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 fetter
Now 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 sorrow
The crossing over on the morrow!
Or thinks it much too long to wait
For dinner until half-past eight!
Perhaps she cannot find her keys,
Perhaps she's difficult to please:—
I know not which, but it is fearful
To see those pretty eyes so tearful!
Her face—it cannot be denied—
Too sad is for a two weeks' bride!
Dover, September.
BOLNEY FERRY.
T
HE 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 wherry
To take him over Bolney Ferry!
He gazes to the left and right—
No craft is anywhere in sight,
Except the horse-boat he espied
Secure 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 guess
The 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 shore
She shows her dimples more and more.
Her short white teeth, lips like a cherry
Unpouting show, at Bolney Ferry!
With joy he steps aboard the boat,
The Rhymer's rescued and afloat!
She chirps and chatters, and the twain
Together pull the rusty chain:
He sighs to think each quaint clink-clank
But brings him nearer to the bank!
His heart is sad, her laugh is merry,
And so they part at 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.
O
UR 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 breeze
Comes mixed with the perfume of hay;
We list to the weir and the humming of bees
As 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.
I
N Arcady's fair groves there dwellsA Wizard, and 'tis there he sells
All 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-two
Become smart youths of twenty.
My hair is getting thin, and so
To Arcady I sometimes go
In search of "balm," for you must know
I 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 hair
Of other days had faded!
Ah, how that face has changed since times
Long 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 tress
Of soft brown hair; I must confess,
Although it caused me much distress,
'Tis treasured 'mid my treasures.
Ah, would that night come back again
When she took from her châtelaine
Her scissors!—it was not in vain.
I hear her laugh the while her
Fingers, 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 feel
The 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 hold
My locks—they're by the barber sold
To 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 rocks
Of life without some awkward knocks;
They say that "Love laughs loud at locks"—
He howls at those without them!
A STREATLEY SONATA.
Y
ES! 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 you
Should mount the Hill and see the view;
And gaze and wonder, if you'd do
Its merits most completely:
The air is clear, the day is fine,
The prospect is, I know, divine—
But most distinctly I decline
To 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 behest
And tarry here discreetly:
'Tis sweet to muse in leafy June,
'Tis doubly sweet this afternoon,
So I'll remain to muse and moon
Before the "Swan" at Streatley!
But from the Hill, I understand
You gaze across rich pasture-land;
And fancy you see Oxford and
P'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 laze
Than 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 light
With 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 lay
About the "Swan" at Streatley!
THE MIDSHIPMAID.
T
HE sea is calm, the sky is blue;I've nothing in the world to do
But 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 descries
Are 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 note
She wears a kilted petticoat;
And 'neath it you may see displayed
Trim ankles of the Midshipmaid!
My dream is past! This naval swell
Is naught but pretty Cousin Nell!
"You Lazy Thing," she says, "confess
You're quite enchanted with my dress.
Just take me down the Esplanade!"—
I'm captured by the Midshipmaid!
A PANTILE POEM.
B
ENEATH 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 plays
Beneath 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 please
To 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 show
In 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 fret
For bygone times, and may regret
The manners of the time of Anne,
The graceful conduct of a fan,
And stately old-world etiquette!
The good old days are gone, and yet
You 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 delicious
Is 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 on
Its footway, and loll on its quaint balustrade!
For this, of all others, the best is of places
To 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.
F
AREWELL, 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 pillow
I 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.
O
N 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 find
That 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 week
She married Viscount So-and-so—
A Climbing Girl!
BAVENO.
B
ENEATH the Vines, Hotel Belle Vue,I'm very certain I know who
Here 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.
A
T Table d'hôte, I quite declineTo sit there and attempt to dine!
Of course you never dine, but "feed,"
And gobble up with fearsome greed
A 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 indeed
At Table d'hôte.
The clatter and the heat combine
One'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.
'M
ID 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.
H
AGGIS 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.
'T
IS merry 'neath the mistletoe,When holly-berries glisten bright;
When Christmas fires gleam and glow
When 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 glow
When loving lips may pout, although
With 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)—
A
H! 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.)