The Project Gutenberg EBook of Carols of Cockayne, by Henry S. Leigh

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Title: Carols of Cockayne
The Third Edition, 1874

Author: Henry S. Leigh

Illustrator: Alfred Concanen

Release Date: August 11, 2015 [EBook #49682]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAROLS OF COCKAYNE ***

Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive

CAROLS OF COCKAYNE.

By Henry S. Leigh.

With Illustrations By Alfred Concanen.

The Third Edition.

Chatto and Windus,

1874.

[Illustration: 0001]

[Illustration: 0009]

TO

TOM HOOD, ESQUIRE

THESE VERSES ARE DEDICATED

BY

HIS FRIEND AND WORKFELLOW,

THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE.

The following trifles have already made their appearance in various
periodicals. The limit of their pretension is obvious from their
individual brevity and collective title; with few exceptions, they
were intended simply as drawing-room songs. Without aspiring to the high
level of the days when Praed, Bayly, Hood, Fitzgerald, Theodore Hook,
and the two Smiths wrote for music, may I flatter myself that these
Carols are at least equal in point of taste (if not in point of humour)
to certain light and lively ballads that are at present popular through
the medium of the music-halls?

Some readers will probably think the name of this book suspiciously
similar to that of Mr Frederick Locker's charming _London Lyrics_.
Let me anticipate a charge of plagiarism by observing that Mr. Locker
himself was kind enough to send me the suggestion for my present title.

To those gentlemen who have given me permission to republish various
verses in this collection, I am sincerely obliged.

H. S. L.

[Illustration: 5020]

CAROLS OF COCKAYNE.

THE TWINS.

[Illustration: 9021]

N form and feature, face and limb,

I grew so like my brother

That folks got taking me for him

And each for one another.

It puzzled all our kith and kin,

It reach'd an awful pitch;

For one of us was born a twin

And not a soul knew which.

One day (to make the matter worse),

Before our names were fix'd,

As we were being wash'd by nurse,

We got completely mix'd.

And thus, you see, by Fate's decree,

(Or rather nurse's whim),

My brother John got christen'd _me_,

And I got christen'd _him_.

This fatal likeness even dogg'd

My footsteps when at school,

And I was always getting flogg'd--

For John turn'd out a fool.

I put this question hopelessly

To every one I knew,--

What would you do, if you were me.

To prove that you were _you?_

Our close resemblance turn'd the tide

Of my domestic life;

For somehow my Intended bride

Became my brother's wife.

In short, year after year the same

Absurd mistakes went on;

And when I died--the neighbours came

And buried brother John!

(Published with music by Messrs Cramer.)

UN PAS QUI COÛTE.

I'VE a genius or a talent--I perceive it pretty clearly

In pursuing an ambition or in climbing up a tree--

For never quite attaining, but attaining very nearly

To my aspiration's altitude, whatever it may be.

Tis a faculty that haunts me with an obstinate persistence,

For I felt it in my boyhood, and I feel it in my prime,--

All the efforts and endeavours I have made in my existence

Have invariably ended "but a step from the sublime."

As a boy I made a tender of my tenderest affection,

In a lovely little sonnet to the fairest of the fair:

(Though nothing but a youngster, I've preserved the recollection

Of her tyranny, her beauty, and the way she did her hair.)

She was married, I remember, to a person in the City,--

I consider'd him remarkably obtrusive at the time;

So I quitted my enslaver with a lofty look of pity,

For I felt my situation "but a step from the sublime."

Being confident that Cupid was a little gay deceiver,

I forgot my disappointment in a struggle after Fame;

I had caught the rage of writing as a child may catch a fever,

So I took to making verses as a way to make a name.

When I publish'd a collection of my efforts as a writer--

With a minimum of reason and a maximum of rhyme--

I am proud to say that nobody could well have been politer

Than the critics, for they, call'd it "but a step from the

sublime."

I was laudably ambitious to extend my reputation,

And I plann'd a pretty novel on a pretty novel plan;

I would make it independent both of sin and of "sensation,"

And my villain should be pictured as a persecuted man.

For your Bulwers and your Braddons and your Collinses

may grovel

In an atmosphere of horror and a wilderness of crime;

Twas for me to controvert them, and I did so in a novel

Which was commonly consider'd "but a step from the

sublime."

I have master'd metaphysics--I have mounted on the pinions

Both of Painting and of Music--and I rather think I know

Ev'ry nook and ev'ry corner of Apollo's whole dominions,

From the top of Mount Parnassus down to Paternoster Row.

I have had my little failures, I have had my great successes--

And Parnassus, I assure you, is a weary hill to climb;

But the lowest and the meanest of my enemies confesses

That he very often thinks me "but a step from the sublime."

THE GIFT OF THE GAB.

A LECTURE ON ELOCUTION.

[Illustration: 9025]

OU have read how Demosthenes walk'd

on the beach,

With his mouth full of pebbles, rehears-

ing a speech--

Till the shell-fish and sea-gulls pro-

nounced him a bore,

And the sea met his gravest remarks

with a roar.

In fact, if you ever learnt Greek, you 'll confess

That it's hardly the right kind of tongue to impress

An intelligent lobster or well-inform'd crab,

With the deepest respect for the Gift of the Gab.

Still Eloquence gives men a wonderful power,

And it often strikes me, after sitting an hour

At a lecture on something I don't understand,

That the Gift of the Gab is decidedly grand.

Indeed, I am frequently heard to declare,

If the Queen of the Fairies would answer my prayer,

I should instantly drop on my knees to Queen Mab,

Crying, Grant me, oh grant me, the Gift of the Gab.

If you 'd hear the true summit of Eloquence reach'd

Go to church when a charity-sermon is preach'd;

Where, with hands in his pockets and tears in his eyes,

Ev'ry soft-hearted sinner contributes and cries.

I think, if you look in the plate, you'll opine

That the sermon you heard was uncommonly fine,

And that ev'ry Oxonian and ev'ry Cantab

Ought to cultivate early the Gift of the Gab.

But it's after a dinner at Freemasons' Hall

That the orator's talent shines brightest of all;

When his eye becomes glazed and his voice becomes thick,

And he's had so much hock he can only say hie!

So the company leave him to slumber and snore

Till he's put in a hat and convey'd to the door;

And he finds, upon reaching his home in a cab,

That his wife rather shines in the Gift of the Gab.

Then there's Gab in the senate and Gab at the bar,

But I fear their description would lead me too far;

And (last but not least) there is Gab on the stage.

Which I couldn't exhaust if I sang for an age.

But, if there are matters that puzzle you still,

You may take up an Enfield and go through a drill,

Which will teach you much more than a hurried confab

With regard to that art call'd the Gift of the Gab.

BEHIND THE SCENES.

LONG, long ago I had an aunt

Who took me to the play:

An act of kindness that I shan't

Forget for many a day.

I was a youngster at the time,

Just verging on my teens,

And fancied that it must be "prime"

To go _behind the scenes_.

I ventured to express the same

In quite a candid way,

And shock'd my aunt--a sober dame,

Though partial to the play.

'Twas just the moment when Macbeth

(Whose voice resembled Kean's)

Had finished planning Duncan's death,

And rushed _behind the scenes_.

I recollect that evening yet,

And how my aunt was grieved;

And, oh! I never shall forget

The lecture I received.

It threw a light upon the class

Of knowledge that one gleans

By being privileged to pass

His time _behind the scenes_.

The Heroine I worshipp'd then

Was fifty, I should think;

My Lord the commonest of men,'

My Lover fond of drink.

The Fairies I believed so fair

Were not by any means

The kind of people one would care

To meet _behind the scenes_.

I cannot boast that I enjoy

The stage-illusion still;

I'm growing far too old a boy

To laugh or cry at will.

But I can cast a critic's eye

On mimic kings and queens,

And nothing ever makes me sigh

To get _behind the scenes_.

Ah! shallow boastings--false regrets!

The world is but a stage

Where Man, poor player, struts and frets

From infancy to age;

And then leaps blindly, in a breath,

The space that intervenes

Between our stage-career and Death,

Who lurks _behind the scenes!_

"WITH MUSICAL SOCIETY."

[Illustration: 9031]

LOOK'D for lodgings, long ago,

Away from London's fogs and

fusses;

A rustic Paradise, you know,

Within a walk of trains or 'busses.

I made my choice, and settled down

In such a lovely situation!--

About a dozen miles from town,

And very near a railway-station.

Within my pastoral retreat

No creditor, no care intruded;

My happiness was quite complete

(The "comforts of a home" included).

I found the landlord most polite,

His wife, if possible, politer;--

Their two accomplish'd daughters quite

Electrified the present writer.

A nicer girl than Fanny Lisle

To sing a die-away duet with.

(Say something in the Verdi style,)

Upon my life I never met with.

And yet I waver'd in my choice;

For I believe I'm right in saying

That nothing equall'd Fanny's voice,

Unless it was Maria's playing.

If music be the food of Love,

That was the house for Cupid's diet;

Those two melodious girls, by Jove,

Were never for an instant quiet.

I own that Fanny's voice was sweet,

I own Maria's touch was pearly;

But music's not at all a treat

For those who get it late and early.

The charms that soothe a savage breast

Have got a _vice versâ_ fashion

Of putting folks who have the best

Of tempers in an awful passion:

And, when it reach'd a certain stage,

I must confess I couldn't stand it.

I positively swore with rage

And stamp'd and scowl'd like any bandit.

I paid my rent on quarter-day;

Pack'd up my luggage in a hurry,

And, quick as lightning, fled away

To other lodgings down in Surrey.

I'm fairly warn'd--and not in vain;

For one resolve that I have made is--

Not to be domiciled again

With any musical young ladies.

THINGS THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

IN the twilight of November's

Afternoons I like to sit,

Finding fancies in the embers

Long before my lamp is lit;

Calling Memory up and linking

Bygone day to distant scene;

Then, with feet on fender, thinking

Of the things that might have been.

Cradles, wedding-rings, and hatchments

Glow alternate in the fire.

Early loves and late attachments

Blaze a second--and expire.

With a moderate persistence

One may soon contrive to glean

Matters for a mock existence

From the things that might have been.

Handsome, amiable, and clever--

With a fortune and a wife;--

So I make my start whenever

I would build the fancy life.

After all my bright ideal,

What a gulf there is between

Things that are, alas! too real,

And the things that might have been.

Often thus, alone and moody,

Do I act my little play--

Like a ghostly Punch and Judy,

Where the dolls are grave and gay--.

Till my lamplight comes and flashes

On the phantoms I have seen,

Leaving nothing but the ashes

Of the things that might have been.

THE OLYMPIC BALL.

[Illustration: 9036]

T'S a classical fact very few know

(If any one knows it at all),

That Jove once prevail'd upon Juno

To issue her cards for a ball.

Olympus, of course, was delighted;

The notion was charming--so

new!

And the whole of the gods were

invited,

The whole of the goddesses too;

Including a few lucky mortals,

Especially well known to fame,

(For Olympus ne'er open'd its portals,

Except to the _crème de la crème._)

At eleven the guests were arriving,

All drest up remarkably grand;

At midnight Apollo came driving

Full pelt, in a neat four-in-hand!

In passing Parnassus he'd popp'd in,

And brought on the Muses inside;

Minerva soon afterwards dropp'd in,

And Vulcan, escorting his bride.

Lovely Venus was quite condescending,

(But chroniclers freely confess,

She was not in the habit of spending

Extravagant sums upon dress.)

The ball-room, one couldn't help feeling,

Was got up regardless of cost;

And the satyrs and nymphs on the ceiling

Were worthy of Etty or Frost.

The band that was hir'd for the dancers

(The best they could possibly get)

Look'd down with disdain on the "Lancers,"

And stuck to the "Court Minuet."

Young Ganymede carried round ices,

And Hebe (a pert-looking minx)

Cut the pineapple up into slices,

While Bacchus took charge of the drinks.

Terpsichore danced like a feather;

In fact, the spectators agreed

That she and young Zephyr together

Made very good partners indeed.

Then Momus began to grow witty;

The Graces oblig'd with a glee;

While Pan sang a pastoral ditty,

And Neptune a song of the sea!

Minerva sat pompously boring

The Muses with blue-stocking talk;

And Bacchus was put to bed snoring,

Completely unable to walk.

An hour before daylight was shining

The prudish Diana had flown

To the spot where Endymion was pining

To meet her by moonlight alone.

The next to depart was Apollo,

Who leapt on his chariot at seven:

No eye in Olympus could follow

The track of his coursers through heaven!

The lamps were beginning to burn out,

And sunshine was flooding the hall,

When the last who thought proper to turn out

Drove homeward from Jupiter's ball.

THE TWO AGES.

FOLKS were happy as days were long

In the old Arcadian times;

When Life seem'd only a dance and song

In the sweetest of all sweet climes.

Our world grows bigger, and, stage by stage.

As the pitiless years have roll'd.

We've quite forgotten the Golden Age,

And come to the Age of Gold.

Time went by in a sheepish way

Upon Thessaly's plains of yore.

In the nineteenth century lambs at play

Mean mutton, and nothing more.

Our swains at present are far too sage

To live as one liv'd of old:

So they couple the crook of the Golden Age

With a hook in the Age of Gold.

From Corydon's reed the mountains round

Heard news of his latest flame.

And Tityrus made the woods resound

With echoes of Daphne's name.

They kindly left us a lasting gage

Of their musical art, we 're told;

And the Pandean pipe of the Golden Age

Brings mirth to the Age of Gold.

Dwellers in huts and in marble halls--

From Shepherdess up to Queen-

Cared little for bonnets, and less for shawls,

And nothing for crinoline.

But now Simplicity is _not_ the rage,

And it's funny to think how cold

The dress they wore in the Golden Age

Would seem in the Age of Gold.

Electric telegraphs, printing, gas,

Tobacco, balloons, and steam,

Are little events that have come to pass

Since the days of that old _régime_.

And, spite of Lemprière's dazzling page,

I 'd give--though it might seem bold--

A hundred years of the Golden Age

For a year in the Age of Gold.

STANZAS TO AN INTOXICATED FLY.

[Illustration: 9041]

T 'S a singular fact that whenever \

order

My goblet of GUINNESS or bumper of

Bass,

Out of ten or a dozen that sport round

the border

Some fly turns a somersault into my

glass.

Oh! it's not that I grudge him the

liquor he's tasted,

(Supposing him partial to ale or to stout),

But consider the time irretrievably wasted

In trying to fish the small wanderer out.

Ah! believe me, fond fly, 'tis excessively sinful,

This habit which knocks even bluebottles up;

Just remember what CASSIO, on getting a skinful,

Observ'd about "ev'ry inordinate cup!"

Reflect on that proverb, diminutive being,

Which tells us "Enough is as good as a feast;"

And, mark me, there's nothing more painful than seeing

An insect behaving so much like a beast.

Nay, in vain would you seek to escape while I'm talking,

And shake from your pinions the fast-clinging drops,

It is only too clear, from your efforts at walking,

That after your malt you intend to take hops.

Pray, where is your home? and oh! how shall you get there?

And what will your wife and your family think?

Pray, how shall you venture to show the whole set there

That Paterfamilias is given to drink.

Oh, think of the moment when Conscience returning

Shall put the brief pleasures of Bacchus to flight;

When the tongue shall be parch'd and the brow shall be burning,

And most of to-morrow shall taste of to-night!

For the toast shall be dry, and the tea shall be bitter,

And all through your breakfast this thought shall intrude;

That a little pale brandy and Seltzer is fitter

For such an occasion than animal food.

I have known, silly fly, the delight beyond measure--

The blissful sensation, prolong'd and intense--

The rapturous, wild, and ineffable pleasure,

Of drinking at somebody else's expense.

But I own--and it's not without pride that I own it--

Whenever some friend in his generous way

Bids me drink without paying, I simply postpone it,

And pay for my liquor the whole of next day!

(Published, with music, by Messrs Metzler and Co., Great Marlborough
Street.)

CHIVALRY FOR THE CRADLE.

NO. I--THE ROMAUNT OF HUMPTY-DUMPTY.

TIS midnight, and the moonbeam sleeps

Upon the garden sward:

My lady in yon turret keeps

Her tearful watch and ward.

"Beshrew me!" mutters, turning pale,

The stalwart seneschal;

"What's he that sitteth, clad in mail,

Upon our castle wall?

"Arouse thee, friar of orders gray;

What, ho! bring book and bell!

Ban yonder ghastly thing, I say;

And, look ye, ban it well.

By cock and pye, the Humptys face!"--

The form turn'd quickly round;

Then totter'd from its resting-place--

That night the corse was found.

The king, with hosts of fighting men,

Rode forth at break of day;

Ah! never gleam'd the sun till then

On such a proud array.

But all that army, horse and foot,

Attempted, quite in vain,

Upon the castle wall to put

The Humpty up again.

NO. 2.--A LEGEND OF BANBURY-CROSS.

Started my lord from a slumber and roar'd,

"Sirrah, go bring me my buckler and sword!

Saddle my steed! Ere he next have a feed,

I fackens, the brute will be weary indeed;

For I and my gray must be off and away

To Banbury-Cross at the dawn of the day."

People came down unto Banbury town,

In holiday doublet and holiday gown;

They muster'd in force, as a matter of course,

To see an old woman ride on a white horse.

Sir Thomas the May'r had been heard to declare

It was likely to prove an exciting affair.

Shouts of acclaim from the multitude came,

And clapping of hands for that elderly dame;

Who, as history goes, had the newest of clothes,

And rings on her fingers and bells on her toes.

Ting-a-ting, ting! Ding-a-ding, ding!

There was never beheld such a wonderful thing.

No. 3.--The Ballad of Babye Bunting.

The Knight is away in the merry green wood,

Where he hunts the wild rabbit and roe:

He is fleet in the chase as the late Robin Hood--

He is fleeter in quest of the foe.

The nurse is at home in the castle, and sings

To the babe that she rocks at her breast:

She is crooning of love and of manifold things,

And is bidding the little one rest.

"Oh, slumber, my darling! oh, slumber apace!

For thy father will shortly be here;

And the skin of some rabbit that falls in the chase

Shall be thine for a tippet, my dear."

CLUMSY SERVANT.

[Illustration: 9047]

NATURE, Nature! you're enough

To put a quaker in a huff

Or make a martyr grumble.

Whenever something rich and rare-

On earth, at sea, or in the air--

Is placed in your especial care

You always let it tumble.

You don't, like other folks, confine

Your fractures to the hardware line,

And break the trifles they break:

But, scorning anything so small,

You take our nights and let them fall,

And in the morning, worst of all,

You go and let the day break.

You drop the rains of early Spring

(That set the wide world blossoming);--

The golden beams that mellow

Our grain towards the harvest-prime;

You drop, too, in the autumn-time,

With breathings from a colder clime,

The dead leaf, sere and yellow.

You drop and drop;--without a doubt

You 'll go on dropping things about,

Through still and stormy weather

Until a day when you shall find

You feel aweary of mankind,

And end by making up your mind

To drop us altogether.

A NURSERY LEGEND.

[Illustration: 9049]

listen, little children, to a proper

little song

Of a naughty little urchin who was

always doing wrong:

He disobey'd his mammy, and he

disobey'd his dad,

And he disobey'd his uncle, which

was very near as bad.

He wouldn't learn to cypher, and he wouldn't learn to write,

But he would tear up his copy-books to fabricate a kite;

And he used his slate and pencil in so barbarous a way,

That the grinders of his governess got looser ev'ry day.

At last he grew so obstinate that no one could contrive

To cure him of a theory that two and two made five;

And, when they taught him how to spell, he show'd his wicked

whims

By mutilating Pinnock and mislaying Watts's Hymns.

Instead of all such pretty books, (which _must_ improve the mind,)

He cultivated volumes of a most improper kind;

Directories and almanacks he studied on the sly,

And gloated over Bradshaw's Guide when nobody was by.

From such a course of reading you can easily divine

The condition of his morals at the age of eight or nine.

His tone of conversation kept becoming worse and worse,

Till it scandalis'd his governess and horrified his nurse.

He quoted bits of Bradshaw that were quite unfit to hear,

And recited from the Almanack, no matter who was near:

He talked of Reigate Junction and of trains both up and down,

And referr'd to men who call'd themselves Jones, Robinson, and

Brown.

But when this naughty boy grew up he found the proverb true,

That Fate one day makes people pay for all the wrong they do.

He was cheated out of money by a man whose name was Brown,

And got crippled in a railway smash while coming up to town.

So, little boys and little girls, take warning while you can,

And profit by the history of this unhappy man.

Read Dr Watts and Pinnock, dears; and when you learn to spell,

Shun Railway Guides, Directories, and Almanacks as well!

AN ALLEGORY.

WRITTEN IN DEEP DEJECTION.

[Illustration: 9051]

NCE, in the gardens of delight,

I pluck'd the fairest, fullest rose;

But (while I prest its petals tight

Against the threshold of my nose)

That loathsome centipede, Re-

morse,

Invaded with a stealthy tread

My nasal organ, and of course

Soon reached the middle of my

head.

That hideous tenant crawls and creeps

About the chambers of my brain,

He never pauses--never sleeps--

Nor thinks of coming out again.

The movements of his hundred feet

Are gentler than the autumn breeze;

But I dislike to feel him eat

My cerebellum by degrees.

With snuff, tobacco, Preston salts,

And various other potent smells,

I strive to fumigate the vaults

In which the devastator dwells.

I pull my hair out by the root--

I dash my head against the door--

It only makes the hateful brute

A trifle noisier than before.

Then tell me not that Joy's bright flow'r

Upon this canker'd heart may bloom,

Like toadstools on a time-worn tow'r,

Or dandelions on a tomb.

I mourn departed Hope in vain,

For briny tears may naught avail;

You cannot catch that bird again

By dropping salt upon its tail!

OVER THE WATER.

LOOK always on the Surrey side

For true dramatic art.

The road is long--the river wide--

But frequent busses start

From Charing Cross and Gracechurch street,

(An inexpensive ride;)

So, if you want an evening's treat,

O seek the Surrey side.

I have been there, and still would go,

As Dr Watts observes;

Although it's not a place, I know,

F or folks with feeble nerves.

Ah me! how many roars I've had--

How many tears I'Ve dried--

At melodramas, good and bad.

Upon the Surrey side.

Can I forget those wicked lords,

Their voices and their calves;

The things they did upon those boards,

And never did by halves:

The peasant, brave though lowly born,

Who constantly defied

Those wicked lords with utter scorn,

Upon the Surrey side?

Can I forget those hearts of oak,

Those model British tars;

Who crack'd a skull or crack'd a joke,

Like true transpontine stars;

Who hornpip'd à la T. P. Cooke,

And sang--at least they tried--

Until the pit and gallery shook,

Upon the Surrey side?

But best of all I recollect

That maiden in distress--

So unimpeachably correct

In morals and in dress--

Who, ere the curtain fell, became

The low-born peasant's bride:

(They nearly always end the same

Upon the Surrey side.)

I gape in Covent Garden's walls,

I doze in Drury Lane;

I strive in the Lyceum stalls

To keep awake--in vain.

There's nought in the dramatic way

That I can quite abide,

Except the pieces that they play

Upon the Surrey side.

AN UNAPPRECIATED CRICHTON.

[Illustration: 9056]

ONES has a party to-night,

But there's no invitation for me to it.

People are cutting me quite;

I shall pay a few visits and see to it.

True, I've a thousand a-year,

And am reckon'd the pink of propriety;

As to good-looking, look here!

Yet I never get on in Society.

'Tis not as though I were shy,

Or unmanner'd, or not introducible;

Lower-bred people than I

Have triumphantly gone through the crucible.

Many get polish'd in time

At the cost of a little anxiety;

What's my particular crime

That I never get on in Society?

Dance?--Well, I think I may say

I'm as graceful a partner as any one:

Sir, I could caper away

To a whistle--though simply a penny one.

Sing?--I could give you a list

Of enormous extent and variety.

Play?--Let me show you my wrist

Yet I never get on in Society.

Hearing me talk is a treat,

When I take a discourse philosophic up,

During the tea, or repeat

Little anecdotes over my coffee-cup.

If you 've a passion for puns,

I could feed you on them to satiety--

New and original ones;

Yet I never get on in Society.

Two or three glasses of wine

Give a spur to good-humour and merriment;

So that, wherever I dine,

I repeat the delightful experiment.

Not that I drink till I lapse

From the paths of the strictest sobriety;

Still, now and then--why, perhaps--

Yet I never get on in Society!

ONLY SEVEN.

A PASTORAL STORY, AFTER WORDSWORTH.

I MARVELL'D why a simple child,

That lightly draws its breath,

Should utter groans so very wild,

And look as pale as Death.

Adopting a parental tone,

I ask'd her why she cried;

The damsel answer'd, with a groan,

"I've got a pain inside!

"I thought it would have sent me mad

Last night about eleven

Said I, "What is it makes you bad?

How many apples have you had?''

She answer'd, "Only seven!"

"And are you sure you took no more,

My little maid?" quoth I.

"Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four,

But they were in a pie!"

"If that's the case," I stammer'd out,

"Of course you 've had eleven

The maiden answer'd, with a pout,

"I ain't had more nor seven!"

I wonder'd hugely what she meant,

And said, "I'm bad at riddles,

But I know where little girls are sent

For telling taradiddles.

"Now, if you don't reform," said I,

"You'll never go to heaven."

But all In vain; each time I try,

That little idiot makes reply,

"I ain't had more nor seven."

POSTSCRIPT.

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,

Or slightly misapplied;

And so I 'd better call my song,

Lines after Ache-inside."

SEE-SAW.

[Illustration: 9061]

ICKNESS and Health have been playing

a game with me,

Tossing me up, like a ball, to and fro.

Pleasure and Pain did exactly the same

with me,

Treating me merely like something to

throw.

Joy took me up to the clouds for a holiday

In a balloon that she happens to keep;

Then, as a damp upon rather a jolly day,

Grief in a diving-bell bore me down deep.

Poverty courted me early--worse luck to her!--

(Wealth would have made me a much better wife;)

Fool that I am, I was faithful and stuck to her;

She 'll cling to me for the rest of my life.

As for our children, we 'd better have drown'd them all;

They, I believe, are the worst of our ills.

Is it a wonder I often confound them all,

Seeing that most of them chance to be _Bills?_

Hope, who was once an occasional visitor,

Never drops in on us now for a chat.

Memory calls, though,--relentless inquisitor--

(Not that I feel very grateful for that.)

Hope was a liar--it's no use denying it--

Memory's talk is undoubtedly true:

Still, I confess that I like, after trying it,

Hope's conversation the best of the two.

A WILD HUNT.

Can any one confidently say to himself that he has conversed with the

identical, individual, stupidest man now extant in London?"--T. Carlyle.

I STARTED up and slammed the book;

I seized my hat and cane;

I sought the bell and summoned cook

With all my might and main.

My cook, she is a sober lass--

Respectable, but slow:

She wonder'd what had come to pass

To set me ringing so.

Said I, My skiff is on the shore,

My bark is on the sea;

And many suns may set before

I can return to thee.

Expect me back on Friday week;

I'm not at home till then.

Adieu, adieu; I go to seek

The Stupidest of Men!"

I travers'd London in my search,

Careering to and fro,

From Barnsbury to Brixton Church.

From Notting Hill to Bow.

"There's no such word as fail," said I:

"I 'll seek my treasure still

From Brixton Church to Barnsbury,

From Bow to Notting Hill!"

He went not by the penny-boat,

The omnibus, or train;

One hour on shore--the next afloat--

I hunted him in vain.

And ever, as the days wore on

In travels east and west,

I marvell'd where he could have gone,

My own, my Stupidest.

I met, of course, with many men

Whose brains were very small;

I found a party, now and then,

With nearly none at all.

I spoke to some who talk'd about

The weather and the crops;

To others, much the worse, no doubt,

For alcohol or hops.

Alas! in ev'ry deep, you know,

There is a deeper yet;

Methought that I had sunk as low

As I was like to get.

Say, wherefore should I deign to dive

An atom deeper down?

"My Man," said I, "if still alive,

Is hiding out of town."

The fret, the fever, and the fuss,

Were wearing out my brain;

And so at last I hail'd a 'bus

To take me back again.

At home, securely re-install'd,

I rang for Mary Ann;

She said a visitor had call'd--

A "stupid-looking man."

I question'd her, and cook's replies

Completely prov'd the case.

She said, "I never did set eyes

On such a silly face."

"Thrice welcome, Destiny!" I cried

"The moral that you teach:

'Tis thus Man travels far and wide

For things within his reach!'

A VERY COMMON CHILD.

[Illustration: 9067]

EFLECTIVE reader, you may go

From Chelsea unto outer Bow,

And back again to Chelsea,

Nor grudge the labour if you meet--

In lane or alley, square or street--

The child whom all the children greet

As Elsie--little Elsie.

A pretty name, a pretty face,

And pretty ways that give a grace

To all she does or utters,

Did Fortune at her birth bestow',

When little Elsie's lot below--

About a dozen years ago--

Got cast among the gutters.

The Fates, you see, have will'd it so

That even folks in Rotten Row

Are not without their trials;

Whilst only those that know the ways

Of stony London's waifs and strays

Can fancy how the seven days

Pass o'er the Seven Dials.

Suppose an able artizan,

(A model of the "working man"

So written at and lectur'd,)

Amongst the fevers that infest

His temporary fever-nest

Should catch a deadly one--the rest

Is easily conjectur'd.

'Twas hard, on father's death, I think,

That Elsie's mother took to drink;

('Twas harder yet on baby.)

The reason, reader, you may guess,

(I cannot find it, I confess)--

Perhaps it was her loneliness;

Or love of gin, it may be.

So there was Elsie, all astray,

And growing bigger day by day,

But growing none the better.

No other girl (in all the set

That looks on Elsie as a pet)

But knows at least the alphabet,

And Elsie--not a letter.

Well, reader, I had best be dumb

About the future that may come

To this forlorn she-urchin.

Her days are brighter ones _pro tem_.,

So let her make the most of them,

Amidst the labyrinths that hem

Saint Giles's ugly Church in.

CROOKED ANSWERS.

(Dedicated to the Laureate.)

NO. 1.--VERE DE VERE.

[Illustration: 9070]

THE Lady Clara V. de V.

Presents her very best regards

To that misguided Alfred T.

(With one of her enamell'd cards).

Though uninclin'd to give offence,

The Lady Clara begs to hint

That Master Alfred's common sense

Deserts him utterly in print.

The Lady Clara can but say,

That always from the very first

She snubb'd in her decisive way

The hopes that silly Alfred nurs'd.

The fondest words that ever fell

From Lady Clara, when they met,

Were "How d 'ye do? I hope you 're well!

Or else "The weather's very wet."

To show a disregard for truth

By penning scurrilous attacks,

Appears to Lady C. in sooth

Like stabbing folks behind their backs.

The age of chivalry, she fears,

Is gone for good, since noble dames

Who irritate low sonneteers

Get pelted with improper names.

The Lady Clara cannot think

What kind of pleasure can accrue

From wasting paper, pens, and ink,

On statements the reverse of true.

If Master Launcelot, one fine day,

(Urged on by madness or by malt.)

Destroy'd himself--can Alfred say

The Lady Clara was in fault?

Her Ladyship needs no advice

How time and money should be spent,

And can't pursue at any price

The plan that Alfred T. has sent.

She does not in the least object

To let the "foolish yeoman" go,

But wishes--let him recollect--

That he should move to Jericho.

NO. 2.--MAUD.

Nay, I cannot come into the garden just new,

Tho' it vexes me much to refuse:

But I must have the next set of waltzes, I vow,

With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues.

I am sure you 'll be heartily pleas'd when you hear

That our ball has been quite a success.

As for me--I've been looking a monster, my dear,

In that old-fashion'd guy of a dress.

You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed;

It is getting so dreadfully late,

You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head

If you linger so long at our gate.

Don't be obstinate, Alfy; come, take my advice--

For I know you're in want of repose.

Take a basin of gruel (you 'll find it so nice)

And remember to tallow your nose.

No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away,

For De Boots has implor'd me to sing.

As to you--if you like it, of course you can stay;

You were always an obstinate thing.

If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs

About'"babble and revel and wine,"

When you might have been snoring for two or three hours.

Why, it's not the least business of mine.

A BEGGING LETTER.

[Illustration: 0074]

Y dear Tomorrow,

I can think

Of little else to do,

And so I take my pen and ink

To drop a line to you.

I own that I am ill at ease

Respecting you to-day:

Do let me have an answer, please:

_Répondez, s 'il vous plait_.

I long to like you very much,

But that will all depend

On whether you behave "as such,"

(I mean, dear, as a friend).

I 'll set you quite an easy task

At which you are au fait;

You 'll come and bring me what I ask?

_Répondez, s 'il vous plait_.

Be sure to recollect your purse,

For be it understood

Though money-matters might be worse.

They 're very far from good.

So, if you have a little gold

You care to give away--

But am I growing over-bold?

_Répondez, s'il vous plait._

A little--just a little--fame

You must contrive to bring,

Because I think a poet's name,

Would be a pleasant thing

Perhaps, though, as I've scarcely got

A single claim to lay

To such a gift, you'd rather not?

_Répondez, s'il vous plait_.

Well, well, Tomorrow, you may strike

A line through what 's above:

And bring me folks that I can like

And folks that I can love.

A warmer heart--a quicker brain--

I 'll ask for, if I may:

Tomorrow, shall I ask in vain?

_Répondez, s'il vous plait_

A COCKNEY'S EVENING SONG.

FADES into twilight the last golden gleam

Thrown by the sunset on upland and stream

Glints o'er the Serpentine--tips Notting Hill--

Dies on the summit of proud Pentonville.

Day brought us trouble, but Night brings us peace

Morning brought sorrow, but Eve bids it cease.

Gaslight and Gaiety, beam for a while;

Pleasure and Paraffin, lend us a smile.

Temples of Mammon are voiceless again--

Lonely policemen inherit Mark Lane

Silent is Lothbury--quiet Cornhill--

Babel of Commerce, thine echoes are still.

Far to the South,--where the wanderer strays

Lost among graveyards and riverward ways,

Hardly a footfall and hardly a breath

Comes to dispute Laurence--Pountney with Death.

Westward the stream of Humanity glides;--

'Busses are proud of their dozen insides.

Put up thy shutters, grim Care, for to-day--

Mirth and the lamplighter hurry this way.

Out on the glimmer weak Hesperus yields!

Gas for the cities and stars for the fields.

Daisies and buttercups, do as ye list;

I and my friends are for music or whist.

ROMANTIC RECOLLECTIONS.

I.

[Illustration: 9079]

HEN I lay in a cradle and suck'd a coral,

I lov'd romance in my childish way;

And stories, with or without a moral,

Were welcome as ever the flow'rs in

May.

For love of the false I learnt my spelling,

And brav'd the

perils of

[Illustration: 8079]

While matters of fact

were most repelling,

Romance was plea-

sant as aught

could----[Illustration: 6079]

II.

My reading took me to desert islands,

And buried me deep in Arabian Nights;

Sir Walter led me amongst the Highlands,

On into the thickest of Moslem fights.

I found the elder Dumas delightful--

Before the sun had eclips'd the----------

[Illustration: 8080]

And Harrison Ainsworth finely frightful,

And Fenimore Cooper far from-------------------

A few years later I took to reading

The morbid stories of Edgar Poe--

Not healthy viands for youthful feeding

(And all my advisers told me so).

But, healthy or not, I enjoy'd them vastly;

My feverish fancy was nightly -------

[Illustration: 8080]

Upon horrible crimes and murders ghastly

Which sent me terrified off to-----------

III.

Well: what with perils upon the prairies,

And haunted ruins and ghosts in white,

And wars with giants and gifts from fairies,

At last I came to be craz'd outright.

And many a time, in my nightly slumbers,

Bearing a glove as a lady's-------

[Illustration: 8081]

I held the lists against countless numbers,

After the style of the darkest-------

I am chang'd at present; the olden fever

Has left my brain in a sounder state;

In common-place I'm a firm believer,

And hunt for figure and fact and date.

I have lost a lot of my old affection,

For books on which I was wont to--------

But still I can thrill at the recollection

Of mystery, magic, and martial --------

THE MAD GRANDPAPA.

Charley, if I call you twice,

I shall box your ears!

Grandpapa has something nice

In the shape of good advice

For his little dears:

Simple maxims for the young.

Mary, _will_ you hold your tongue?

[Illustration: 9082]

ISTEN, little girls and boys;

Listen, one and all!

Put away those nasty toys--

Mary, hold that horrid noise--

Willy, drop your ball!

Come and listen, if you can.

To a bald but good old man.

Folks will teach you when at school

"Never tell a lie!"

Nonsense: if you 're not a fool

You may always break the rule,

But you must be sly;

For they'll whip you, past a doubt,

If they ever find you out.

"Little boys," they say, "should be

Seen but never heard!"

Rubbish: what can people see

In an ugly brat if he

Never says a word?

Talk, then, if you feel inclin'd;

Talking shows the active mind.

Folks will tell you, "Children _must_

Do as they are bid

But you understand, I trust,

That the rule is quite unjust

To a thoughtful kid:

For, if once brute force appears.

How about Free-will, my dears?

Folks say, "Children should not let

Angry passions rise."

Humbug! When you 're in a pet

Why on earth should you regret

Blacking some one's eyes?

Children's eyes are made, in fact,

Just on purpose to be black'd.

I, when young, was green enough

Blindly to obey

All the idiotic stuff

That an old pedantic muff

Taught me day by day;--

And, you see--at eighty-five

I'm the biggest fool alive!

SHABBY-GENTEEL.

WHEN I last had the pleasure--one day in the City--

Of seeing poor Brown, I was forcibly struck

By his alter'd appearance, and thought, What, a pity

To see the old fellow so down on his luck.

From the crown of a hat that was horribly seedy

To shoes that were dreadfully down at the heel

He suggested a type of the poor and the needy--

A sketch at full length of the shabby-genteel.

There were holes in his gloves--his umbrella was cotton--

His coat was a faded invisible green;

And in prominent bulbs, through the trowsers he'd got on,

The marks of his knees, or _patellae_, were seen.

But it seem'd above all inexpressibly painful

To notice the efforts he made to conceal--

By a tone partly nervous and partly disdainful--

The fact of his looking so shabby-genteel.

"How is business?" I ask'd him;--"and what are you doing?"

To tell you the truth I decidedly had

A belief that the trade he had last been pursuing

(Whatever its nature) had gone to the bad..

His reply was a sigh:--it was little good urging

The questions afresh, for I could not but feel

That he saw not a prospect of ever emerging

Above the dead-level of shabby-genteel.

When we parted I sunk into gloomy reflection--

A state of the mind that I hate, by the way--

And I gave my Brown-studies a moral direction--

Though, put into poetry, morals don't pay.

Here's the truth I evolved, if I quite recollect it:

Frail Fortune one day, by a turn of the wheel,

May despatch you or me, sir, when least we expect it,

To march in the ranks of the shabby-genteel.

CUPID'S MAMMA.

[Illustration: 9087]

HE waits with Cupid at the

wing--

The transformation is ap-

proaching;--

She gives the god, poor little

thing,

Some final hints by way of

"coaching."

For soon the merry motley

clown--

Most purely practical of

jokers--

Will bring the pit and gallery

down

With petty larcenies and

pokers.

No Venus--anything but that.

Could Fancy, howsoever flighty,

Transform the mother of this brat

To aught resembling Aphrodite?

No Venus, but the daily sport

Of common cares and vulgar trials;

No monarch of a Paphian court--

Her court is in the Seven Dials.

She taught young Love to play the part--

To bend the bow and aim the arrows

Those arms will never pierce a heart.

Unless it be a Cockney sparrow's.

Alas, the Truthful never wooed

The Beautiful to fashion Cupid:

But, in some sympathetic mood,

Perhaps the Ugly wooed the Stupid.

Is Cupid nervous? Not a bit;

Love seeks no mortal approbation.

Stalls, boxes, gallery, and pit

May hiss or cheer the transformation.

Mamma looks anxious and afraid

While parting with her young beginner,

Whose little wages, weekly paid,

Will pay her for a weekly dinner.

THE CRUSADER'S FAREWELL.

WHEN King Dick the lion-hearted, pack'd his luggage

up and started,

(Vide Hume and Smollett _passim_) for a trip to Palestine,

Tall young men, though half unwilling to accept the offer'd

shilling.

Left their wives and little children, and enlisted in the line.

Wot ye well that there was grieving when those tall young men

were leaving;

Wot ye well that there was business being done in locks of

hair;

Wot ye well that rings were broken, and presented as a token,

By the noblest of the noble to the fairest of the fair.

Said a soldier, on the shady side of forty, to a lady

Who was buckling on his burgonet, his breastplate, and his

brand;

"By my halidom, I'd rather, as a husband and a father,

Stop at home than go crusading in that blessed Holy Land."

"Yes, I know as well as _you_, dear, it's the proper thing to do,

dear;

And I'm not afraid of fighting, (as I think I said before;)

But it's not without emotion that I contemplate the notion

Of a trip across the channel in a British man-of-war.

"No, it's not at all a question of alarm, but indigestion;

Not the lances of the Paynim, but the passage in the gale,

When the awful cry of 'Steward' from the windward and the

leeward,

From a hundred lips arises, when a hundred lips are pale!"

"Yes, I know you 're very sickly," said his lady, rather quickly;

But you 'll take a cup of sherris or a little Malvoisie,

When you get as far as Dover;--and when once you 're half-

seas over,

Why you 'll find yourself as jolly as you possibly can be."

So her lord and master started, just a trifle chicken-hearted,

And, it may be, just a trifle discontented with his lot;

But whether he got sick, or felt the better for the liquor

That his lady recommended, this deponent sayeth not.

LAYS OF MANY LANDS.

NO. I. COSSIMBAZAR.

[Illustration: 9091]

OME fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar,

For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from

afar.

"Banoolah! Banoolah! The Brahmins

are nigh,

And the depths of the jungle re-echo their

cry.

_Pestonjee Bomanjee!_

Smite the guitar;

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon,

Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon.

Stick to thy music, and oh! let the sound

Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round.

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed

Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed?

Art thou a Ghebir--a blinded Parsee?

Not that it matters an atom to me.

Jcunsetjee Jeejeebhoy!

Sweep the guitar.

Cursetjee Bomanjee!

Twang the guitar.

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

[Illustration: 5092]

NO. 2. SARAGOSSA.

[Illustration: 9093]

PITA, my paragon, bright star of Arragon;

Listen, dear, listen; your Cristobal sings.

From my cot that lies buried a short way

from Lerida

Love and a diligence lent me their wings.

Swift as a falcon I flew to thy balcony.

(Is it bronchitis? I can't sing a bar.)

Greet not with merriment Love's first experi-

ment;

Listen, Pépita! I 've brought my _catarrh_.

Manuel the matador may, like a flat, adore

Donna Dolores. I pity his choice,

For they say that her governor lets neither lover nor

Any one else hear the sound of her voice.

Brother Bartolomé (stoutish Apollo) may

Sigh for Sabina--you 'll pardon this cough?--

And Isabel's votary, Nunez the notary,

Vainly--(.That sneeze again? Loved one, I'm off!)

NO. 3. CLARENS.

[Illustration: 9094]

AKE Leman wooes me with its crystal

face--

(That observation is the late Lord

Byron's)

And Chillon seems a damp unpleasant

place--

(Where Bonnivard, poor soul, got

clapt in irons.)

Beside me Vevey lies, romantic town,

(I wish the weather were not quite

so damp,

And, not far distant, Alpine summits

frown--

(Ah, just what I expected. That's the cramp!)

Before the blast are driven the flying clouds--

(And I should like to blow a cloud as well)

The vapours wrap the mountain-tops in shrouds--

(I left my mild cheroots at the hotel.)

Dotting the glassy surface of the stream,

(Oh, here's a cigarette--my mind's at ease,)

The boats move silently as in a dream--

(Confound it! where on earth are my fusees?)

Methinks in such a Paradise as this,

(Thank goodness, there 's a clodhopper in sight.)

To live were ecstasy, to die were bliss.

(Could you oblige me, Monsieur, with a light?)

I could live pure beneath so pure a sky----

(The rain's completely spoilt my Sunday coat,)

And sink into the tomb without a sigh--

(There's the bell ringing for the table d'hote.)

NO. 4. VENICE.

[Illustration: 9096]

PEED, gondolier, speed, o'er the

lonely lagoon,

To the distant piazetta

Where dwells my Minetta,

Lest envious Aurora surprise us too

soon.

Sing, gondolier, sing, with a heart

full as mine--

Though thy larynx be wheezy

And singing's not easy

Whilst guiding a vessel so tub-like as thine.

Cease, gondolier, cease; 'twas an exquisite air--

But we've reach'd the Rialto,

So hand me that paletot;

And tell me, my gondolier, what is thy fare?

THE SEASONS.

THE smiling Spring is too light a thing--

Too much of a child for me.

No trace in her face of the ripen'd grace

That a lover would love to see.

Hers are the showers--but half the flowers

Hang back for her sister's call.

Amongst the seasons, for divers reasons,

The Spring is the worst of all.

I dread the Summer, the next new-comer;.

Because of her changeful forms:

She merits my praise for her cloudless days,

But my wrath for her fearful storms.

There are flames in her love from the fires above,

And her kisses like lava fall.

Amongst the seasons, for various reasons,

The Summer is worst of all.

The Autumn drear glides into a year

With the moan of an injured ghost.

Then shiver and fall the brown leaves all,

And the woods are in rags almost.

She comes and flings on blossoming things

A shadow of shroud and pall.

Amongst the seasons, for several reasons,

The Autumn is worst of all.

The Winter is good, be it understood.

For scarcely a single thing:

Although it is prime at the Christmas time

To revel and dance and sing.

It is full of such ills as tradesmen's bills.

And its pleasures are scant and small.

Amongst the seasons, for many good reason

The Winter is worst of all.

BROKEN VOWS.

[Illustration: 9099]

ROMISES are lightly spoken;

Vows on which we blindly build

(Utter'd only to be broken)

Go for ever unfulfill'd.

Oft betray'd, but still believing--

Duped again and yet again--

All our hoping, all our grieving

Warns us, but it warns in vain.

From the cradle and the coral--

From the sunny days of youth--

We are taught a simple moral,

Still we doubt the moral's truth.

When a boy they found, me rather

Loth to do as I was bid.

'I shall buy a birch," said father--

Broken vows! He never _did_.

Grown extravagant, when youthful,

In my tailor's debt I ran;

He appear'd about as truthful

In his talk as _any_ man.

Let me tell you how he sold me:

"Look you, Mr What's-Your-Name,

I shall summons _you_," he told me--

But the summons _never came!_

Through the meadows, daisy-laden,

Once it was my lot to stray,

Talking to a lovely maiden

In a very loving way;

And I stole a kiss--another--

Then another--then a lot.

"Fie!" she said, "I 'll tell my mother."

Idle words; she told her not.

When a party who dislikes me

Promises to "punch my head,"

'Tis an empty phrase, it strikes me,

They are words too lightly said.

Not since Disappointment school'd me,

Have I credited the truth

Of the promises that fool'd me

In my green and gushing youth.

WHERE--AND OH! WHERE?

WHERE are the times when--miles away

From the din and the dust of cities--

Alexis left his lambs to play,

And wooed some shepherdess half the day

With pretty and plaintive ditties?

Where are the pastures daisy-strewn

And the flocks that lived in clover;

The Zephyrs that caught the pastoral tune

And carried away the notes as soon

As ever the notes were over?

Where are the echoes that bore the strains

Each to his nearest neighbour:

And all the valleys and all the plains

Where all the nymphs and their love-sick swains

Made merry to pipe and tabor?

Where are they gone? They are gone to sleep

Where Fancy alone can find them:

But Arcady's times are like the sheep

That quitted the care of Little Bo-Peep,

For they've left their tales behind them!

A FIT OF THE BLUES.

[Illustration: 9103]

Y deep cerulean eyes are full of tears,

And bluely burns my melancholy

taper:

How dimly every azure line appears

To be imprinted on my bluish

paper.

My casement opens on the blue,

blue sky,

The cobalt of the dawn already lightens

The outer east--and yet small joy have I,

That Luna fades and that Aurora brightens.

Oh that the morning light could bring for me

One hour amidst the blue-bells and the heather!--

One hour of sojourn on the wide blue sea,

In crystal calmness or in stormy weather!

Oh that the "freshness of the heart" could fall

Once more upon my spirit, and could kindly

Bring back again the days when first of all

I read my _Blue Beard_ and believed it blindly!

One cure there is for all the ills that make

Existence duller than a blue-book's pages:--

A strong blue-pill is just the thing to take

For indigestion in the early stages.

ROTTEN ROW.

THERE'S a tempting bit of greenery--of rustic

scenery--

That's haunted by the London "upper ten

Where, by exercise on horseback, an equestrian may force back

Little fits of tedium vitæ now and then.

Oh! the times that I have been there, and the types that I have

seen there

Of that gorgeous Cockney animal, the "swell

And the scores of pretty riders (both patricians and outsiders)

Are considerably more than I can tell.

When first the warmer weather brought these people all together.

And the crowds began to thicken through the Row,

I reclined against the railing on a sunny day, inhaling

All the spirits that the breezes could bestow.

And the riders and the walkers and the thinkers and the talkers

Left lonely in the thickest of the throng,

Not a touch upon my shoulder--not a nod from one beholder--

As the stream of Art and Nature went along.

But I brought away one image, from that fashionable scrimmage,

Of a figure and a face--ah, _such_ a face!

Love has photograph'd the features of that loveliest of creatures

On my memory, as Love alone can trace.

Did I hate the little dandy in the whiskers, (they were sandy,)

Whose absurd salute was honour'd by a smile?

Did I marvel at his rudeness in presuming on her goodness,

When she evidently loathed him all the while!

Oh the hours that I have wasted, the regrets that I have tasted,

Since the day (it seems a century ago)

When my heart was won instanter by a lady in a canter,

On a certain sunny day in Rotten Row!

A LAST RESOURCE.

[Illustration: 9107]

LONE on India's burning plain,

Beneath a banyan tree,

A mortal many hours had lain

In ceaseless agony.

Mosquitoes with a constant buzz

Came flocking round their prize

(It varies--the mosquito does--

In appetite and size.)

But, though it varies as to form,

And varies as to thirst,

In Asia, (where the nights ara warm,)

The small ones are the worst.

Anon their victim waved his arm

To scare them from their feed;

But found, alas! that their alarm

Was very brief indeed.