KENSINGTON RHYMES
THE PUNCH AND JUDY SHOW
THE PUNCH AND JUDY SHOW
K E N S I N G T O N
R H Y M E S
BY COMPTON MACKENZIE
ILLUSTRATED BY J. R. MONSELL
LONDON: MARTIN SECKER
NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI
First published 1912
PRINTED BY
BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD
AT THE BALLANTYNE PRESS
TAVISTOCK STREET COVENT GARDEN
LONDON
TO
ETHEL LONG
CONTENTS
| PAGE |
| OUR HOUSE | 11 |
| OUR SQUARE | 15 |
| THE DANCING CLASS | 17 |
| MY SISTER AT A PARTY | 22 |
| KISSING GAMES | 26 |
| A BALLAD OF THE ROUND POND | 28 |
| TOWN AND COUNTRY | 35 |
| POOR LAVENDER GIRLS | 37 |
| SUMMER HOLIDAYS | 39 |
| THE UNPLEASANT MOON | 42 |
| SUGGESTIONS ABOUT SLEEP | 44 |
| THE RARE BURGLAR | 47 |
| THE GERMAN BAND | 49 |
| THE DECEITFUL RAT-TAT | 53 |
| THE CAGE IN THE PILLAR BOX | 54 |
| THE FORTUNATE COALMEN | 57 |
| THE PAVEMENT ARTIST | 60 |
| SWEEPS | 63 |
| GREENGROCERS | 65 |
| CHRISTMAS NOT FAR OFF | 66 |
| THE DISAPPOINTMENT | 67 |
| TREASURE TROVE | 68 |
| A VISIT TO MY AUNT | 73 |
| DON QUIXOTE | 77 |
| THE WET DAY | 84 |
| LAST WORDS | 87 |
KENSINGTON RHYMES
OUR HOUSE
OUR house is very high and red,
The steps are very white,
The balcony is full of flowers,
The knocker's very bright.
The hall has got a coloured lamp,
A rack for father's hat,
And pegs for coats: a curious word[A]
Is printed on the mat.
The kitchen ticks too loud at night,
It is a horrid place;
Black-beetles run about the floor
At a most dreadful pace.
The cellar is quite black with coal,
The cat goes scratching there;
People go tramping past above,
But nobody knows where.
The dining-room has rosy walls,
And silver knives and forks,
And when I listen at the door,
I hear the popping corks.
The library smells like new boots,
It is a woolly room;
The housemaid comes at eight o'clock
And sweeps it with a broom.
The staircase has a thousand rods
That rattle if you kick,
And when the twilight makes it blue
I rush up very quick.
The landing is a dismal place,
The bannisters creak so,
The door-knobs twinkle horribly,
The gas is always low.
The drawing-room is cold and white,
The chairs have crooked legs;
Silk ladies rustle in and out
While Fido sits and begs.
The bathroom is a trickling room,
And always smells of paint,
The cupboard's full of medicine
For fever, cold or faint.
My bedroom is a brassy room
With pictures on the wall:
It's rather full of nurse's clothes
But then my own are small.
Our house is very high and red,
The steps are very white,
The balcony is full of flowers,
The knocker's very bright.
OUR SQUARE
OUR square is really most select,
Infectious children, dogs and cats
Are not allowed to come inside,
Nor any people from the flats.
I have a sweetheart in the square,
I bring her pebbles that I find,
And curious shapes in mould, and sticks,
And kiss her when she does not mind.
She wears a dress of crackling white,
A shiny sash of pink or blue,
And over these a pinafore,
And she comes out at half-past two.
Her legs are tall and thin and black,
Her eyes are very large and brown,
And as she walks along the paths,
Her frock moves slowly up and down.
We all have sweethearts in our square,
And when the winter comes again,
We shall go to the dancing-class
And watch them walking through the rain.
THE DANCING CLASS
THE DANCING CLASS
THE DANCING CLASS
EACH week on Friday night at six
Our dancing-class begins:
Two ladies dressed in white appear
And play two violins.
It's really meant for boys at school,
But girls can also come,
And when you walk inside the room
You hear a pleasant hum.
The older boys wear Eton suits,
The younger boys white tops;
We stand together in a row
And practise curious hops.
The dancing-master shows the step
With many a puff and grunt;
He has a red silk handkerchief
Stuck grandly in his front.
He's awfully excitable,
His wrists are very strong,
He drags you up and down the room
Whenever you go wrong.
And when you're going very wrong,
The girls begin to laugh;
And when you're pushed back in your place,
The boys turn round and chaff.
We've learnt the polka and the waltz,
We've got the ladies' chain;
Although he says our final bows
Give him enormous pain.
The floor is very slippery,
It's difficult to walk
From one end to the other end
Unless you sort of stalk.
And when the steps have all been done,
He takes you by the arm
To choose a partner for the dance—
It makes you get quite warm.
You have to bow and look polite,
And ask with a grimace
The pleasure of the next quadrille,
And slouch into your place.
He always picks out girls you hate,
I really don't know why,
And when you look across the room
It almost makes you cry
To see the girl you would have picked
Dance with another boy
Without a single smile for you,
Determined to annoy.
Your heart beats very loud and quick,
Your breath comes very fast,
You pinch your partner in the chain—
But dances end at last.
You think you will not look at her,
You look the other way;
Yet when she beckons with her fan,
You instantly obey.
How quick the evening gallops by
And eight o'clock comes soon,
But not till you've arranged to meet
To-morrow afternoon.
MY SISTER AT A PARTY
I HEAR the piano, the party's begun;
Hurry up! hurry up! there is going to be fun.
Leave your wrap in the hall and tie up your shoes,
There isn't a moment, a moment to lose.
Take a peep at the dining-room as you go by,
Lemonade, claret cup, orange wine you will spy:
And they're going to have two sorts of ices this year,
Both strawberry-cream and vanilla, I hear.
Twelve dances are down on the programme, I see.
Oh, do up your gloves, she is waiting for me!
I hear the piano, the polka's begun!
Oh, why does your beastly old sash come undone!
That's right, are your ready? now don't you forget
To say how d'ye do and express your regret
That Miss Perkins[B] is laid up in bed with a cold—
It isn't my place—just you do as you're told.
I say, look at Frank,[C] he's behaving as though
He was playing with cads in a field full of snow;
He's sliding about on the slippery floor
All over the room with the kid from next door.
It's a jolly good thing that Miss Perkins' in bed,
They'll probably send old Eliza[D] instead.
When we hear that she's come, we'll just not attend,
Or tell her we never go home till the end.
They give all the maids when they come, orange wine—
I say, do you think I might ask her for nine.
All right, only don't say I danced more than twice;
If you do, I'll say you have had more than one ice.
Mother said that you could? She said one of each?
You'd better look out or I'll jolly well peach.
You don't care if I do? All right, just you wait!
You'll tell Mrs. Jones we were not to be late?
I'm not pinching at all, you beastly young sneak!
You won't follow me round when we play hide and seek!
There's Dorothy![E] Pax! You can eat what you like,
And to-morrow I'll give you a ride on my bike.
KISSING GAMES
POSTMAN'S Knock! Postman's Knock!
A letter for the girl next door,
And two pence, please, to pay.
Kiss in the Ring! Kiss in the Ring!
She's fallen down upon the floor,
I don't know what to say.
Postman's Knock! Postman's Knock!
I wish that I had asked for more;
At games you must obey.
Kiss in the Ring! Kiss in the Ring!
When running after her I tore
Her frock the other day.
Postman's Knock! Postman's Knock!
A letter for the girl next door,
And a shilling she must pay.[F]
BALLAD OF THE ROUND POND
THE Round Pond is a fine pond
With fine ships sailing there,
Cutters, yachts and men-o'-war,
And sailor-boys everywhere.
Paper boats they hug the shore,
And row-boats move with string
But cutters, yachts and larger ships
Sail on like anything.
THE ROUND POND
THE ROUND POND
It was the schooner Kensington,
Set out one Saturday:
The wind was blowing from the east,
The sky was cold and grey.
Her crew stood on the quarter-deck
And stared across the sea,
With two brass cannon in the stern
For the Royal Artillery.
The Royal Tin Artillery
Had faced the sea before,
They had fallen in the bath one night
And heard the waste-plug roar.
They were rescued by the nursery maid
And put on the ledge to dry;
And they looked more like the Volunteers
Than the Royal Artillery.
For the blue had all come off their clothes,
And they afterwards wore grey;
But they stood by the cannon like Marines
That famous Saturday.
The crew of the schooner Kensington
Were Dutchmen to a man,
With wooden legs and painted eyes;
But the Captain he was bran.
His blood was of the brownest bran
And his clothes were full of tucks;
But he fell in the sea half-way across,
And was eaten up by ducks.
We launched the boat at half-past three,
And stood on the bank to watch,
And some friends of mine who were fishing there
Had a wonderful minnow-catch.
Fifteen minnows were caught at once
In an ancient ginger jar,
When a shout went up that the Kensington
Was heeling over too far.
Too far for a five-and-sixpenny ship
That was warranted not to upset;
But she righted herself in half a tick
Though the crew got very wet.
The crew got very wet indeed;
The Artillery all fell down,
And lay on their backs for the rest of the voyage
For fear they were going to drown.
The schooner Kensington sailed on
Across the wild Round Pond,
And we ran along the gravel-bank
With a hook stuck into a wand.
A hook stuck into a wand to guide
The schooner safe ashore
To incandescent harbour lights
And a dock on the school-room floor.
But suddenly the wind dropped dead.
And a calm came over the sea,
And a terrible rumour got abroad
It was time to go home to tea.
We whistled loud, we whistled long,
The whole of that afternoon;
But there wasn't wind enough to float
A twopenny pink balloon.
And the other chaps upon the bank
Looked anxiously out to sea;
For their sweethearts and sisters were going home,
And they feared for the cake at tea.
. . . . . . .
It was the schooner Kensington
Came in at dead of night
With many another gallant ship
And one unlucky kite.
The keeper found them at break of day,
And locked them up quite dry
In his little green hut, with a notice that
On Monday we must apply.
So on Sunday after church we went
To stare at them through the door;
And we saw the schooner Kensington
Keel upwards on the floor.
But though we stood on the tips of our toes,
And craned our necks to see,
We could not spot the wooden-legged crew
Or the Royal Artillery.
TOWN AND COUNTRY
THEY say that country children have
Most fierce adventures every night,
With owls and bats and giant moths
That flutter to the candle-light.
They say that country children search
For earwigs underneath the sheets,
That creeping animals abound
Upon the wooden window-seats.
They say that country children wash
Their hands in water full of things,
Tadpoles and newts and wriggling eels,
Until their hands are pink with stings.
But this I know, that if they slept
Far, far away from owls and bats,
Their hearts would thump tremendously
To hear outside two fighting cats.
Two cats that surely must come through
The inky window-pane and jump,
With gleaming eyes, upon my bed—
Ah, then indeed their hearts would thump.
POOR LAVENDER GIRLS
LAVENDER, lavender!
Summer's in town!
Blue skies and marguerites,
Mother's new gown!
Lavender, lavender!
Summer's in town!
Blue seas and yellow sands,
Children have flown.
Lavender, lavender!
Bunchy and sweet!
No one wants lavender
All down our street.
Lavender girls in London never learn to play,
Give them a penny, a penny before you go away.
GOOD-NIGHT
GOOD-NIGHT
SUMMER HOLIDAYS
WHEN I was small and went to bed
Before the sun went down,
My cot was woven out of gold
Like a princess's gown.
And in the garden every night,
I used to hear the birds,
And from the people on the lawn
A pleasant sound of words.
The garden was quite full of pinks
Whose smell came blowing in
Through windows open very wide
Where gnats would dance and spin.
And as I lay in my cool cot,
I'd think of daylight hours,
Poppies and ox-eyed daisies white,
And all the roadside flowers
Now lifting up their drooping heads
In the long-shadow time;
I'd listen for my mother's step
The narrow stairs to climb.
And as she bent to say good-night
And heard me say my prayer,
She seemed a bit of mignonette,
She was so sweet and fair.
And just as I was dozing off,
I'd hear some jolly talk
Of aunts and uncles setting out
To take their supper-walk.
I'd hear their voices die away
In the green curly lane;
But I was always fast asleep
When they came back again.
THE UNPLEASANT MOON
THE moon is not much use to me,
She rises far too late:
I'm fonder of the friendly fire
That crackles in the grate.
But when I wake up in the night
And find the fire asleep,
His ashes make a horrid noise
And mice begin to creep.
And then the moon crawls in between
The curtains and the floor,
And when I turn my face away,
She's crawling round the door.
Oh, then I wish she was the fire,
I like his light the most;
He does not give the furniture
A sort of shaking ghost.
I hide my head beneath the clothes
And shut my eyes up tight,
And then I see queer dancing wheels
And spots of coloured light.
They do not comfort me at all,
But pass the time away
Until I hear the milkman's can
And know that it is day.
SUGGESTIONS ABOUT SLEEP
I'VE heard it said that the dustman
Is responsible for our sleep,
That he puts a pinch of dust in our eyes
When the stars begin to peep.
If this is true it would quite explain
The horrible dreams that come,
For the dustman looks a rough sort of chap,
And his cart smells awfully rum.
THE DUSTMAN
THE DUSTMAN
I've tried to talk to the dustman,
But his voice is fearfully hoarse;
And once I put a penny in the bin—
It was taken out of course.
But for all the good it did my dreams,
I need not have put it in;
Perhaps he thought that the penny had slipped
By accident into the bin.
It seems absurd in this civilised age[G]
That our dreams should still be bad;
If the dustman is responsible
I think he must be mad.
It's horrid enough to lie awake,
And count the knobs on the bed;
But it's horrider far to go to sleep,
In fact I'd sooner be dead.
I expect that then if one had bad dreams
And woke up in a fright,
There would be an angel somewhere about
To strike a cheerful light.
And your governess is not always glad,
If you wake her up to say
That a witch has been chasing you down a street
Where the people have gone away.
THE RARE BURGLAR
IT'S extremely unusual, my mother declares,
For a burglar to sleep at the top of the stairs:
The policemen, she says, are so terribly sure
That daily the number of burglars gets fewer.
They are caught by the dozen as morning comes round
And dragged off to cells very deep underground:
And there they repent of their wicked bad lives,
With occasional visits from children and wives.
So every night when I lie in my bed,
I listen to hear the policeman's deep tread.
I've a whistle that hangs on a piece of white cord,
And it's much more consoling than any tin sword:
For I know, if I blow, the policeman will come
And make the old burglar look awfully glum.
THE GERMAN BAND
THE GERMAN BAND
THE GERMAN BAND
I LOVE to lie in bed and hear
The jolly German band.
Why people do not care for it
I cannot understand.
They do not mind the orchestra.
And that makes far more noise;
They quite forget that music is
A thing that one enjoys.
When grown-up people come and call,
I have to play for them;
And once a deaf old lady said
My playing was a gem.
But it's not true for them to say
The Carnival de Venise[H]
With three wrong notes is better than
A band that plays with ease.
It comes each week at eight o'clock,
And when I hear it play,
I am a knight upon a horse
And riding far away.
The lines upon the blanket are
Six armies marching past,
Six armies marching on a plain,
Six armies marching fast.
Of course I am the general,
I'm riding at the head;
But suddenly the music stops
And then I'm back in bed.
Each time it plays brings different thoughts,
Exciting, sad and good.
I'm sailing in a sailing ship,
I'm walking in a wood.
I'm going to the pantomime,
I'm at the hippodrome.
But when the music stops, why then
I always am at home.
In winter when it's dark at eight,
The jolly German band
Drives all unpleasant thoughts away
Just like a fairy-wand.
In summer when it's light at eight,
The German band still plays;
It makes me think of pleasant things
And seaside holidays.
I've heard that it plays out of tune,
And upsets talking, and
I've heard it called a nuisance, but
I love the German band.
THE DECEITFUL RAT-TAT
THE postman has given a loud rat-tat,
Perhaps it's a parcel for me:
Elizabeth does go slowly
To open the door and see.
Oh dear, it's only a telegram,
To wait on the stand in the hall
Till Father comes home in the evening
Or Mother comes back from a call.
THE CAGE IN THE PILLAR-BOX
I WONDER if an animal
Lives in the pillar-box,
For when the postman opens it
You see a cage with locks.
And surely letters do not want
A cage with bars and clamps;
They have no wings, they could not fly,
They're held by sticky stamps.
Perhaps the postman keeps a pet,
A savage beast of prey;
For lions, seals and diving-birds
Are fed three times a day.
And all those figures on the plate
Are meant perhaps for you
To learn what time the beast is fed
Like others at the Zoo.
And now I come to think of it,
The postman's coat and hat
Is not unlike a keeper's who
Feeds animals with fat.
Besides, he always shuts the door
With a tremendous bang,
As if he feared to see stick out
An irritable fang.
But then again I never heard
The faintest roar or squeak,
I never saw a sniffing nose
Or spied a hooky beak.
So after all perhaps there's not
A bird, a beast or snake.
And yet to-morrow I shall post
A slice of cherry-cake.
THE FORTUNATE COALMEN