesThe rarest refrain from the music of leaves!A brown-eyed and trustful young maidenThen steered this identical skiff,Her lap with forget-me-nots laden.I now am forgotten; but if? —No matter! I see the sweet gloryOf 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 rememberThe 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 hePrefers the "o" long in "Balcōny!"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 Balcōny.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 Balcōny!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 VioletOff nectarines and fried agoni;And now I'll smoke a cigarette,In this Balcōny.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 Balcōny.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 Balcōny!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 Balcōny!

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 brainAt 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 unawaresSlyly 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 gatesFearlessly 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 evadeHer 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 traceHalf pouting, as rude Boreas unfurlsA 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 clearOf steaming "spindles,"You then have space to moor your punt,You then can get a room in frontOf 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 goneFrom 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 theyWould turn out swindles?But now we toil and spin for jack,And in the evening we get backTo Skindle's.And after dinner – passing praise —'Tis sweet to meditate and laze,To watch the ruddy logs ablaze;And as one kindlesThe big post-prandial cigar,My friend, be thankful that we areAt Skindle's.