The Lazy Minstrel
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OVERTURE
Within this Volume you will find,No project to "improve the mind"!No "purpose" lurks within these lays —These idle songs of idle days.They're seldom learnëd, never long —The best apology for song!Should e'er they chance to have the pow'r,To pass away some lazy hour —They'll serve all "purpose," it is true,The Minstrel ever had in view!LAZY LAYS
HAMBLEDEN LOCK
A CAPITAL luncheon I've had at the "Lion,"I've drifted down here with the light Summer breeze;I land at the bank, where the turf's brown and dry on,And lazily list to the music of trees!O, sweet is the air, with a perfume of clover,O, sleepy the cattle in Remenham meads!The lull of the lasher is soothing, moreover,The wind whistles low in the stream-stricken reeds!With sail closely furled, and a weed incandescent —Made fast to a post is the swift Shuttlecock—I think you will own 'tis uncommonly pleasantTo dream and do nothing by Hambleden Lock!See a barge blunder through, overbearing and shabby,With its captain asleep, and his wife in command;Then a boatful of beauties for Medmenham Abbey,And a cargo of campers all tired and tanned.Two duffers collide, they don't know what they're doing —They're both in the ways of the water unskilled —But here is the Infant, so great at canoeing,Sweet, saucy, short-skirted, and snowily frilled.I notice the tint of a ribbon or feather,The ripple of ruffle, the fashion of frock;I languidly laze in the sweet Summer weather,And muse o'er the maidens by Hambleden Lock!What value they give to the bright panorama —O, had I the pencil of Millais or Sandys! —The lasses with sunshades from far Yokohama,The pretty girl-scullers with pretty brown hands!Next the Syren steams in; see the kind-eyed old colley,On the deck, in the sun, how he loves to recline!Note the well-ordered craft and its Skipper so jolly,With friends, down to Marlow, he's taking to dine.In the snug-curtained cabin, I can't help espyingA dew-clouded tankard of seltzer-and-hock,And a plateful of peaches big babies are trying,I note, as they glide out of Hambleden Lock!A punt passes in, with Waltonians laden,And boatman rugose of mahogany hue;And then comes a youth and a sunny-haired maidenWho sit vis-à-vis in their bass-wood canoe.Now look at the Admiral steering the Fairy,O, where could he find a much better crew thanHis dutiful daughters, Flo, Nina, and Mary,Who row with such grace in his trim-built randan?I muse while the water is ebbing and flowing,I silently smoke and serenely take stockOf countless Thames toilers, now coming, now going,Who take a pink ticket at Hambleden Lock!SPRING'S DELIGHTS
'Tis good-bye to comfort, to ease and prosperity,Now Spring has set in with its usual severity!SPRING'S Delights are now returning!Let the Lazy Minstrel sing;While the ruddy logs are burning,Let his merry banjo ring!Take no heed of pluvial patter,Waste no time in vain regrets;Though our teeth are all a-chatter,Like the clinking castanets!Though it's freezing, sleeting, snowing,Though we're speechless from catarrh,Though the East wind's wildly blowing,Let us warble, Tra la la!Spring's Delights are now returning!Let us order new great-coats:Never let us dream of spurningWoollen wrap around our throats.Let us see the couch nocturnalSnugly swathed in eider-down:Let not thoughts of weather vernalTempt us to go out of Town.Though the biting blast is cruel,Though our "tonic's" not sol-fa,Though we sadly sup on gruel,Let us warble, Tra la la!Spring's Delights are now returningNow the poet deftly weavesQuaint conceits and rhymes concerningCroton oil and mustard leaves!Let us, though we are a fixture,In our room compelled to stay —Let us quaff the glad cough mixture,Gaily gargle time away!Though we're racked with pains rheumatic,Though to sleep we've said ta-ta,Let us, with a voice ecstatic,Wildly warble, Tra la la!Spring's Delights are now returning!Doctors now are blithe and gay!Heaps of money now they're earning,Calls they're making ev'ry day.Ev'ry shepherd swain grows colder,As, in vain, he tries to sing;Feels he now quite ten years older,'Neath the blast of blighting Spring!Though we're doubtful of the issue,Let us bravely shout Hurrah!And in one superb A-tishoo!Sneeze and warble Tra la la!A MODERN SYREN
THE laughing ripples sing their lay,The sky is blue, and o'er the bayThe breeze is blowing free;For, O, the morning's fresh and fair,And bright and bracing is the air,Down by the summer sea.A pretty, winsome, merry girl,With all her sunny hair a-curl,Was dimpled bonny Bee;Her laugh was light, her eyes were blue,They always said her heart was true,Down by the summer sea.The sun is hot, the day is grand,And up and down the yellow sandPerambulateth he:She promised they should meet at eight,And from her lips should learn his fate,Down by the summer sea.He fancies it is getting late,For by his watch 'tis now past eight,Some minutes twenty-three;The shore he scans with eyesight keen.And notes the track of small bottines,Down by the summer sea.He hums a merry song and strolls,And tracks this pretty pair o' soles —His heart is full of glee!For now that he has found the clue,He follows footsteps two and two,Down by the summer sea."But ah!" he says, and stops his song —"This soler system is all wrong,'Tis plain enough to me,Those prints are proofs – I can't tell whose —But 'quite another pair of shoes,'Down by the summer sea."The short and narrow, long and wide,He finds march closely side by sideBy some occult decree;And as he cons the footprints o'er,He finds that two and two make four,Down by the summer sea!He sighs, and says, "Ah, well, indeed!"And from his pocket takes a weed,And strikes the light fuzee:He adds, "I think I'll now go home,For maidens' vows are frail as foamDown by the summer sea!"REGRETS
O FOR the look of those pure grey eyes —Seeming to plead and speak —The parted lips, the deep-drawn sighs,The blush on the kissen cheek!O for the tangle of soft brown hair,Fanned by the lazy breeze;The fleeting hours unshadowed by care,Shaded by tremulous trees!O for the dream of those sunny days,Their bright unbroken spell,And thrilling sweet untutored praise —From lips once loved too well!O for the feeling of days agone,The simple faith and truth,The Spring of time, life's rosy dawn —O for the love and the youth!HAMMOCKUITY
If you swing in a hammock the summer day through,And you dream with profound assiduity,A new phase of content it will give unto youWhich philosophers call "Hammockuity"!ALL through the lazy afternoon,Beneath the sycamore,I listen to the distant Lune,Or slumber to its roar;'Tis sweet to muse, to sleep or sing,When talk is superfluity;'Tis sweet beneath the trees to swing,And practise hammockuity.Forgotten here, I would forgetThe destiny fate weaves,The while I smoke a cigaretteTo music of the leaves;I wish my present lazy lifeA lengthy continuity;Away from trouble, care, and strife,In happy hammockuity!While others work, while others play,Or love, or laugh, or weep;I watch the smoke-rings curl away,And almost fall asleep!I'd give up thought of future fame —Despite such incongruity —I'd forfeit riches, power, name,For blissful hammockuity!I hate the booming busy beeWho dares to wake me up —I wonder if it's time for tea,Or grateful cyder-cup?I would I could, beneath the trees,Repose in perpetuity,And swing, and sing, and take mine easeIn lasting hammockuity!MY COUNTRY COUSIN
TO Town, about the close of dull November,Up comes the Country Cousin, pray remember, —The Cattle Show to visit in December!Her winsome, watchet eyes, they are the sweetest,Her chaussure and her gloves they are the neatest,Her toilette you'll consider the completest.She's pretty, piquante, pouting, and capricious;So dainty, dimpled, daring, and delicious:She's joyful, and she's jaunty and judicious.She loves to hear the latest tittle-tattle;On manners, music, crinoline, and cattle,And pictures, peers and poets will she prattle!She often goes out shopping with her Mother,The Park she sometimes visits with her Brother —She'd much prefer to stroll there with Another!The gay Mikado music sets her humming —And how she likes the Temple kettle-drumming,With those who love to go chrysanthemumming!She has no views on "rights" or vivisection,Finds politics a nuisance on reflection —To bores she has a most supreme objection!Delight she takes in anything that's merry,She dearly loves a pleasant lunch chez Verrey,And much prefers dry Pommery to sherry!She rattles through a picture exhibition,Then goes to see a circus or magician,And does a morning concert in addition!Of theatres, you'll find, she'll ne'er grow weary;Each night she'll go – let plays be good or dreary —And sit them through, still looking bright and cheery!She can't e'en rest 'twixt Saturday and Monday,But in a hansom – despite Mrs. Grundy —She drives down to the Abbey on a Sunday!She's bright each morn – as fresh as any daisy —And when with seeing sights I'm nearly crazy,She says I am "incorrigibly lazy!"But when one morn from Euston she has started —Those eyelids drooped a wee bit when we parted —I certainly feel dismal and down-hearted.That merry whirling time at last is ended! —And as for hearts? Pooh! pooh! I'm feeling splendid."Least said," the proverb hints, "is soonest mended."A COMMON-SENSE CAROL
By the sea, on the shore, it is pleasant to be,The sunshine's delicious I own;This life would be ever delightful to me,If folks would but leave me alone!O, HOLIDAY-MAKERS can rarely be still,But take superhuman exertionsAnd make themselves hot and exhausted and illTo organize horrid "excursions"!Let those who enjoy it ride out in a "shay" —Exploring each dell and each dingle —But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!They think it delightful to walk on the pier,And try to create a sensation;When passengers land, looking pallid and queer,A cause is for great jubilation:Let lunatics listen to bands when they play,And nod to their noise and their jingle —But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!Anemone-hunters roam over the rocks,All hoping to fish up a tank-full;They hopelessly ruin their shoes and their socks —O, why can't they rest and be thankful?They rave o'er a winkle, a wrass, or a wray,And sea-weeds that with them commingle —But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!They fancy 'tis pleasant to go for a sailWith wind in a dubious quarter;When waves "chop about," and they get very pale,And up to their knees in the water.Let maritime maniacs, wetted with spray,Discourse on a cleat or a cringle —But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!I'd much rather take a good pull at ozoneWithout all this bustle and riot;If well-meaning friends would but leave me alone,To bask in the sunshine and quiet.Such labour as theirs fills my heart with dismay —The thought of it makes my blood tingle —So I will throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!SAINT MAY
There's a bell that wakes the echo and renders incomplete,The sullen shuttered silence of the solemn City street!SAINT ALOYS the Great is both mouldy and grim,The Decalogue's dusty, the windows are dim;If I'm not mistaken, you'll long have to searchBefore you discover this old City church:But it's whereabouts I don't intend to betray,Though a pilgrim each week to the shrine of Saint May!The one bell is cracked in its crazy old tower,The sermon oft lasts rather more than an hour;The parson is prosy, the clerk eighty-three,The organ drones out in a sad minor key:Yet how quickly the moments, I find, fly away,I pass every week 'neath the spell of Saint May.She sits in a high, ancient black oaken pew,Which almost conceals her fair face from my view;The sweetest of pictures, it can't be denied,With two tiny sisters who sit by her side:And they lisp the responses and kneel down to pray,With their little hands locked in the palm of Saint May.Of saints I've seen many in churches before —In Florence or Venice, they're there by the score;Agnese, Maria – the rest I forget —By Titian, Bassano, and brave Tintoret —Though as pictures delightful, I fancy that they,E'en as pictures, can't rival my gentle Saint May.She's almost too young and too plump for a saint,With sweet little dimples that Millais might paint;She wears no ascetic or mortified mien,No wimple of yellow or vestment of green —But her soft golden hair throws a sunshiny ray,Like a nimbus, around the fair face of Saint May!What surquayne or partlet could look better thanMy saint's curly jacket of black Astracan?What coif than her bonnet – a triumph of skill —Or alb than her petticoat, edged with a frill.Would she love, would she honour, and would she obey?I wonder while gazing across at Saint May!The sermon is finished, the blessing is o'er,The sparse congregation drift out at the door;I pause as I pass down the gloomy old aisle,To see my saint pass and perchance get a smile:I would daily change faith like the Vicar of Bray,Could I pass all my life in adoring Saint May!Through the weary dull week, as it rolls on apace,I'm haunted by thoughts of that tender young face;And oft, O how oft, does the vision arise —The pureness and truth of those eloquent eyes!And I long for the hour, and I count on the day,When I sit at a distance and worship Saint May!No doubt you'll be vastly surprised when you're toldHer name, in the Calendar, ne'er was enrolled —They prattled of "May," the sweet sisterly pair,I added the "Saint," – she was canonized there!Ah! if saints might wed sinners, I'd yield to her sway,And I straightway would fall on my knees to Saint May!A CANOE CANZONET
The leaves scarce rustled in the trees,And faintly blew the summer breeze;A damsel drifted slowly down,Aboard her ship to Henley town;And as the white sail passed along,A punted Poet sang this song!IN your canoe, love, when you are going,With white sail flowing, and merry song;In your canoe, love, with ripples gleamingAnd sunshine beaming, you drift along!While you are dreaming, or idly singing,Your sweet voice ringing, when skies are blue:In summer days, love, on water-ways, love,You like to laze, love, – in your canoe!In your canoe, love, I'd be a tripper,If you were skipper and I were mate;In your canoe, love, where sedges shiverAnd willows quiver, we'd navigate!Upon the River, you'd ne'er be lonely,For, if you only had room for two,I'd pass my leisure with greatest pleasureWith you, my treasure, – in your canoe!In your canoe, love, when breezes sigh light,In tender twilight, we'd drift away;In your canoe, love, light as a feather,Were we together – what should I say?In sunny weather, were Fates propitious,A tale delicious I'd tell to you!In quiet spots, love, forget-me-nots, love,We'd gather lots, love, – in your canoe!Bolney Backwater, July.A LOVER'S LULLABY
MIRROR your sweet eyes in mine, love,See how they glitter and shine!Quick fly such moments divine, love,Link your lithe fingers in mine!Lay your soft cheek against mine, love,Pillow your head on my breast;While your brown locks I entwine, love,Pout your red lips when they're prest!Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love;Sorrow and sighing resign:Life is too short to repine, love,Link your fair future in mine!THE TAM O' SHANTER CAP
Upon the Spa at Scarborough, the Minstrel was a panter —He asked a Wilful Maiden why she wore a Tam o' Shanter?She gazed upon his furrowed face, half doubting if he chaffed her,Then, noting well his solemn mien, she answered thus, with laughter —LET others wear, upon the Spa,The "Rubens" hat or bonnet;The "Gainsborough," the Tuscan straw,With marguerites upon it —The "Pamela," of quaint design,The "Zulu," or the "Planter" —But as for me, I much inclineTo wear my Tam o' Shanter!Let others sport the fluffy hat,The "Sailor Boy," or "Granny;"The "Bargee," or some other thatIs anything but canny.If petticoats be short or long,Or fuller be or scanter,Or if you think it right or wrong —I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter!I'll wear it if it's hot or cold,Let weather what it may be!Will this Child do "what she is told"?Or is she quite a baby?I do not care for my Mama,Or Cousin Charlie's banter;Despite the chaff of dear Papa,I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter!You ask me if I'll tell you whyI cannot do without it?Because it keeps me cool and dry —You seem inclined to doubt it?The reason why? There, pray don't tease!I'll tell you that instanter.The reason is —Because I pleaseTo wear my Tam o' Shanter!A STREET SKETCH
UPON the Kerb, a maiden neat —Her hazel eyes are passing sweet —There stands and waits in dire distress:The muddy road is pitiless,And 'busses thunder down the street!A snowy skirt, all frill and pleat;Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feetPeep out, beneath her kilted dress,Upon the Kerb!She'll first advance and then retreat,Half frightened by a hansom fleet.She looks around, I must confess,With marvellous coquettishness! —Then droops her eyes and looks discreet,Upon the Kerb!A TINY TRIP
THE BILL OF LADINGSHE was cargo and crew,She was boatswain and skipper,She was passenger too,Of the Nutshell canoe;And the eyes were so blueOf this sweet tiny tripper!She was cargo and crew,She was boatswain and skipper!THE PILOTHow I bawled, "Ship, ahoy!"Hard by Medmenham Ferry!And she answered with joy,She would like a convoy,And would love to employA bold pilot so merry:How I bawled, "Ship, ahoy!"Hard by Medmenham Ferry!THE VOYAGE'Neath the trees gold and red,In that bright autumn weather,When our white sails were spread,O'er the waters we sped —What was it she said?When we drifted together!'Neath the trees gold and red,In that bright autumn weather!THE HAVENAh! the moments flew fast,But our trip too soon ended!When we reached land at last,And our craft was made fast,It was six or half-past —And Mama looked offended!Ah! the moments flew fast,But our trip too soon ended!A STUDY
MADE IN "BRADSHAW" AT CARNFORTH JUNCTION
MISS DIMPLECHEEK,Your winsome face,Your figure full of girlish grace,Is quite unique!Your pretty, poutful, childlike charm,All criticism must disarm,Miss Dimplecheek!Miss Dimplecheek,Ah! well-a-day,I watch your pretty roses playAt hide and seek!While York to Lancaster gives place,And sweeter grows your pretty face —Miss Dimplecheek!Miss Dimplecheek,I wonder ifYou ever revel in a tiff,Or pout in piqueOr droop those pretty eyelids down,Or shake your shoulders, stamp, or frown,Miss Dimplecheek?Miss Dimplecheek,I gaze, and then —The most cantankerous of menGrows mild and meek.Your faults? Perchance you may have some —But to your faults I'm blind and dumb —Miss Dimplecheek.Miss Dimplecheek,If I but knewWho was the proud papa of youI'd quickly speak:And get an introduction, soEventually I might knowMiss Dimplecheek.Miss Dimplecheek,I leave you here,For I am off to Windermere,To stay a week:I p'r'aps may ne'er see you again —But – there's the bell, and here's my train —Miss Dimplecheek!DOCTOR BRIGHTON
"One of the best physicians our city ever knew is kind, cheerful, merry, Doctor Brighton." – The Newcomes.
Scene. – King's Road, BrightonThe Colonel. Beryl (His Niece)The ColonelTHOUGH long it is since Titmarsh wrote;His good advice we still remember,When bad catarrh and rugged throatAre rife in town in grey November!So, if your temper's short or bad,Or of engagements you are full, man;Or if you're feeling bored or sad,Make haste and get aboard the PullmanAnd throw all physic to the dogs —If life's sad burden you would lighten —Run quick away from London fogsAnd call in cheerful Doctor Brighton!BerylGood Doctor Brighton, a mighty magician is,See him at once, howe'er bad you may be!Take his advice – there no better physician is —Naught is his physic but Sunshine and Sea!Come down at once then! Leave London in hazy time,Leave it enshrouded in yellow and brown!Come here and revel in exquisite lazy time,Flee from the turmoil and taint of the town!Blue is the sky and the sunshine is glorious,Charged is the air with delicious ozone:Gay is the cliff and most gentle is Boreas,Come down at once and recover your "tone!"The ColonelThough many years have passed away,And countless cares to not a few come,The place is bright as in the dayOf Ethel, Clive, and Colonel Newcome:The East Street shops are just as gay,The turtle still as good at Mutton's;The buns at Streeter's – so they say —As well-beloved by tiny gluttons!You still can gallop o'er the Down,Or swim at Brill's just like a Triton.A smile will supersede your frownWhen you consult kind Doctor Brighton!BerylHere is Mama looking anxious and serious:List to the patter of smartly shod feet!Dainty young damsels, whose faces ne'er weary us,Tailor-made dresses delightfully neat!Angular ladies in gloomy æsthetic coats,Maudle and dawdle the afternoon through;Graceful girlettes in the shortest of petticoats,Flutter their frills as they walk two-and-two.Fur-coated beauties in carriages roll about,Jaded M.P.'s try to trot away cares,Dandies and poets and loungers here stroll about,Dignified dowagers bask in Bath-chairs!The ColonelThough cynics swear all pleasures fade,And cry, O tempora mutantur!The bonny laughing Light Brigade,Still on the King's Road gaily canter!And yet upon the Lawns and Pier,Do lots of pleasant folk commingle:While still the old, old song we hear —The lullaby of surf on shingle!Then let's remain to laugh and laze,Where light and air enjoyment heighten —Too short the hours, too few the days,We pass with merry Doctor Brighton!LIZZIE
PAINTED BY LESLIE
O, WHO can paint the picture of my pet?As 'mid the grey-green hay she childlike kneels,Who shows a dainty slipper, then conceals'Neath tangled grass its celadon rosette.A soft white robe, a broidered chemisetteScarce veils her rounded bosom, as it stealsA subtle charm it only half reveals —As sweet and modest as the violet!A gipsy hat casts shadows, pearly grey,Across the golden sunshine of her smile.Her glance e'en cynics dare not disobey,Her dimples even iron hearts beguile —A dainty despot on a throne of hay,Who conquers all by magic girlish wile!A MARLOW MADRIGAL
O, BISHAM BANKS are fresh and fair,And Quarry Woods are green,And pure and sparkling is the air,Enchanting is the scene!I love the music of the weir,As swift the stream runs down,For, O, the water's deep and clearThat flows by Marlow town!When London's getting hot and dry,And half the Season's done,To Marlow you should quickly fly,And bask there in the sun.There pleasant quarters you may find —The "Angler" or the "Crown"Will suit you well, if you're inclinedTo stay in Marlow town.I paddle up to Harleyford,And sometimes I inclineTo cushions take with lunch aboard,And play with rod and line.For in a punt I love to laze,And let my face get brown;And dream away the sunny daysBy dear old Marlow town!I go to luncheon at the Lawn,I muse, I sketch, I rhyme;I headers take at early dawn,I list to All Saints' chime.And in the River, flashing bright,Dull Care I strive to drown —And get a famous appetiteAt pleasant Marlow town!So when, no longer, London lifeYou feel you can endure;Just quit its noise, its whirl, its strife,And try the "Marlow-cure"!You'll smooth the wrinkles on your browAnd scare away each frown —Feel young again once more, I vow,At quaint old Marlow town!Here Shelley dreamed and thought and wrote,And wandered o'er the leas;And sung and drifted in his boatBeneath the Bisham trees.So let me sing, although I'm noGreat poet of renown —Of hours that much too quickly go,At good old Marlow town!IN ROTTEN ROW
A WAY with all sorrow, away with all gloom,Now may is in blossom, and lilac in bloom;The golden laburnum in gardens is gay,The windows are bright with their floral display;The air is delightful, and warm is the sun,The chesnuts are snowy, the Derby is won.Piccadilly is pleasant from daylight to dark,And Bond Street is crowded, and gay is the Park —So now is the time when you all ought to go,And sit on a Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!For only a penny I sit in the shade,And gaze with delight on the gay cavalcade!While countless romances I read if I please,In the people I see from my Chair 'neath the trees.'Tis better by far than an Opera-stall,A crowded At-home or a smart fancy ball;Or gazing at pictures, or playing at pool,Or playing the banjo, or playing the fool —When soft summer breezes from Kensington blow,'Tis pleasant to sit on a Chair in the Row!What studies of man and of woman and horseHere pass up and down on the tan-trodden course!The Earl and the Duke and the Doctor are there,The author, the actor, the great millionaire;The first-season beauties whose roses are red,The third-season beauties whose roses have fled!M.P.'s, upon cobs, chatting pleasantly there,And pets, upon ponies, with long sunny hair —I note them all down, as they pass to and fro,And muse in my Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!What countless fair pictures around may be seen,How colours flash bright on their background of green!A bouquet of figure, of fashion, of face,And dainty devices in linen and lace!The triumphs of Worth and of Madame EliseYou see as you wonder and moon 'neath the trees.What sweet scraps of scandal afloat in the air,And gossip you hear sitting silently there! —But folks are going lunchwards; I'll join them, and soI ponder no more in my Chair in the Row!