The Lazy Minstrel

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

FAR, far from the town,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 noteThat white little throatCarols through:She languidly glides,And skilfully guides —Her canoe.'Neath tremulous trees,She loiters at ease,And I, if you please,Wonder whoMay 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 twoForget-me-not eyes,In laughing surprise —From canoe.And as I float by,Said I, "Miss, O why?O why may not IDrift 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 arisesAll London soon demoralizes!BELIEVE me, I'd shatter the indolent fettersThat 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 grinnersAt 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 catalogueOf 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 wellHe 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 cheerilyTo 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 seaWhere 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!SPEAK 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

TALK about lazy time! —Come to this sunny clime —Life is a flowing rhyme —Pleasant its cadence!Zephyrs are blowing freeOver the summer sea,Sprinkling deliciouslyMerry 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 thinkSome 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 throughDiving 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 fetterNow 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 sorrowThe crossing over on the morrow!Or thinks it much too long to waitFor dinner until half-past eight!Perhaps she cannot find her keys,Perhaps she's difficult to please: —I know not which, but it is fearfulTo see those pretty eyes so tearful!Her face – it cannot be denied —Too sad is for a two weeks' bride!Dover, September.

BOLNEY FERRY

THE 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 wherryTo take him over Bolney Ferry!He gazes to the left and right —No craft is anywhere in sight,Except the horse-boat he espiedSecure 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 guessThe 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 shoreShe shows her dimples more and more.Her short white teeth, lips like a cherryUnpouting show, at Bolney Ferry!With joy he steps aboard the boat,The Rhymer's rescued and afloat!She chirps and chatters, and the twainTogether pull the rusty chain:He sighs to think each quaint clink-clankBut 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 dineTo retrospection doth incline;"A faultless figure, watchet eyesAs sweet as early summer skies!What pretty hands, what subtle grace,And what a winsome little face!"In Mrs. Williams' driest sherryHe 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

OUR Crew it is stalwart, our Crew it is smart,But needeth refreshment at noon;Let's land at the lawn of the cheery "White Hart,"Now gay with the glamour of June!For here can we lunch to the music of trees —In sight of the swift river running —Off cuts of cold beef and a prime Cheddar cheese,And a tankard of bitter at Sonning!The garden is lovely, the host is polite,His rose-trees are ruddy with bloom,The snowy-clad table with tankards bedight,And pleasant that quaint little room;So sit down at once, at your inn take your ease —No man of our Crew will be shunning —A cut of cold beef and a prime Cheddar cheese,And a tankard of bitter at Sonning!We've had a long pull, and our hunger is keen,We've all a superb appetite!The lettuce is crisp, and the cresses are green,The ale it is beady and bright;New potatoes galore, and delicious green peas —The Skipper avers they are "stunning" —With cuts of cold beef and a prime Cheddar cheese,And a tankard of bitter at Sonning!The windows are open, the lime-scented breezeComes mixed with the perfume of hay;We list to the weir and the humming of beesAs we sit and we smoke in the bay!Then here's to our host, ever anxious to please,And here's to his brewers so cunning!The cuts of cold beef and the prime Cheddar cheese,And the tankards of bitter at Sonning!

LOVE-LOCKS

IN Arcady's fair groves there dwellsA Wizard, and 'tis there he sellsAll 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-twoBecome smart youths of twenty.My hair is getting thin, and soTo Arcady I sometimes goIn search of "balm," for you must knowI 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 hairOf other days had faded!Ah, how that face has changed since timesLong 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 tressOf soft brown hair; I must confess,Although it caused me much distress,'Tis treasured 'mid my treasures.Ah, would that night come back againWhen she took from her châtelaineHer scissors! – it was not in vain.I hear her laugh the while herFingers, 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 feelThe 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 holdMy locks – they're by the barber soldTo 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 rocksOf life without some awkward knocks;They say that "Love laughs loud at locks" —He howls at those without them!

A STREATLEY SONATA

YES! 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 youShould mount the Hill and see the view;And gaze and wonder, if you'd doIts merits most completely:The air is clear, the day is fine,The prospect is, I know, divine —But most distinctly I declineTo 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 behestAnd tarry here discreetly:'Tis sweet to muse in leafy June,'Tis doubly sweet this afternoon,So I'll remain to muse and moonBefore the "Swan" at Streatley!But from the Hill, I understandYou gaze across rich pasture-land;And fancy you see Oxford andP'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 lazeThan 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 lightWith 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 layAbout the "Swan" at Streatley!

THE MIDSHIPMAID

THE sea is calm, the sky is blue;I've nothing in the world to doBut 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 descriesAre 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 noteShe wears a kilted petticoat;And 'neath it you may see displayedTrim ankles of the Midshipmaid!My dream is past! This naval swellIs naught but pretty Cousin Nell!"You Lazy Thing," she says, "confessYou're quite enchanted with my dress.Just take me down the Esplanade!" —I'm captured by the Midshipmaid!

A PANTILE POEM

BENEATH the Limes, 'tis passing sweetTo 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 playsBeneath 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 pleaseTo 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 showIn 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 fretFor bygone times, and may regretThe manners of the time of Anne,The graceful conduct of a fan,And stately old-world etiquette!The good old days are gone, and yetYou 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 deliciousIs 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 onIts footway, and loll on its quaint balustrade!For this, of all others, the best is of placesTo 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

FAREWELL, 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 pillowI 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!

A SINGER'S SKETCH-BOOK

DOVER

ON Dover Pier, brisk blew the wind,The Fates against me were combined;For when I noticed standing there,Sweet Some-one with the sunny hair —To start I felt not much inclined.Too late! I cannot change my mind,The paddles move! I am resigned —I only know I would I were,On Dover Pier!I wonder – will the Fates be kind?On my return, and shall I findThat grey-eyed damsel passing fair,So bonny, blithe, and debonair,The pretty girl I left behind?On Dover Pier!

CHAMOUNI

A CLIMBING Girl, I met, you know,Above the Valley in the snow;I raised my hat, she deigned to speak,She pointed out each pass and peak,And sombre pine-trees down below.We watched the sunset's ruddy glow,We watched the lengthened shadows grow,Her eyes and dimples were unique —A Climbing Girl!To Chamouni our pace was slow,It darker grew, we whispered low;Her dimples played at hide-and-seek —Ah me! 'twas only Tuesday weekShe married Viscount So-and-so —A Climbing Girl!