The Lazy Minstrel

IN MY EASY CHAIR

'TIS simply detestable weather!At home I'm determined to stay;A fortune I've spent in shoe-leather,And ruined three hats ev'ry day!Umbrellas I've borrowed and broken,And angered their owners no doubt:These things I consider a token,'Tis not the least use to go out!But let the weather be foul or fair,I'll sit and smile in my Easy Chair!The morning's uncertain and hazy —I can't be quite sure of the time —I'm feeling exhausted and lazy,Not equal to reason or rhyme!While streets still are muddy and sloppy,While bitter the easterly breeze,I'll maunder and nod like a poppy,And take forty winks at mine ease!My dreams are pleasant, so I don't care.I'll sit and snooze in my Easy Chair!There's nothing of note in the papers,There's nothing to do or to say:We suffer extremely from "vapours" —The fog and the damp of each day.Though cities be frozen or flooded,'Tis useless to fume or to fret;Though friends are bespattered and mudded —I'll smoke a serene cigarette!And all the burdens I have to bear,I'll smoke away in my Easy Chair!Within it is snug and quiescent,Without it persistently pours;My chair is well-cushioned and pleasant,Though life's full of angles and bores!My room is deliciously torrid,By frost or by rain I'm unvext;The world is decidedly horrid —So call me the month after next!The world may roll and may tear its hair,I'll roll and laugh in my Easy Chair!

BLANKTON WEIR

'TIS a queer old pile of timbers, all gnarled and rough and green,Both moss-o'ergrown and weed-covered, and jaggèd too, I ween!'Tis battered and 'tis spattered, all worn and knocked about,Beclamped with rusty rivets, and bepatched with timbers stout;A tottering, trembling structure, enshrining memories dear,This weather-beaten barrier, this quaint old Blankton Weir.While leaning on those withered rails, what feelings oft come back,As I watch the white foam sparkling and note the current's track;What crowds of fleeting fancies come dancing through my brain!And the good old days of Blankton, I live them o'er again;What hopes and fears, gay smiles, sad tears, seem mirrored in the mere,While looking on its glassy face by tell-tale Blankton Weir!I've seen it basking 'neath the rays of summer's golden glow,And when sweetly by the moonlight, silver ripples ebb and flow;When Nature starts in spring-time, awakening into life;When autumn leaves are falling, and the yellow corn is rife;'Mid the rime and sleet of winter, all through the live-long year,I've watched the water rushing through this tide-worn Blankton Weir.And I mind me of one even, so calm and clear and bright,What songs we sang – whose voices rang – that lovely summer night.Where are the hearty voices now who trolled those good old lays?And where the silvery laughter that rang in bygone days?Come back, that night of long ago! Come back, the moonlight clear!When hearts beat light, and eyes were bright, about old Blankton Weir.Was ever indolence so sweet, were ever days so fine,As when we lounged in that old punt and played with rod and line?'Tis true few fish we caught there, but the good old ale we quaffed,As we chatted, too, and smoked there, and idled, dreamed, and laughed:Then thought we only of to-day, of morrow had no fear,For sorrow scarce had tinged the stream that flowed through Blankton Weir.Those dreamy August afternoons, when in our skiff we lay,To hear the current murmuring as slow it swirled away;The plaintive hum of dragon-fly, the old weir's plash and roar,While Some-one's gentle voice, too, seems whispering there once more;Come back, those days of love and trust, those times of hope and fear,When girls were girls, and hearts were hearts, about old Blankton Weir!Those brilliant sunny mornings when we tumbled out of bed,And hurried on a few rough clothes, and to the river sped!What laughing joyaunce hung about those merry days agone,We clove the rushing current at the early flush of dawn!Tremendous headers took we in the waters bright and clear,And splashed and dashed, and dived and swam, just off old Blankton Weir.Then that pleasant picnic-party, when all the girls were there,In pretty morning dresses and with freshly-braided hair;Fair Annie, with those deep-blue eyes, and rosy, laughing Nell,Dark Helen, sunny Amy, and the stately Isobel;Ah! Lizzie, 'twas but yesterday – at least 'twould so appear —We plighted vows of constancy, not far from Blankton Weir.Those flashing eyes, those brave true hearts, are gone, and few remainTo mourn the loss of sunny hours that ne'er come back again:Some married are – ah! me, how changed – for they will think no moreOf how they joined our chorus there, or helped to pull the oar:One gentle voice is hushed for aye – we miss a voice so dear —Who cheered along with evensong our path by Blankton Weir.Amid the whirl of weary life – I hear it o'er and o'er,That plaintive well-loved lullaby – the old weir's distant roar:It gilds the cloud of daily toil with sunshine's fitful gleams,It breaks upon my slumber, and I hear it in my dreams:Like music of the good old times, it strikes upon mine ear —If there's an air can banish care, 'tis that of Blankton Weir!I know the river's rushing, but it rushes not for me,I feel the morning blushing, though I am not there to see;For younger hearts now live and love where once we used to dwell,And others laugh, and dream, and sing, in spots we loved so well;Their motto "Carpe diem" – 'twas ours for many a year —As show these rhymes of sunny times about old Blankton Weir.

DIFFERENT VIEWS

A CHRISTMAS DUET

O, CHRISTMAS comes but once a year!(And even that is once too many;)Hurrah for all its right good cheer!(I wish I had my share of any!)What flavour of the good old times!(What hopeless and egregious folly!)What evergreens and merry chimes!(What prickles ever lurk in holly!)Indeed it is a merry time;(But O! those countless Christmas numbers!)For now we see the pantomime,(And now the waits disturb our slumbers.)We've kisses 'neath the mistletoe —(I hate such rough, unseemly capers!)And hearty welcomes, frost and snow;(Yes, in the illustrated papers.)Around the groaning Christmas board,(Which never equals expectations,)Where old and young are in accord —(I hate the most of my relations!)I view the turkey with delight,(A tough old bird beyond all question!)The blazing pudding – what a sight!('Tis concentrated indigestion!)Laugh on, ye merry girls and boys!(Each year the Christmas boxes strengthen,)Each year brings with it countless joys;(The Christmas bills each year they lengthen.)To all we pledge the brimming glass!(What days of gorging and unreason!)Too quick such merry moments pass —(Why can't we skip the "festive season"?)

TWO NAUGHTY GIRLS

A SCULLER'S SKETCH

AS I go slowly drifting by,Two lazy lasses I espy;Two pretty pets who lounge and moon,Who dream and take their ease,And chatter through the afternoon,Beneath the trees.The one is Beatie, t'other Bell,No pow'r on earth will make me tellThe surname of each lovely flow'r —This pair of busy B's,Who don't improve each shining hour,Beneath the trees!Ah! why should one sweet damsel frown,And droop her pretty eyelids down?Or quickly hush her merry notes,And clasp her pliant knees?A pouting pet in petticoats,Beneath the trees!Has Bell at Beatie dared to sneer,Or Beatie chanced at Bell to jeer?Has either vented girlish spite,Because she likes to tease?Or loves, like dogs, to bark and bite,Beneath the trees!Has either called the other "flirt"?Does Bell object to Beatie's skirt?Or Bella's sweet forget-me-nots,Miss Beatrix displease? —I'd like to read them Doctor Watts,Beneath the trees.I drift and leave each dainty maid,Still sweet and sulky in the shade,With all their sunny laughing curlsA-flutter in the breeze:Two nice but very naughty girls,Beneath the trees!I said unto myself, Ha! ha!My dears, if I were your mama,Most quickly I'd pack off to bedTwo naughty busy B's —Who quarrel and make eyelids red,Beneath the trees!

COULEUR DE ROSE

A SIX MONTHS' COURTSHIP

HER soft sables, you must know,Kept off winter's frost and snow,And the cruel wind did blowWhen we met:The demurest little nun,Though she'd sometimes change in fun,Like a snowflake in the sun, —Little pet!Pray what meant those frequent sighs,When those fathomless brown eyesSometimes gazed with glad surpriseInto mine?It was joy to be alone,With my arm around her zone,And to claim her for my ownValentine!'Fore the romping wind of MarchWas she bending like a larch,As her glance seemed yet more archThrough her curls;Came in view the ankles neat,Were revealed the dainty feet,And the chaussure of my sweetGirl of girls!Ah! my brightest fay of faysWas most fickle in her ways,In chameleon April days —Sun and rain!She would sometimes be put out,She would laugh or cry and pout;Smiling through her tears in doubt,Joy and pain!But in May so freshly fairShe would cull its blossoms rare,Just to twine them in her hair —Gay and wild:A sweet pæan of perfume,A gay sunny song of bloom,She would chase away all bloom —Laughing child!Ah! her cheek will shame the rose,With the tint that comes and goes,And more radiantly glows,When it's prest!Whilst her loving eyes flash bright,With a sweet and sparkling light,And white roses scarce look whiteIn her breast!In the balmy summer time,With gay roses in their prime,No one deems it is a crimeThen to "spoon"!Ah! how quick the time then sped,Now I wonder what we said,'Neath the roses white and red —Once in June?O! when summer skies were blue,And we fancied hearts were true,While the long day loving through —Who'd suppose?Our grand castles built in Spain,Or that love could ever wane,And its fragrance but remain,Like the rose?

IN STRAWBERRY TIME

HOT, hot glows the sunshine in laughing July.Scarce flutter the leaves in the soft summer sigh:The rooks scarcely swing on the tops of the trees,While river-reeds nod to the lime-scented breeze:A roseleaf, a-bask in the sunshiny gleam,Half sleeps in the dimples that chequer the stream;The dragon-fly hushes his day-dreamy lay,The silver trout sulks in his sedge-shaded bay —While our thoughts sweetly run in a soft singing rhyme,As we lazily loiter in strawberry time!Sweet, sweet is the scent of the newly-mown hay,Light borne by the breeze on a bright summer's day;And cool is the sound of the musical plash,As bright bubbles fall in the fountain and flash.'Tis joy then to wander in gay golden hours,And dream 'mid the hues of the bright-tinted flow'rs;When the velvety lawn is most soft to the tread,And ruddy fruit hangs in the leaf-covered bed —Then the roundest, the sweetest, the best of the prime,Will we gather together in strawberry time!Joy, joy 'tis to whisper and laugh in the shade,And pluck the ripe fruit for my hazel-eyed maid;To watch her delight as she eagerly clipsA pink British Queen with her soft pouting lips!While lovingly gazing I'm apt to compareThe warm blushing berries with lips of my fair;I'm doubtful, indeed, if the fruit of the SouthCould equal the charm of her ripe little mouth —'Tis so round and so soft, 'twould be scarcely a crimeAll my doubts to dispel in sweet strawberry time!Light, light is the laughter that carelessly rings,And sweet is the carol she tenderly sings!I murmur a story we all of us know —Her soft dainty dimples, they come and they go;Her eyelids droop down o'er those sweet little eyes,Her laughter is hushed in a tumult of sighs:Those pretty, plump fingers, red-stained to the tips,All tremble, while pouting are rosy-red lips.Then the bard whispers low, 'neath the tremulous lime,"Lips sweeter than fruit are in strawberry time!"

NUMBER ONE

PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG LADY

"No. 1," in a collection of one thousand five hundred and eighty-three works of art, at the Exhibition of the Royal Academy.

MY favourite, you must know,In the Piccadilly Show,Is the portrait of a lassBravely done.'Mid the fifteen eighty-threeWorks of art that you may see,There is nothing can surpass —"Number One"!Very far above the lineIs this favourite of mine;You may see her smiling thereO'er the crowds.If you bring a good lorgnette,You may see my dainty pet;Like the Jungfrau, pink and fair,'Mid the clouds.My enchanting little star,How I wonder what you are,With your rosy laughing lipsFull of fun.Have you many satellites,Do you shine so bright o' nights,That there's nothing can eclipse"Number One"?Are you constant in your loves?Do you change them with your gloves?Pray does Worth pervade your train —Or your heart?Are you fickle, are you leal,Are your sunny tresses real,Or your roses only vainWorks of art?I sincerely envy himWho the fortune had to limnYour bewitching hazel eyesWith his brush:Who could study ev'ry graceIn your winsome little face,And the subtle charm that liesIn your blush.I am sure it is a shameThat your pretty face and frame,Ruthless hangers out of viewSeek to hide:But no doubt Sir Frederick L – ,And his myrmidons as well,Fancy angels such as you,Should be "skyed"!Ah! were I but twenty-two,I would hinge the knee to you,And most humbly kiss your gloveAt your throne:Thrice happy he whose sighsDraw this sweet Heart Union prizeIn the lottery of LoveFor his own!If I knew but your papa,Could I only "ask mama,"It is clear enough to meAs the sun,That all through this weary life,'Mid its pleasure, pain, and strife,All my care and love should be"Number One."

AFTER BREAKFAST

THE ruddy ripe tomata,In china bowl of ice;And grouse worth a sonata,Undoubtedly are nice!A pint of sound Hocheimer,A dainty speckled trout,Suffices for the Rhymer,To break his fast no doubt!I watch the busy bees onThe leaf beneath the lime:It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!'Tis hot as in the tropics —Too hot to ride or walk —I have no store of topics,I do not care to talk!No matutinal journalHas reached me – Do I fret?'Neath leafy shade supernal,I smoke a cigarette!I care not for the Season,Trade, Politics, or Crime:It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!Pray, who would wear a tall hat?Or buttoned in frock coat,Would countless places call at,When he might moon in boat?Exploring river reaches,And doing naught at all,But plucking juicy peachesThat ripen on the wall!I put just what I please on,I take no heed of time:It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!My thoughts all run together,Regretfully I find;They're melted by the weather,To shapeless mass of mind!It's much too hot for thinking,Too sultry 'tis to chaff;For eating or for drinking,Too torrid e'en to laugh!I know this sounds like treason —I do not care one dime —It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!

IN AN OLD CITY CHURCH

ONE dull, foggy day in December,When biting and bleak was the air,I once lost my way, I remember,And paused in a quaint City square.Though lacking all splendour or gladness,The flavour of good long agoClung close to the place in its sadness,And grave-yard half covered with snow;While the black, puny branches, all leafless and bare,Seemed to add to the gloom of this dull City square!The railings were rusty and rimy,The church looked so mouldy and grim;The houses seemed haunted and grimy,The windows were gruesome and dim.The iron gate scrooped on its hinges,The clock struck a querulous chime,As though it were feeling some twinges'Twas almost forgotten by Time.But I opened the door, and the picture was fair,In the fine ancient church, in this sad City square!A fair little lass, holly-laden —With eyes of cerulean blue —Is helping a sweet dark-eyed maidenTwine ivy with laurel and yew;How busy the deft taper fingers!What taste and what art they display!How lovingly each of them lingers,Adjusting a leaf or a spray! —I close the door softly, I've no business there,And drift out in the fog of the grim City square.

A LITTLE LOVE-LETTER

O PRETTY pet with the tangled hair,Down by the sighing summer sea —O dimpled darling with checks so fair,Tell me, O dearest, when musing there,Will you think of me?O sweetest sweet, when the salt breeze sighs'Mid silken locks ever flowing free,While gulls glint white against sleepy skies,Will looks of those bright brown loving eyesE'er be turned to me?Ah, laughing child, when your eyes beam bright,And lips are parted in girlish glee;When the shore is glad in still summer night,With your sweet soft smile, and your laughter light,Do you smile on me?When the moon is up, and sleeps the landTo tender music in minor key;When the silver-ripples hush the strandAnd scarcely dimple the golden sand,Will you dream of me?Poor little heart! when your cheeks are wetWith tears that sadden one's heart to see,Your moist lips tremble – you can't forgetSometimes the sun through the rain shines, pet,When you weep for me!

STRAY SUNBEAMS

A WAY with great-coats and umbrellas!Put all furry garments away!Let glossiest hats – all you fellas —Gleam bright in the light of to-day!The air it is balmy and vernal,We feel a new life has begun:For gone is the weather hibernal —And here is the Sun!The genial sunbeams, in-streaming,Flash bright on my pen as I write!The paper is glowing and gleaming —My eyes are quite dazed with the light!No longer I growl or I shiver,Nor each fellow-creature I shun:I dream of the joys of the River —For here is the Sun!For England, the atmosphere's splendid,We live and we breathe now again!We fancy our trouble is ended,For gone is the fog and the rain:I laugh and I sing and I chuckle,I rhyme and I dance and I pun!I knock on the pane with my knuckle —For here is the Sun!What portents of pleasure I fancyReturn with these bright sunny rays!What visions of lazing I can see,Of languorous, sweet Summer days;Of yachting and sea-side diversions,And getting as brown as a bun:Of rambles and Alpine excursions —For here is the Sun!I think of long days at lawn-tennis,Of dreams in my bass-wood canoe,Of gondola-lounging at Venice,And skies sempiternally blue!I muse o'er the pleasures of playtime,Of laziness, laughter, and fun;Of lime-scented zephyrs and haytime —But where is the Sun?[Sun retires behind clouds, rain patters on the pane, and the Lazy One goes to bed.

PEARL

PEARL, O Pearl!Naught but a lissom English girl,So sweet and simple;Naught but the charm of golden curl,Of blush and dimple —Pearl, O Pearl!Sweet, ah, sweet!'Tis pleasant lolling at your feetIn summer playtime;Ah, how the moments quickly fleetIn sunny hay-time —Sweet, ah, sweet!Dream, ah, dream!The sedges sing by swirling streamA lovely brief song;The poplars chant in sunny gleamA lulling leaf-song —Dream, ah, dream!Stay, O stay!We cannot dream all through the day,Demure and doubtful:When shines the sun we must make hay,When lips are poutful —Stay, O stay!

A NUTSHELL NOVEL

VOL. IA WINNING wile,A sunny smile,A feather:A tiny talk,A pleasant walk,Together!VOL. IIA little doubt,A playful pout,Capricious:A merry miss,A stolen kiss,Delicious!!VOL. IIIYou ask mama,Consult papa,With pleasure:And both repent,This rash event,At leisure!!!

THE PINK OF PERFECTION

With manly step and stalwart stride,The Minstrel paced the pier at Ryde!And as he shook those hoary locks,He gazed upon the pink, pink frocks!WITH frocks and their wearers to dazzle my eyes,Their glories, I scarce dare to sing 'em:I timidly gaze and I glance in surprise,At beauties in cambric and gingham!A Paris I feel in this Garden of Dress,And, had I to make a selection —The Apple of Gold, I most freely confess,I'd give to the Pink of Perfection!It must not remind you of raspberry ice,Nor cheek of a milkmaid or cotter;A lobster-like redness is not at all nice,Nor feverish glow of the blotter;It should not recall a Bardolphian nose,Nor yet a pomegranate bisection —Throughout the whole garden you'll scarce find a rose,A match for the Pink of Perfection!A strawberry crushed, almost smothered in cream,Nearly matches the colour it may be;The Jungfrau just flushed with the earliest beam,The hue of the palm of a baby:The faint ruddy tone you may see in a shell,The rose in a young girl's complexion —All or any of these, it is easy to tell,Will pass for the Pink of Perfection!This frock when it's made with most exquisite taste,And fits like a glove on the shoulder;With yoke and full pleats and a band at the waist,Will gladden the passing beholder!With lace and with buttons of mother o' pearl —You'll say, on maturest reflection,The best of all garbs for a pretty young girl,No doubt is the Pink of Perfection!Then if such a dress you meet down by the sea,And find, when you've carefully eyed it,In make and in fashion 'tis good as can be,With a neat little figure inside it;And a sweet little face peeping over a ruff,Which laughs at your lengthy inspection,I think you'll admit I have said quite enough —You've found out the Pink of Perfection!

THE IMPARTIAL

A BOAT-RACE SKETCH

IN sorrow and joy she has seen the beginning —Her lightness of spirit half dashed by the "blues" —With cheers in her heart for the crew who are winning,While tears fill her eyes for those fated to lose.If you'll narrowly watch, 'mid the noise and contention,You'll note, as her Arab paws proudly the dust,A deftly-twined bouquet of speedwell and gentianBeneath her white collar half carelessly thrust!The tint of a night in the still summer weatherHer tight-fitting habit just serves to unfold,While delicate cuffs are scarce fastened togetherBy dainty-wrought fetters of turquoise and gold.Ah! climax of sweet, girlish, neutral devices —What smiles for the winners, for losers what sighs! —She has twined her fair hair with the colours of Isis,While those of the Cam glitter bright in her eyes!

A TRAVELLER'S TARANTELLA

Written in "Murray's Handbook," while the band in the Piazza San Marco was playing the Tarantella, from Masaniello.

ALL that the tourist can dream of or hear about,Crowds on your sight as you carelessly peer about,Quaint water streets you so carefully steer about,See the Rialto, and Square of St. Mark!Floating in gondolas, laughing and jollity,Cyprian wine of the very best quality,At Florian's caffè– mid fun and frivolity —Venice delightful from daylight to dark!Musicians in plenty,Play "Ecco ridente,"Or "Com e gentil," in the still summer night;If you're in a hurry,Pray look in your Murray—You'll find his description is perfectly right!Albergo Reale and English society,Bric-à-brac shops in their endless variety,Plenty of pigeons not fearful of pie-ety,Flutter and peck 'neath the bluest of skies.Dreaming in Venice? Ah, wildest of fallacies —Bronzes and sculpture, mosaics and chalices,Convents and churches, and prisons and palaces,See as you stand on the grim Bridge of Sighs!The ballads of Byron,You'll find will environThe Doges and dodges and Brides of the Sea.Don't get in a flurry,But read it in Murray—If you don't care about it, then listen to me!Thousands of thirsty mosquitoes are biting one,Silvery moonlight is ever delighting one,Music and mirth every moment inviting one —Dreary old London we quickly forget!Shylock and Portia – in short, the whole kit of 'em,Readers of Shakespeare recall ev'ry bit of 'em;Troublesome guides, you can never get quit of 'em —Pictures by Titian and old Tintoret!The sock and the buskin,With Rogers and Ruskin,Are mixed in a muddle with palace and sight!It may be a worry,But don't forget Murray,He'll throw on your darkness some excellent light!Caffè Florian, Venezia.

IN A MINOR KEY

I'M sick of the world and its trouble,I'm weary of pleasures that cloy,I see through the bright-coloured bubble,And find no enjoyment in joy.Is all that we earn worth the earning?Is all that we gain worth the prize?Is all that we learn worth the learning?Is pleasure but pain in disguise?Is sorrow e'er worth our dejection?Is fame but a flatterer's spell?Is love ever worth our affection?Le jeu vaut-il, donc, la chandelle?O, where are the eyes that enthralled us,And where are the lips that we kissed?Where the syren-like voices that called us,And where all the chances we missed?We know not what mortals call pleasure —For clouded are skies that were blue;To dross now has melted our treasure,And false are the hearts that were true.The flowers we gathered are faded,The leaves of our laurels are shed;Our spirit is broken and jaded,The hopes of our youth are all dead.We feel life is hopeless and dreary,Now night has o'ershadowed our day;Bright fruits of this earth only weary,They ripen – to fall and decay!I'm sick of the world and its trouble,For rest and seclusion I thirst;I'm tired of the gay tinted bubble,That brighteneth only to burst!