Czcionka:Mniejsze АаWiększe Aa
PET'S PUNISHMENT
O, IF my love offended me,
And we had words together,
To show her I would master be,
I'd whip her with a feather!
If then she, like a naughty girl,
Would tyranny declare it,
I'd give my pet a cross of pearl,
And make her always bear it.
If still she tried to sulk and sigh,
And threw away my posies,
I'd catch my darling on the sly,
And smother her with roses!
But should she clench her dimpled fists,
Or contradict her betters,
I'd manacle her tiny wrists
With dainty golden fetters.
And if she dared her lips to pout —
Like many pert young misses —
I'd wind my arm her waist about,
And punish her – with kisses!
THE BABY IN THE TRAIN
Let babies travel – leave me lonely —
In carriages "For Babies Only"!
HOW merrily, how cheerily we ride along the rail!
We think not of the driving rain, nor care about the gale!
I'm comfortably seated in a snug back corner seat,
With woolly rugs about my knees, and warmers at my feet:
I've all the morning papers in a heap upon my lap,
I read and calmly contemplate, and think about a nap;
A nap indeed? Impossible! You'll find it all in vain,
To have the slightest slumber with the Baby in the Train!
His rule is autocratic, and his language it is terse,
He freely fists his dear Mama, and domineers o'er Nurse!
He wrinkles up his forehead like an ancient chimpanzee's,
And babbles of the "puff-puff," and prattles of "gee-gees:"
He guggles and he struggles, and he will not stand not sit,
But he gives an imitation of an apoplectic fit.
I am not very captious, and I wish not to complain —
But what a crying grievance is the Baby in the Train!
I wish to feign the friendly, but most shrewdly I reflect —
In silly finger-snapping I must lose my self-respect:
Can I crow or can I chuckle with a countenance serene?
Is "kitchee-kitchee" fitted for my gravity of mien?
Can I talk of "doggie-oggies," or prate of "ittle dears"?
Is "peep-bo" fit amusement for a person of my years?
And though I do my very best to try to entertain,
I'm thought a vile impostor by the Baby in the Train!
He knows that I am longing to make faces on the sly,
How spitefully I'd pinch him if no guardians were nigh!
He clutches at my watch-chain, he smiles upon my suit,
He tries to eat my eye-glass, he jumps upon my boot;
He takes away my walking-stick, he crumples up my Punch;
He burrows deep in paper-bags in foraging for lunch;
And cups of milk, at stations oft, how eagerly he'll drain,
With sighs of satisfaction, will this Baby in the Train!
O bold Directors, build a car to take such household pets!
And fit it up with cots and cribs and rocking basinettes,
And lullabies and picture-books and bon-bons, cakes, and toys,
To soothe the savage bosoms of these little girls and boys.
Brim high the cup with caudle then! Let Soothing Syrup flow!
Let roasted mutton deck the board, and milky rice also!
And let all Railway Companies immediately maintain
A separate compartment for the Baby in the Train!
MISS SAILOR-BOY
I pause and watch the boats pass by,
And paint her portrait on the sly!
HER age is twelve; half bold, half coy —
Her friends all call her "Sailor-Boy" —
With sweet brown eyes beyond compare,
And close-cropped, curling, sunny hair;
Her smart straw hat you'll notice, and
See "Jennie" broidered on the band,
Her sailor's knot, and lanyard too,
With jersey trim of navy blue;
Her short serge frock distinctly shows
Well shapen legs in sable hose
And symphonies in needlework,
Where dimpled pearly shadows lurk —
Which, as she swings her skirts, you note
Peep out beneath her petticoat.
This sunburnt baby dives and floats,
She manages canoes or boats;
Can steer and scull, can reef or row,
Or punt or paddle, fish or tow.
The lithest lass you e'er could see
In all Short-petticoaterie!
Mapledurham Lock, August.
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 note
That white little throat
Carols through:
She languidly glides,
And skilfully guides —
Her canoe.
'Neath tremulous trees,
She loiters at ease,
And I, if you please,
Wonder who
May 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 two
Forget-me-not eyes,
In laughing surprise —
From canoe.
And as I float by,
Said I, "Miss, O why?
O why may not I
Drift 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 arises
All London soon demoralizes!
BELIEVE me, I'd shatter the indolent fetters
That 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 grinners
At 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 catalogue
Of 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 well
He 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 cheerily
To 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 sea
Where 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 free
Over the summer sea,
Sprinkling deliciously
Merry 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 think
Some 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 through
Diving 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 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
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 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!
The Minstrel sitting down to dine
To retrospection doth incline;
"A faultless figure, watchet eyes
As sweet as early summer skies!
What pretty hands, what subtle grace,
And what a winsome little face!"
In Mrs. Williams' driest sherry
He 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 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
IN Arcady's fair groves there dwells
A 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!