The Lazy Minstrel

BAVENO

BENEATH the Vines, Hotel Belle Vue,I'm very certain I know whoHere loves to trifle, I'm afraid,Or lounge upon the balustrade,And watch the Lake's oft changing hue.'Tis sweet to dream the morning through,While idle fancies we pursue,To pleasant plash of passing blade —Beneath the Vines!I love to laze; it's very true,I love the sky's supernal blue;To sit and smoke here in the shade,And slake my thirst with lemonade,And dream away an hour or two —Beneath the Vines!

AT TABLE D'HÔTE

AT Table d'hôte, I quite declineTo sit there and attempt to dine!Of course you never dine, but "feed,"And gobble up with fearsome greedA hurried meal you can't define.The room is close, and, I opine,I should not like the food or wine;While all the guests are dull indeedAt Table d'hôte.The clatter and the heat combineOne's appetite to undermine.When noisy waiters take no heed,But change the plates at railway speed —I feel compelled to "draw my line"At Table d'hôte!

AT ETRETÂT

A DIVING Belle! Pray who is she?For swimming thus armed cap-à-pie.(The sea is like a sea of Brett's.)A graceful girl in trouserettes,And tunic reaching to the knee.Her voice is in the sweetest key,Her laugh is full of gladsome glee;Her eyes are blue as violets —A Diving Belle!I wonder what her name can be?Her sunny tresses flutter free;Now with the ripples she coquets,First one white foot, then two, she wets.A splash! She's vanished in the sea —A Diving Belle!

HOMESICK

'MID Autumn Leaves, now thickly shed,We wander where our paths o'erspread,With yellow russet, red and sere:The country's looking dull and drear,The sky is gloomy overhead.The equinoctial gales we dread,The summer's gone, the sunshine's fled;We've rambled far enough this year —'Mid Autumn Leaves!Though fast our travel-time has sped,On London's flags we long to tread;The latest laugh and chaff to hear,To find the Club grown doubly dear;Its gas burns bright, its fire glows red —'Mid Autumn Leaves!

SKREELIESPORRAN

A SONG FOR BAGPIPES

HAGGIS broo is bla' and braw,Kittle kail is a' awa';Gin a lassie kens fu' weel,Ilka pawkie rattlin reel.Hey the laddie! Ho the plaidie!Hey the sonsie Finnie haddie!Hoot awa'!Gang awa' wi philibegs,Maut's nae missed frae tappit kegs;Sound the spleuchan o' the stanes,Post the pibroch i' the lanes!Hey the swankie, scrievin' shaver!Ho the canny clishmaclaver!Hoot awa'!Parritch glowry i' the ee,Mutchkin for a wee drappee;Feckfu' is the barley-bree —Unco' gude! Ah! wae is me!Hey the tousie Tullochgorum!Ho the mixtie-maxtie jorum!Hoot awa'!

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

'TIS merry 'neath the mistletoe,When holly-berries glisten bright;When Christmas fires gleam and glowWhen wintry winds so wildly blow,And all the meadows round are white —'Tis merry 'neath the mistletoe!How happy then are Fan and Flo,With eyes a-sparkle with delight!When Christmas fires gleam and glow,When dainty dimples come and go,And maidens shrink with feignëd fright —'Tis merry 'neath the mistletoe!A privilege 'tis then, you know,To exercise time-honoured rite;When Christmas fires gleam and glowWhen loving lips may pout, althoughWith other lips they oft unite —'Tis merry 'neath the mistletoe!If Florry then should whisper "No!"Such whispers should be stifled quite,When Christmas fires gleam and glow;If Fanny's coy objecting "O!"Be strangled by a rare foresight —'Tis merry 'neath the mistletoe!When rosy lips, like Cupid's bow,Assault provokingly invite,When Christmas fires gleam and glow,When slowly falls the sullen snow,And dull is drear December night —'Tis merry 'neath the mistletoe!

SOUND WITHOUT SENSE

A POEM FOR RECITATION

(A Certain Person, staying at Sniggerton-on-Sea, was asked by the Vicar to give a recitation at one of the Penny Readings. But when the evening came he found, as usual, he had been too lazy to learn anything. Nothing daunted, he stepped on the platform, with a profound bow and a defiant air, and said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I am about to attempt a recitation of the celebrated poem, so widely known as 'The Capstan Bar.'" Great applause. Awkward people, regardless of grammar, whisper, "Who by?" Officious people, regardless of truth, say, "Byron, Longfellow, Tennyson, Wendell Holmes, Browning, Bret Harte, &c., &c." Mild people say, "O, yes, of course, how stupid; recollect the piece very well now you mention it." Impatient people say, "S-s-s-sh!" and the C. P., fixing a nervous old Lady in the front row with his eye, thus begins) —

AH! the days are past when we clomb the mast and sat on the peerless peak,And laughed aloud at the topping lift and jeered at the garboard streak!Yet the wayward windlass is blithe and gay, there's brass in the County Bank,There is ale to drink as we sit and think, and knots in the oaken plank:But the fretful foam of the summer sea, the scent of the seething tar,Alas and alack they ever bring back, the fate of the Capstan Bar!

("O, Bravo!" shout those who pretended they knew the poem. The Vicar nods his head approvingly. "How sweet!" says a gushing young Lady of uncertain age who contributes to "Poet's Corner" in the "Sniggerton Sentinel." The C. P. thinks he has made an impression, and, putting on an air of intense pain, he proceeds.)

O! we toil and moil and we moil and toil for the scanty wage we earn,As the mud may spatter the hansom-cab and freckle the fitful fern:But never again in the wreathing rain, a-roll on the raucous rink,Do we clasp the hand of the German band and swim in the sable ink!While the pallid hencoop may pass away and the juggëd hare may jar,With a gruesome groan as he sits alone and stares at the Capstan Bar!

(Two old Ladies shed tears, the Poetess tells her friend that she has "quite a lump in her throat" and the Landlord of the "Jocund Jellyfish," thinking the "Bar" is something convivial, vows he will ask the Recitor what he will please to take directly the performance is over. The C. P. changes his tone to one of hearty joviality and proceeds merrily.)

But our hearts beat high for the Strasbourg pie, for two-pronged forks are keen,And our knives are sharp as we twang the harp and batter the old tureen!While the limpets laugh and the winkle wails and the hermit-crab is sore,And the pensive puffin tries hard to learn the Song of the Stevedore;For the gleesome gull flaps his white, white wings and longs for a mild cigar,As the simple lads smoke Intimidads and sigh for the Capstan Bar!

(Hearty applause from the umbrella of the principal tobacconist. The Vicar shakes his head, and fears the poem is getting a little too convivial. The C. P. only wishes he knew how it was going to end. But, putting on the expression of a bland Bishop on a bicycle, in a sweet voice, tinged with sorrow, he continues.)

Ah! 'tis passing sweet when the day is done, and the craven cringles croon,And the snackfrews start in the village cart, in sight of the silver moon;When the gloomy gargler has gone to sleep, and the busy buzwigs snore,As the lovers stalk with a catlike walk on the cataleptic shore!And gay Lantern Jack and fair Amberanne are happy enough – but har!There's bold Sparrer Gus with his blunderbuss lies hid by the Capstan Bar!

(He gives the last line with such tragic force that he frightens the Old Ladies out of their wits, and makes the Vicar nearly jump out of his chair. The C. P. then delivers the following verse with frenzied energy and marvellous rapidity. He contorts his countenance, he shakes his fist, he stamps, and he shouts.)

A howl and a yowl, as the rivals close, with a frantic force they fight;A smash and a crash, and the pebbles fly, as they kick and scream and bite!A thump and a bump and a blackened eye, a sprain and a broken nose!A crack and a smack and a fractured leg – a bundle of tattered clothes!But bold Sparrer Gus, when the red sun rose, was nought but a bruisëd scar,And gay Lantern Jack he never came back that night from the Capstan Bar!

(Terrific applause, as every one thinks it is over. Great disappointment of the Audience when the C. P., after bowing low, holds up his hand as a token that he will try their patience a few moments longer. He gives a deep sigh, and in a low plaintive voice recites the remainder.)

Ah! our tale is told! But we oft come here and gaze on the haunted mill,For the noxious nugget no longer chirps and the captious carp is still!When the gaping grampus is all forlorn and the muffineers are beat,When the scallywag, with his carpet-bag, refuses to drink or eat,When the careful crumpet no longer tries to plunder the Pullman car,When the day is past and the tide runs fast – we weep for the Capstan Bar!

(A whirlwind of applause, during which the C. P. retires, jumps into a cab, just catches the mail train, and is in London before the Vicar and the good people of Sniggerton have quite decided who was the Author of the notable Poem they had heard recited.)

THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY

A REALISTIC STUDY

A Song of May? Who can essay —When nights are cold and skies are grey,When clad in winterly attire,When crooning o'er the ruddy fire —A merry laughing roundelay?When raw and rainy is each day,With nothing Springlike to inspireThis hopeless, dull, catarrhic lyre —Who can essay a Song of May?O, MAY is the month when the madly æstheticalPlunge deep into nonsense profoundly poetical!They sing and they shout about sunshine and greenery,Of beauty and blossom and song-birds and scenery:I own that my notion of May is a hazy one,And don't think its weather is good for the Lazy One;To go out of doors I have not the temerity —Now May has set in with its usual severity!The weather, distressing for man and for beast it is,The sky is o'erclouded, the wind in the East it is;The streets and the footways detestably muddy are,Our cheeks are all blue, and our noses all ruddy are:We've coughs, and we've colds, and we've pains most rheumatical,Our temper is short, and our language emphatical!There's nothing but hopeless, dull, gloomy austerity —Now May has set in with its usual severity!The mornings are dark, and the nights demoniacal,We're dismal, depressed, and we're hypochondriacal!O, May is a fraud – there's no trace of blue skies about,The month that all poets have told lots of lies about!Let's all stop at home, and in easy-chairs ruminate,The curtains draw close and the lamps now illuminate;And pile on the logs with most cheerful celerity —Now May has set in with its usual severity!

TWO AND TWO

A SONG OF SCHOOL-GIRLS

COME the little ones in frocks,With their pretty shoes and socks,And their tangled sunny locks —Laughing crew!Come the dainty dimpled petsWith their tresses all in nets,And their peeping pantalettesJust in view:Come the gay and graceful girls,With their fringes and their curls —Sweetest string of Beauty's pearls,Two and two!What delicious laughter trills,As "rude Boreas" oft wills,Just to flutter frocks and frillsAll askew!And the "blust'ring railer" shows —'Neath the curt and kilted clothes —Hints of shapely sable hoseUnto you —With a glimpse of ankles neat,And small, deftly booted feet,All a-patter down the street —Two and two!Here the coming flirt appears,With the belle of after-years,And the beauty even peersMay pursue:Each Liliputian fairGallant Guardsmen may ensnare,Or enthral a millionaire,And subdue!Who would think such mischief liesIn the future of their sighs,Or such pretty childlike eyes —Two and two?There are eyes of peerless brown,That in time may take the town;There are others drooping down —Black or blue —Whose bright flashes you may findWill bedazzle – nay, may blind —E'en the wisest of mankind,False and true.There are lips we cannot miss,Sweet foreshadowings of bliss —Which, in truth, seem made to kiss,Two and two!On the Book of Beauty's pageFairer girls of ev'ry age,Skilful artist, I'll engage,Never drew.As they prattle, laugh, and play,It is sad to think some day,That Old Time their spirits gay,May subdue!That young maidens, slim and shy,May grow old and stout and sly —Makes one grieve as they pass byTwo and two!

A SHORTHAND SONNET

WRITTEN ON THE FAN OF A FLIRT

THEY are blue,As the skies —Those sweet eyes,Made to woo!But can youE'er surmise —Are her sighs,False or true?To beguile,And to hurtWith a smileAnd desert;Is the wile,Of a Flirt!

IN A GONDOLA

WEARY of show and sight, with pictures bored,Sick of palazzi and of churches tired;Here let me rest, and for awhile forgetThe "lions" of the City of the Sea!My friend to see some masterpiece has gone,When he returns he will of Titian talk,Of Veronese will he babble on,Gush o'er Bassano, rave o'er Tintoret!While he's away I'll rest and muse in peace,Beneath the felsa will I laze and smoke,And through the sable doorway gaze uponThe brightly tinted sunny water-sheet!So quaint, so full of harmony it seems —Like some rare picture in an ebon frame!The foreground shows our trusty gondolier,White-clad, brown-skinned, recumbent, fast asleep!Above – the gondola's bright, sheeny prowThat flashes, gleams, and glisters in the sun;On either side are mouldy, tide-washed walls,Cracked, blistered, weed-covered, decayed, and dampReflecting oft the passing polished prow,Re-echoing the cry of gondolier!Here ruddy rust and verdant fungoid growthMeet in the shattered stone and fissured brick —Evolving thence rare harmonies in red,In brown, in yellow, and in green and grey.A flight of battered, bankrupt marble stepsOf mildewed aspect, fractured, seamed, and scarred —Worn by the lapping of the countless tides,Made hollow by the tread of centuries —Lead to a sculptured archway, where the door,Massive and iron-bound, now stands ajar,While footsteps echo through the sombre hall,To clink of keys and voices partly hushed!See melancholy windows closely barredBy tangled iron-work of choice design;And groups of quaintly headed mooring-posts,Reflected quaintly in the green canal:Beyond are rare effects of light and shade —Strange fitful freaks of colour, hot and cold;A picturesque low bridge, with life replete,As figures, gaily dight, pass to and fro.A mass of cool grey shadow – rising thence,Behold the fabric of some grand old church,With blue-faced clock, whose blurred gold figures showThe hour of our luncheon draweth nigh;Beyond a glint of silver light shows whereThe Canalazzo sparkles in the sun;And, over all, a deep blue sky 'gainst whichBut list! In yon balcōny do I hearThe voice of maid, the twang of mandoline!There, where the sea-green shutters are thrown back,There, where bright blossoms flout the rugged stone,From 'neath the awning, gay and saffron-striped,Comes rippling a Venetian barcarolle!The dreamy song, the tinkling mandoline,The mild narcotic of the cigarette,The lulling motion of my lazy craft,The pleasant, peaceful, plash of passing oar —All help to form a soothing lullaby,Which soon transports me to the Land of Dreams!I dream I am a Doge of mighty fame;And I, in gorgeous raiment fitly clad,Aboard the Bucentoro take mine ease,And issue mandates none dare disobey!All tourists are accounted criminal,And sight-seeing a capital offence;To the Piombi, bores I quickly send,My foes unto the Pozzi I consign!And on the Bucentoro entertainMy friends, like any house-boat on the Thames —A merry laugh! My friend returns! I wake!My dream is o'er! Alas! no longer Doge,I dread the countless "lions" yet unseen!Let us to Danieli's go and lunch!

THE LAST LEAF

AGRAND old Garden by the sea —I muse beneath the ilex tree,And musing, see across the bay,The white sails gleaming far away!The flash of foam, the sunshine's glint,The ever-changing tone and tint,Of purple, grey, and malachite,And shadows flitting 'fore the light.While overhead the summer breezePlays sweet leaf music in the trees!And 'neath the cliff, a muffled roar —The ceaseless sigh of surf on shore!O lilt of leaves! O song of sea!O mingled thrillful harmony!Now sweet, now sad, it seems to me.This touching, tender, minor key.To such rare music would I sing,The while I in the hammock swing!Ah! could the Rhymer but impartThe magic of the Poet's art,In order that this Leaf might beA triumph of bright minstrelsy!O were it not too hot to think,And if I had but pen and ink;Or were it not this afternoon,And if my Banjo were in tune;Or if the weather were not fine,And could I rouse this Muse of mine;Why then… But there, I can't pretend —The Minstrel's lazy toTHE END