The Lazy Minstrel

 
And while his merry Banjo rang,
'Twas thus the Lazy Minstrel sang!
 

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 pleasant
To 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 espying
A 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 maiden
Who 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 than
His 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 stock
Of 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 spurning
Woollen wrap around our throats.
Let us see the couch nocturnal
Snugly swathed in eider-down:
Let not thoughts of weather vernal
Tempt 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 returning
Now the poet deftly weaves
Quaint conceits and rhymes concerning
Croton 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 bay
The 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 sand
Perambulateth 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 side
By 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 foam
Down 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 you
Which 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 forget
The destiny fate weaves,
The while I smoke a cigarette
To music of the leaves;
I wish my present lazy life
A 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 bee
Who 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 ease
In 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 exertions
And make themselves hot and exhausted and ill
To 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 day
And 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 day
And 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 day
And roll on the sand and the shingle!
 
 
They fancy 'tis pleasant to go for a sail
With 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 day
And roll on the sand and the shingle!
 
 
I'd much rather take a good pull at ozone
Without 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 day
And 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 search
Before 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 than
My 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 told
Her 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 gleaming
And 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 shiver
And 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 pleasure
With 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 incline
To wear my Tam o' Shanter!
 
 
Let others sport the fluffy hat,
The "Sailor Boy," or "Granny;"
The "Bargee," or some other that
Is 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 why
I 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 please
To 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 feet
Peep 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 LADING

 
SHE was cargo and crew,
She was boatswain and skipper,
She was passenger too,
Of the Nutshell canoe;
And the eyes were so blue
Of this sweet tiny tripper!
She was cargo and crew,
She was boatswain and skipper!
 

THE PILOT

 
How I bawled, "Ship, ahoy!"
Hard by Medmenham Ferry!
And she answered with joy,
She would like a convoy,
And would love to employ
A 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 HAVEN

 
Ah! 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 play
At hide and seek!
While York to Lancaster gives place,
And sweeter grows your pretty face —
Miss Dimplecheek!
 
 
Miss Dimplecheek,
I wonder if
You ever revel in a tiff,
Or pout in pique
Or droop those pretty eyelids down,
Or shake your shoulders, stamp, or frown,
Miss Dimplecheek?
 
 
Miss Dimplecheek,
I gaze, and then —
The most cantankerous of men
Grows 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 knew
Who was the proud papa of you
I'd quickly speak:
And get an introduction, so
Eventually I might know
Miss 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!