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,

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