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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 

 
 Ballades 
 
 AND OTHER RHYMES 
 
 A Country Bookworm 
 
 THOMAS HUTCHINSON 
 
 In the work-a-day world,— for its needs and -.noes, 
 There is place and enough for the pains <■>//' 
 But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, 
 
 'I hen hey I for the ripple of laughing rhyme '. 
 
 — Aistin DtlBSON. 
 
 LONDON: , 
 STANESBY & CO., 179, SLOANE STREET, S.W 
 (Formerly Murray & Stanesby). 
 
 UK RUN' AND NOTTINGHAM: 
 FRANK MURRAY. 
 
 1S88.
 
 Sixty Copies of this Large Paper Edition have been 
 printed, fifty of -which are for sale. 
 
 This Copy 
 
 M No. *^ O 
 
 Signed, 
 
 \j y^JU^^-^-^tv ^_-A^^^\^_ >
 
 BALLADES OF A COUNTRY 
 BOOKWORM.
 
 Ballades 
 
 AND OTHER RHYMES 
 
 A Country Bookworm 
 
 THOMAS HUTCHINSON 
 
 In the work-a-day world,— for its needs and woes. 
 There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; 
 But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, 
 'I hen liey 1 for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! 
 
 — Austin Dodson. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 STANES13Y & CO., .79, SLOANE STREET, S.W, 
 
 (Formerly Murray & Stanesby). 
 
 DERBY AND NOTTINGHAM: 
 FRANK MURRAY. 
 
 1 388.
 
 nun 
 
 TO ANDREW LANG. 
 
 Dear Andrew, with the brindled hair, 
 
 * * * * 
 
 / count you /ui/>/>y starred, for God, 
 IV/ieu He with ink-pot and with rod 
 Endowed you, bade your fortune lead 
 Forever by the crooks of Tweed, 
 Forever by tlte woods of song 
 And lands that to tlie Muse belong. 
 
 — R. L. Stevenson. 
 
 As one who often finds delight 
 
 In Books and Bookmen's bookly lore, 
 
 This volume to yon I indite 
 In hopes it may — at least — not bore : 
 To authors who are tiow no more 
 
 You late addressed yourself, but I 
 To one alive do much prefer 
 
 To speak — to one who ne'er will die. 
 
 What I would fain express, perchance, 
 
 I ought not to attempt in rhyme, 
 Yet do not wish me, say, in France — 
 
 Or in some other 'warmer clime : 
 
 Not tho' it be in me a crime 
 A worthless work to you to send — 
 
 You, in your books, time after time, 
 Have seem'd indeed to me a friend. 
 
 918011
 
 vi. TO ANDREW LANG. 
 
 I struggle up Parnassus— yes, 
 
 I struggle, that is the right phrase, 
 
 For 'tis not easy, I confess, 
 To one of my prosaic -ways 
 To imitate your courtly lays — 
 
 To offer in your own sweet style 
 My heartfelt 'wishes : many days 
 
 I've thought of it — nay, do not smile. 
 
 Long may The Ship by you be steer d, 
 And may you long man's soul enthrall 
 
 With tales of bogies that you fear 'd 
 Ln childhood — even yet recall 
 With trembling lifs : oft may you fall 
 
 Into temptation, buying books 
 At auction- mart, at shop, at stall : 
 
 Oft angle in Northumbrian brooks. 
 
 But, above all, long may you -write 
 Sketch, ballade, novel, sonnet, song, 
 
 Dispelling by each Fancy' 's flight 
 The recollections that belong 
 To those -whose fellows do them wrong ; 
 
 And proving that it still is good 
 
 To live, for that Faith makes us strong — 
 
 Faith in the Human Brotherhood. 
 
 Pegswaod, Morpetfi. THOMAS HUTCHINSON.
 
 contents: 
 
 Ballades. 
 
 
 Austin Dobson — Andrew Lang 
 
 •• 3 
 
 A Christmas Ballade 
 
 5 
 
 Ballade of Unrecognized Genius 
 
 • • 7 
 
 A Town- Lover's Ballade 
 
 • • 9 
 
 Ballade of a Poor Book-Lover 
 
 ii 
 
 Ballade of a Muffin-Seller 
 
 •• '3 
 
 Ballade addressed to George Augustus Sala 
 
 •• 15 
 
 Ballade of a Bachelor 
 
 .. 17 
 
 Ballade of Book-Borrowing 
 
 •• 19 
 
 Says Genial Lang 
 
 21 
 
 Triolets. 
 
 
 Impromptu Triolet 
 
 •• 25 
 
 A Trio of Triolets 
 
 26 
 
 On a certain '1 'rio of Triolets 
 
 .. 28 
 
 Three Triolets 
 
 • • 29 
 
 Two Triolets 
 
 •• 3i 
 
 Triolet 
 
 •■ 32 
 
 Ballads. 
 
 
 The Wansbeck, the Wear and the Tyne ... 
 
 ■• 35 
 
 The Ladie's Lament 
 
 ... 38
 
 viii. CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 
 In Memoriam 
 
 • ••• 43 
 
 A Country Ramble 
 
 • ••• 44 
 
 A Night at Sea 
 
 • ». 45 
 
 An October Evening 
 
 . ... 46 
 
 Mary, Queen of Scots 
 
 • ••■ 47 
 
 " Love's Labour Lost " 
 
 . ... 48 
 
 Miscellaneous. 
 
 
 My Books : an Epistolary Fragment 
 
 • ... 51 
 
 To My Wife 
 
 ■ - 55 
 
 The Unhappy Little Mouse 
 
 . ... S 6 
 
 My Model Yacht 
 
 • ... 59 
 
 An Un-rEsthetic Love-Song 
 
 . ... 61 
 
 December 
 
 . ... 62 
 
 Bungo's Soliloquy 
 
 . ... 64 
 
 Hurrah for the Spring 
 
 . ... 67 
 
 A Beggar-Boy's Appeal 
 
 . ... 69 
 
 Harvest-Time 
 
 . ... 71 
 
 " The Rowfant Books " ... 
 
 . ... 72 
 
 A New Newcassel Sang 
 
 • ». 73 
 
 Life's Year 
 
 • ... 75 
 
 Mamma, it is Raining again 
 
 ... 76 
 
 Rondeau 
 
 ... 78 
 
 Mary 
 
 ... 79 
 
 The Learned Young Miss 
 
 ... 80 
 
 John Jones, Autograph Collector 
 
 ... 82 
 
 V Envoi 
 
 ... 86
 
 BALLADES.
 
 Of all the songs that dwell 
 Where softest speech doth flow, 
 
 Some love the sweet rondel 
 And some the bright rondeau, 
 With rhymes that tripping go 
 
 In mirthful measures clad: 
 
 But would. I choose them ! No ; 
 
 For me the blithe ballade! 
 
 — Cltnton Scollard.
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON— ANDREW LANG. 
 {Ballade a Double Refrain.) 
 
 Ah me ! how many Fate makes mourn 
 Unhonoured in our midst to dwell, 
 
 Tho' Epics write they, and— in scorn — 
 Shun Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle : 
 Blank verse they scan — at times, as well, 
 
 In jolts and jingles harsh rhymes clang — 
 But fail to reach the pinnacle 
 
 Of Austin Dohson — Andrew Lang. 
 
 Dear brothers these, whose names adorn 
 
 Their roll who spread Poesy's spell, 
 Their sweetest strains heart-ward are borne 
 
 In Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle : 
 
 Vet did no rival e'er excel 
 Their efforts in the realms o' sang ; — 
 
 The Laureate's self bears not the hell 
 From Austin Dobson — Andrew Lang.
 
 BALLADES OF A 
 
 Theirs not the heaviness men spurn : 
 
 Light as the breeze in fairy dell 
 The flights of fancy that they turn 
 
 To Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle : 
 
 From them wc never flee, pell-mell, 
 Ne'er close their volumes with a bang ; 
 
 O ! naught our happiness can quell 
 With Austin Dobson — Andrew Lang. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 I low soothed our souls — what words can tell ?- 
 With Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle : 
 How robb'd of many a bitter pang 
 J',y Austin Dpbson —Andrew Lang.
 
 COUNTRY BOOKWORM. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS BALLADE. 
 
 Hurrah for Christinas time 
 With its charity and cheer, 
 
 Its puddings and pantomime, 
 Its flagons of home-brew'd beer, 
 Its laughter loud and clear, 
 
 Its sweets for Dick and Dollie ; — 
 Ah ! it comes but once a year, 
 
 Hang up mistletoe and holly. 
 
 Loudly the church-bells chime, 
 
 Inviting all who hear 
 To join in praise sublime 
 
 Of I liixi man holds most dear ; 
 
 And peasant, prince and peer 
 Forget their melancholy, 
 
 And — each one in his sphere — 
 Hang up mistletoe and holly.
 
 BALLADES OF A 
 
 To mourn would be a crime, 
 
 Thu' the days are dark and drear, 
 
 And our ever-changing clime — 
 Frequent theme of jest and jeer — 
 Filleth many hearts with fear : 
 
 Now is the hearth most jolly, 
 And lads — with lasses near — 
 
 Hang up mistletoe and holly. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Since the weather is severe, 
 Come, a little harmless folly ; 
 
 (^uick — ay, quick — the ladders rear, 
 Hang up mistletoe and holly. 

 
 COUNTRY BOOKWORM. 
 
 BALLADE OF UNRECOGNIZED GENIUS. 
 
 In the days of my youth I was told 
 
 That a poet's renown would be mint-, 
 That already my name was enroll'd 
 
 As a protege of the fair Nine ; 
 
 And their praises in many a gay line 
 By me loud were sounded, I ween ; — 
 
 Where now are my verses divine ? 
 Alas ! where wives buy butterine. 
 
 Before I was twenty years old 
 
 Prose classics, too, did I design, 
 And each sketch deem'd its weight worth in gold— 
 
 Ah me ! I my pearls cast to swine : 
 
 As essayist hoped I to shine, 
 Unrivall'd by Addison e'en ; — 
 
 Now are my effusions so fine 
 Alas ! where wives buy butterine.
 
 BALLADES OF A 
 
 Tho' my novels are now never sold, 
 
 Never plagiarized over the brine, 
 O ! the plots that I used to unfold 
 
 Round my forehead the laurel to twine ! 
 
 But in vain still for fame do I pine — 
 For as yet only slated I've been, 
 
 And my tales sent, with judicial whine, 
 Alas ! where wives buy butterine. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 Sir Critic, a kind heart be thine, 
 
 And no more spurn my volumes in spleen, 
 Nor — to shelve them — with others combine 
 
 Alas ! where wives buy butterine.
 
 COUNTRY BOOKWORM. 
 
 A TOWN-LOVER'S BALLADE. 
 
 It may be a la mode to rehearse the delights 
 
 That are theirs who in rustic localities dwell, 
 Or to scrawl villanelles on the sounds and the sights 
 
 That alone may be found upon moorland or fell ; 
 
 And I own there are joys to be glean'd in a dell, 
 That the hay of the meadows in summer smells sweet, 
 
 Whilst the waters are cool of a deep-seated well — 
 Still, I long for the stir — nay, the slush — of the street. 
 
 Mountaineers, brave and bold, sing of snow-cover'd 
 heights, 
 
 And the glory of climbing them oft to us tell ; — 
 Did the task they essay in December, their plights 
 
 Might, perchance, soon evoke a funereal knell : 
 
 Tho' the grunt of the pig has a musical swell, 
 And the cock's shrilly shriek's a melodious treat 
 
 That to hear from their slumbers rise e'en beau and 
 belle, 
 Still, I long for the stir— nay, the slush — of the street.
 
 io BALLADES OF A 
 
 There's a pleasure in watching the swallow's wild flights 
 
 As it wheels through the air that no mortal can quell, 
 And a pleasure in trudging the highways on nights 
 
 When the darkness that's felt o'er our souls casts its 
 spell : 
 
 But alas ! if the Fates in their anger compel 
 A poor chappie to live near where sheep browse and 
 bleat !— 
 
 Tho' in cities their manhood base men sometimes sell, 
 Still, I long for the stir— nay, the slush— of the street. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 Prince, I really believe that with rapture I'd yell 
 
 Did my duties town-ward once again turn my feet ; 
 Tho' 'tis years since I shouldered mankind in Pall Mall, 
 
 Still I long for the stir— nay, the slush— of the street.
 
 COUNTR Y BOOK WORM. 1 1 
 
 BALLADE OF A POOR BOOK-LOVER. 
 
 {Double Refrain.) 
 
 Tho' in its vagaries stern Fate 
 A poor book-lover me decreed, 
 
 Perchance mine is a happy state — 
 The books I buy I like to read : 
 To me dear friends they are indeed, 
 
 But, howe'er enviously I sigh, 
 Of others take I little heed — 
 
 The books I read I like to buy. 
 
 My depth of purse is not so great, 
 Nor yet my bibliophilic greed, 
 
 That merely buying doth elate — 
 The books I buy I like to read : 
 Still, e'en when dawdling in a mead, 
 
 Beneath a cloudless summer sky, 
 
 By bank of Tyne, or Till, or Tweed, 
 
 The books I read — I like to buy.
 
 12 BALLADES OF A 
 
 Their books tho' tool'd in style ornate, 
 Oft worms upon the contents feed 
 
 Whilst some men of the bindings prate — 
 The books I buy I like to read : 
 Vet some day may my fancy breed 
 
 My ruin — it may now be nigh — 
 They reap, we know, who sow the seed- 
 
 The books I read I like to buy. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 Tho' frequently to stall I speed, 
 The books I buy I like to read : 
 Yet wealth to me will never hie — 
 The books I read I like to buy.
 
 COUNTRY BOOKWORM. 13 
 
 BALLADE OF A MUFFIN-SELLER. 
 
 There's a maiden I know 
 
 With most beauteous black eyes, 
 Black, in sooth, as the sloe, 
 
 And — 'twill scarce cause surprise — 
 
 Black her hair is likewise : 
 In our ally she dwells, 
 
 And — as many surmise — 
 
 Sea-shells she sells. 
 
 From me high and low 
 
 Purchase muffins and pies, 
 And when I my rounds go 
 
 Aye my way her way lies — 
 
 Ne'er to shun me she tries, 
 And with joy my breast swells 
 
 As, beside me, she cries 
 
 Sea-shells she sells.
 
 14 BALLADES OF A 
 
 E'en in famed Rotten Row, 
 Ere from it Fashion flies, 
 
 No damsels e'er show- 
 Half the charms she supplies — 
 Rivals all she outvies 
 
 As the loveliest of belles, 
 Tho', wherever she hies, 
 
 Sea-shells she sells. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Fast the happy day nighs 
 
 That all sadness dispels ; 
 Till it's here, in Love's guise, 
 
 Sea-shells she sells.
 
 COUNTRY BOOKWORM. 15 
 
 BALLADE ADDRESSED TO GEORGE 
 AUGUSTUS SALA. 
 
 My rhymes are not of leafy trees, — 
 
 Too much, alas ! of them I see, 
 When busy lanes would better please 
 
 And in a crowd I fain would be : 
 
 A country life, however free 
 From town-temptations and excess, 
 
 Somehow has lost its charms for me, 
 Great-hearted, jovial G. A. S. 
 
 It may be that I taste the lees 
 
 Of rural innocence and glee, 
 And feel not health in every breeze, 
 
 Because of Fate's most dread decree 
 
 That robs me of the liberty 
 To seek anew the happiness 
 
 Of city's stir and rivalry, 
 Great-hearted, jovial G. A. S.
 
 1 6 BALLADES OF A 
 
 Still, Lang and Dobson, thou and Rees, 
 And thy friend Percy — altho' he 
 
 Us poor book-fanciers doth so tease 
 With tales of rarities that we 
 Shall never e'en behold — make flee 
 
 The solitary soul's distress, 
 The void of oral sympathy, 
 
 Great-hearted, jovial G. A. S. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 Famed Prince of Journalists, to thee 
 
 I turn me in my loneliness, 
 Fearless of failure as my fee, 
 
 Great-hearted, jovial G. A. S.
 
 COUNTRY BOOKWORM. 17 
 
 BALLADE OF A BACHELOR. 
 
 I missed the train. Alack-a-day 
 That such should be my luckless fate, 
 
 Tho' I had hurried all the way, 
 Ay, hurried at a break-neck rate : 
 But trains — like Time — for no man wait, 
 
 As despots do directors reign, 
 
 The porters giggled at my strait — 
 
 I missed the train. 
 
 I missed the train, and long shall pay 
 
 The penalty of being late, 
 Tho' with wild words did I essay 
 
 To calm my soul, for — sad to state — 
 
 When in my face they shut the gate, 
 And told me to come back again, 
 
 My manner was not quite sedate — 
 
 I missed the train.
 
 18 BALLADES OF A 
 
 I missed the train, and, to allay 
 My anguish and my rage abate, 
 
 Of hope found not a single ray : 
 To take unto myself a mate 
 My mission was— her love to hate 
 
 Changed at my absence, and in vain 
 I wrote to her in terms ornate — 
 
 I missed the train. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 I missed the train, but why thus prate ? 
 
 The bride of a more punctual swain 
 1 [as she become : his joy is great — 
 
 L missed the train.
 
 COUNTRY BOOKWORM. 19 
 
 BALLADE OF BOOK-BORROWING. 
 
 Lender or borrower never be, 
 
 Sings Shakespeare, but in vain he sings, 
 As likewise sadly singeth he 
 
 Whose books at times seem to have wings : 
 
 Howe'er to them his memory clings, 
 Ilowe'er their absence by him 's mourn'd, 
 
 Naught homewards e'er the wanderers brings- 
 Books borrowed rarely are return'd. 
 
 O ! unaccountable to me 
 
 I low he can bear, unmoved, the stings 
 Of Conscience, whose dishonesty 
 
 The most beloved of earthly things 
 
 Would subject to vile secretings : 
 By him — ay, tho' they be but spurn'd, 
 
 Or them aside he, ruthless, flings — 
 Books borrowed rarely are return'd.
 
 2 o BALLADES OF A 
 
 Whene'er a vacuum I see 
 
 Upon my shelves, my heart it wrings, 
 And I bemoan right bitterly 
 
 My treasured volumes' vanishings : 
 
 Still, oft within my bosom springs 
 The will to have the wretches burn'd 
 
 Who keep them, altho' — e'en by kings- 
 Books borrowed rarely are return'd. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Ye who get Books by Borrowings, 
 By you be not my pleadings scorn'd, 
 
 O prove — despite my weak rhymings — 
 Books borrowed sometimes are return'd.
 
 CO UNTR Y BOOKWORM. 2 1 
 
 SAYS GENIAL LANG. 
 
 "A lady recently sent a book of poems to Andrew Lang, who 
 wrote in reply :—I have not luid time to read the longer poems, 
 but I admire the sonnets. Pcrliaps life is loo short for long 
 poems." — Daily Pater. 
 
 To read long poems Life's too short, 
 Says genial Lang of Bookman's fame, 
 
 And, tho' a damsel fain would court 
 For hers perusal, maid nor dame 
 Exemption from his rule may claim ; 
 
 With Epics will the muse not flirt 
 
 Of genial Lang of Bookman's fame : — 
 
 To read long poems Life's too short. 
 
 To read long poems Life's too short, 
 
 Says genial Lang of Bookman's fame : 
 Blue China Ballades are the sort 
 
 That charm his soul — that, without blame, 
 
 A poet may attempt to frame ; 
 And sonnets sometimes bring no hurt : — 
 
 Says genial Lang of Bookman's fame 
 To read long poems Life's too short.
 
 22 BALLADES. 
 
 To read long poems Life's too short, 
 Says genial Lang of Bookman's fame, 
 
 In critic panoply begirt, 
 
 A quill-arm'd knight, to put to shame 
 All would-be Homers — wound and maim 
 
 Each raw-boned Pegasus : — no sport 
 To genial Lang of Bookman's fame 
 
 To read long poems — Life's too short. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 To read long poems Life's too short, 
 But then, O Prince of unknown name, 
 
 To write short poems is the forte 
 Of genial Lang of Bookman's fame.
 
 TRIOLETS.
 
 Easy is the Triolet, 
 
 //you really learn to make it! 
 Once a neat refrain you get, 
 Easy is the THolet. 
 As you see ! I pay my debt 
 
 With another rhyme. Deuce take it, 
 Easy is the Triolet, 
 
 If you really learn to make it. 
 
 — W. E. Henley.
 
 IMPROMPTU TRIOLET:* 
 
 'Based, by the way" though, says Mr. Dobson, "on 
 a misconception, for I did not mean that ' North- 
 umbrians' were fiery, but only that the Percies 
 were, as they have been since Hotspur.'''' 
 
 Nay, nay, Mr. Dobson, it isn't quite fair 
 
 Our temper to casually libel ; 
 Tho' at times with our rage we our enemies scare, 
 Still, my dear Mr. Dobson, it isn't quite fair 
 To affirm that Northumbrians a-fire are e'er — 
 
 Not tho' they do e'en take a jibe ill : 
 No, no, Mr. Dobson, it isn't quite fair 
 
 Our temper to casually libel. 
 
 * Sec Mr Dobson' s "Lift of Goldsmith,' pagi 104
 
 20 I RIO LETS. 
 
 A TRIO OF TRIOLETS : 
 
 1SY A BENEDICTINE BOOKWORM. 
 
 Books I buy — 
 
 New and old : 
 Tho' poor I, 
 Books I buy — 
 For more sigh : 
 
 Tho' wife scold, 
 Books I buy — 
 
 New and old. 
 
 Books I buy — 
 
 Old and new : 
 If price high, 
 Books I buy 
 On the sly — 
 
 Oft, tho', rue : 
 Books I buy — 
 
 Old and new.
 
 J RIO LETS. 27 
 
 Books I buy 
 
 Of all kinds 
 'Neath the sky : 
 Books I buy — 
 Far and nigh 
 
 Search fur " finds" : 
 Books I buy 
 
 Of all kinds.
 
 28 1 RIO LETS. 
 
 ON A CERTAIN TRIO OF TRIOLETS. 
 
 Your trio is true 
 
 As a study from life, 
 Whether chance (?) or you knew (?) 
 Your trio is true, 
 Since here am I, too, 
 
 With my books and — a wife! 
 Your trio is true 
 
 As a study from life. 
 
 G. W.
 
 TRIOLETS. 29 
 
 THREE TRIOLETS : 
 
 BY A FOND FATHER. 
 
 Herbert, Winnie, Dora, May, 
 Bonnie bairns and fair are ; 
 
 Joyous, merry, laughing, gay, 
 
 Herbert, Winnie, Dora, May, 
 
 Ever drive dull care away — 
 Sad or solemn ne'er are : 
 
 Herbert, Winnie, Dora, May, 
 Bonnie bairns and rare are. 
 
 Herbert, Winnie, Dora, May, 
 
 Blue-eyed beauties all, ma'am ; 
 Viking-like, fond of a fray, 
 Herbert, Winnie, Dora, May, 
 With their love their mammy sway — 
 
 "Sweets" she them doth call, ma'am 
 Herbert, Winnie, Dora, May, 
 IUue-eyed beauties TALL, ma'am.
 
 3 o TRIOLETS. 
 
 Herbert, Winnie, Dora, May, 
 
 Are their daddy's theme, sir ; 
 Tho' his books aside they lay, 
 Herbert, Winnie, Dora, May, 
 Every moment of the day 
 
 Make him poet seem, sir : 
 Herbert, Winnie, Dora, May, 
 Are their daddy's DREAM, sir.
 
 TRIOLETS. 31 
 
 TWO TRIOLETS : 
 
 Addressed — with a small order — to Messrs. Jarvis & 
 Son, London. 
 
 Yestre'en arrived all right 
 
 Your Lytell List of Bookes, 
 But with it sad delight 
 Yestre'en arrived ; — all right 
 Man's lot is not, nor bright, 
 
 When his wife angry looks : 
 Yestre'en arrived all right 
 
 Your Lytell List of Bookes. 
 
 The wherefore and the why 
 
 Of my wife's angry looks 
 You ask — dare I deny < 
 
 The wherefore and the why ? 
 She knew that I should buy 
 
 Out of your List of Bookes 
 The wherefore and the why, 
 
 This, of my wifie's looks.
 
 32 TRIOLETS. 
 
 TRIOLET. 
 
 "Ballade-mongers are piteonsly implored to send no more 
 ballades."— Andrew Lang in "Longman's Magazine," January, 
 1888. 
 
 Farewell all my hopes of renown— 
 
 Henceforth Ballade-mongers are bann'd 
 
 At the Sign of the Ship by Lang's frown : 
 
 Farewell all my hopes of renown ! 
 
 Ah me ! that thus soon should fall down 
 My castles so airily plann'd : 
 
 Farewell all my hopes of renown, 
 
 Henceforth Ballade-mongering be — bann'd.
 
 BALLADS
 
 "/ love a Ballad in print, a" -life ; for then vie au 
 sure they are true." 
 
 —A Win i kk's Tai.e.
 
 THE WANSBECK. THE WEAR AND THE 
 TYNE. 
 
 The Wansbeck, the Wear an' the Tyne, 
 
 Three rivers that rin tae the sea, 
 The Wear may be clear, an' the Tyne may be dear, 
 
 But the Wansbeck's the clearest tae me. 
 
 " May Maggie, the loveliest o' maids 
 
 Wha dwell by the banks o' the Tyne, 
 Lang, lang hae I lo'ed thee, tho' silent my lo'e, 
 
 O ! wilt thou, May Maggie, be mine ? " 
 
 " Nay, nay, that can be never, never ; 
 
 Never, never thou'lt claim me as thine ; 
 But look nae sae sad, for thou ken'st verra weel 
 
 There are monny fair maids by the Tyne." 
 
 " O ! why wilt thou nae be my lo'e, 
 When thy parents hae gi'en their consent ? 
 
 O ! why wilt thou nae be my lo'e? — 
 
 Would'st thou see how my heart may be rent ?'
 
 36 BALLADS. 
 
 "Thy lo'e I'll nay be, but thy fri'n'."— 
 "O ! why wilt my lo'e thou nae be? — 
 
 Dost thou lo'e some ane else?" — " Nay, nay, I do nae, 
 But I dinna, I dinna lo'e thee." 
 
 " Wilhemina, wha liv'st by the Wear, 
 
 The dearest o' everything dear, 
 O ! wilt thou be my ain wee wife ? — 
 
 Each ither we've lo'ed this lang year." 
 
 " Ay, ay, I will be thy ain wife, 
 
 An' honour, an' lo'e, an' obey, 
 If my faither an' mither will gi'e their consent, 
 
 An' I dinna think they'll say nay." 
 
 "O! Minnie, thy mither says nay, 
 She says that we twa mauna wed ; 
 
 Hut I lo'e, an' thou lo'est in return, 
 An' sae we hae naething tae dread." 
 
 " Nay, nay, if my mither says nay, 
 
 Then thou maun gi'e me back my heart ; 
 
 If my mither says we mauna wed, 
 Alas ! we are fated tae part."
 
 BALLADS. 37 
 
 " O ! Jennie, o' a' the fair maids 
 
 Wha dwell by the Wansbeck the bust, 
 O ! wilt thou accept my true lo'e, 
 
 An' wi' thine in exchange mak' me blest ? " 
 
 " Ay, I will accept thy true lo'e, 
 
 An' mine in exchange gi'e tae thee ; 
 Tis months sin' I felt that my heart 
 
 Nae langer belanged tae me." 
 
 " But if that thy parents refuse, 
 
 An' say that we mauna wed ? " — 
 " O ! still I'll be thine, O ! still I'll be thine, 
 
 Thine only, thine living or dead." 
 
 The Wansbeck, the Wear an' the Tyne, 
 
 Three rivers that rin tae the sea, 
 The Wear may be dear, an' the Tyne may be dear, 
 
 But the Wansbeck's the dearest tae me.
 
 38 BALLADS. 
 
 THE LADIE'S LAMENT. 
 
 O ! wae is me ! O ! wae is me ! 
 
 For ma true love is deid, 
 An' rottin' awa i' th ! West Countrie, 
 
 Where th' even sky is reid. 
 
 Nae mair ma een like stars 'ill shine, 
 
 Nae mair ma smile foak see, 
 Nae mair ma cheeks, like bluid-reid wine, 
 
 Ruby an' bricht 'ill be. 
 
 Before ma true love went awa, 
 
 Awa ti' th' West Countrie — 
 Where th' simmer breezes saftly blaw, 
 
 An' th' sea sings merrilie — 
 
 lie kist me ance on ither cheek, 
 
 An' ance upon th' broo — 
 He kist me ance on ither cheek, 
 
 And thrice upon the mou'.
 
 BALLADS. 39 
 
 But noo nae mair he'll kiss ma cheeks, 
 
 Nae mair he'll kiss ma broo — 
 O ! noo nae mair he'll kiss ma cheeks, 
 
 An' never mair ma mou'. 
 
 Last nicht I dream'd a waefu' dream : — 
 
 I thochl I saw ma love, 
 An' his face shone like th' heavenly gleam 
 
 When on Christ alit th' dove. 
 
 Like living coals his blue een wer', 
 
 An' braw he bair his heid, 
 As — moontid as only guid knights are — - 
 
 He rode on a milk-white steed. 
 
 But oot o' his briest th' reid bluid flow'd, 
 
 Th' reid bluid flow'd amain, 
 An' he fetch'd a sigh as on he rode 
 
 Over mountain and plain. 
 
 O ! sad an' doon at heart he seem'd 
 
 Until that he saw me, 
 Then wi' diamond blaze his twa een beam'd, 
 
 An' he laught richt heartilic.
 
 4 o BALLADS. 
 
 An' then he cried, "Alas for thee, 
 
 An' alas for thy babe unborn, 
 ! or lion, that ma life has been ta'en frae me, 
 
 Nae mair can I return !" 
 
 An' then he kist me on ither cheek, 
 
 An' he kist me on ma broo — 
 An' then he kist me on ither cheek, 
 
 An' thrice upon ma mou'. 
 
 An' then I wauk. — O ! wae is me ! 
 
 For ma true love is deid, 
 An' rot tm" awa i' th' West Countrie, 
 
 Where th' even sky is reid.
 
 SONNETS.
 
 A sonnet is a zvave of melody : 
 
 From heaving 'waters of the impassioned soul 
 A billow of tidal music one and -whole 
 
 Flows in the "octave" ; then returning free, 
 Its ebbing surges in the "sestet" roll 
 
 Back to the deeps of Life's tumultuous sea. 
 
 — Theodore Watts.
 
 SONNETS. 43 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Lonely we feel, dear mother, since thy face 
 No longer thrills us with angelic glow, 
 And thy fond accents, always soft and low, 
 
 No longer cheer us onward thro' Life's race. 
 
 We miss thee much, for can there aught replace 
 The care which thou for us didst hourly show ? 
 Yet oft are we forgetful here below, 
 
 And look for thee to find but empty space. 
 
 But why bewail our loss? — it is thy gain, 
 And tho' we lose thy calm and kindly smile, 
 
 How sweet to know, how soothing in our pain, 
 That we are parted only for a while : 
 
 Tho' thou art gone, and hence returnest never, 
 
 Vet we shall follow thee and stay with thee for ever.
 
 44 SONNE IS. 
 
 A COUNTRY RAMBLE. 
 
 I Love to ramble by a murmuring stream 
 Which thro' a planta'n slowly winds along, 
 To the hush'd music of its oain glad song, 
 
 When the sun's rays in its bright waters gleam, 
 
 And " banks and braes" with living fragrance teem ; 
 When in embracing clusters wild flowers throng, 
 And wilder bees their blossoms soar among, 
 
 And earth is lovely as a mid-day dream. 
 
 My soul rejoices, and with childish glee 
 I skip from flower to flower, or rest at ease 
 
 Beneath the shadow of a spreading tree, 
 And listen to the hum of stream and bees ; 
 
 In everything some loveliness I see — 
 
 Sun, stream, tree, flower, all have the power to please.
 
 SONNETS. 45 
 
 A NIGHT AT SEA. 
 
 How solemn 'tis for the first time to be 
 Upon the ocean all thro' a dark night, 
 
 When clouds obscure the moon, and we can see 
 Around us nothing save the waters bright, 
 And, in the distance, some ship's signal light ; 
 
 When nothing can be heard except the glee 
 Of rippling waves, and gentle breaker's sigh, 
 And, at long intervals, the seagull's cry. 
 
 How awe-struck are we then, fill'd with a strange 
 Yet sweet delight— sweeter than aught before ; 
 
 Finding a wonderful, yet pleasing, change 
 From country's stillness and from city's stir : 
 
 Then do our thoughts to things eternal range, 
 Then do we feel that God is evermore.
 
 46 SONNETS. 
 
 AN OCTOBER EVENING. 
 
 Night falls apace, and, in the rubied west, 
 Sol dons his crimson glories ; fiery red 
 The hills and heavens thitherward ; o'crhead 
 
 A leaden-colour'd sky, and on its breast 
 
 Three little clouds : the breezes are at rest, 
 And warblers of the woods : the only sound, 
 The falling of dead leaves upon the ground, 
 
 Like sorrow's sighs by mourner scarce suppress'd, 
 
 Or the field peewit's cry, as sinks the sun 
 'Neath the horizon — altogether soon 
 From mortal view, but not before the moon 
 
 Peeps shyly forth, pale as a half-veil'd nun : 
 So in Life's struggle, desolate and drear 
 
 I low e'er al times Man's lot, moon-like, will Hope appear.
 
 SONNETS. 47 
 
 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 Lovely thou vvert, yet, tho' the poet sings 
 " A thing of beauty is a joy for ever" — 
 And thou in beauty hadst a rival never, 
 
 Not ev'n thy Maries that, as ivy clings 
 
 To nobler oak, clung to thee— sorrow's springs 
 For thee flow'd ceaselessly ; in one endeavour 
 Vied man and Nature thy heart-ties to sever, 
 
 And let thee feel that Love, as Hate, has stings. 
 
 Preferr'd not Chastelar a death of shame 
 ' To life without thee ? — Did not Bothwell make 
 Himself a very devil for thy sake ? — 
 
 And went not Arran mad ? — Nor them we blame, 
 But pity rather. — Who on thee could gaze 
 And not be blinded by thy beauty's blaze?
 
 48 SONNETS. 
 
 "LOVE'S LABOUR LOST." 
 
 Of what avail are oaths when Love appears, 
 And from Dan Cupid's bow the fatal dart 
 With archer's aim is shot ? The stricken heart 
 
 O'erpowers the brain and fills the soul with fears ; 
 
 And, as a vessel when Destruction nears, 
 Determination wavers, tho' each art 
 Of Craft's evasive, soon as felt the smart, 
 
 Brought into play ! — tho' smiles are changed to tears. 
 
 So Ferdinand, and Biron, and Dumain, 
 And Longaville and Armado, altho' 
 
 A solemn oath ye one and all had ta'en 
 
 " Not to see ladies — study — fast — not sleep" 
 Till three short years had mingled in Time's flow, 
 
 What wonder none of yon till one your oath did keep ! 
 
 y
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 D
 
 " Vagrant melodies." 
 
 —Tennyson.
 
 MY BOOKS : AN EPISTOLARY FRAGMENT. 
 
 TO OLEESON WHITE. 
 
 My book-room is little, and poor are its treasures ; 
 All pleasures are brittle, and so are my pleasure'; : 
 But though J shall never be Beckford or Locker, 
 While Fate does not sever the door from the knocker. 
 No book shall tap vainly at latch or at lattice 
 (1/ costumed urbanely, and worth our care, thai is). 
 
 — Edmund W. Gosse. 
 
 My ambition is such 
 That I fain would describe, with a Dobsonesque touch, 
 
 My dearly-loved books — 
 Their sizes, their margins, their bindings, their looks ; 
 
 But, since that cannot be, 
 
 My Muse impels me 
 To rehearse e'en in doggerel what chiefly I prize, 
 Tho' few volumes are mine a rich connoisseur buys. 
 
 First and foremost, then, I most in Ballads delight 
 Sung at markets and fairs — such as Goldsmith .lid write 
 When a Trinity sizar in Dublin's gay city, 
 Where the boys arc so bold and the girls och ! so witty
 
 52 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The Ballads that tell how a murderer died 
 
 Confessing his fault when the gallows he spied ; 
 
 Or the troubles and cares that a lover befall 
 
 Ere the damsel he woos as his own he dares call ; 
 
 Or the woes of the wedded — their marital strife, 
 
 The wranglings and danglings of husband and wife. 
 
 And the older the Ballads the more I'm delighted, 
 
 Tho' they're "tattered and torn," still to them my love's 
 
 plighted ; 
 While, if they're adorn'd with a rude cut or two, 
 Why — the clouds disappear that obscure the sky's blue. 
 
 From Ballads to Ballades some dullards may deem 
 
 An impossible leap, and, at first, it does seem — 
 
 Save to athletes alone who in training are aye — 
 
 A feat that may not be perform'd every day ; 
 
 Vet from foolhardiness I'm so rarely exempt, 
 
 (Or my courage is such !) I here make the attempt. 
 
 Well, books that do Ballades contain, tho' they savour 
 
 Of French affectation, on my shelves now find favour ; 
 
 F r tho' a Iearn'd critic — what's his name, does it 
 
 matter ? — 
 With his vials of scorn and contempt did bespatter 
 All such "trials of skill," in the Athene nm s pages, 
 Their " blitheness," I'll warrant, his griefs oft assuages.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 53 
 
 But Ballads and Ballades do not comprehend 
 All the joys that the Muses in Book-form me send ; 
 So catholic my taste that in aught that pertains 
 To the fairy-like realms o'er which Fancy reigns 
 
 I get pleasure galore — 
 And what can a Book- worm like me hope for more ? 
 I own I desire— tho' aesthetic I know it's — 
 Editions de luxe of my favourite poets, 
 And poems prefer to peruse in the splendour 
 Of large paper copies, and think that more tender 
 The love-speeches are in a princeps edition — 
 As a beauty be-decked 's a more ravishing vision, 
 Despite what the dreamer, so fond of his bed, 
 In describing Lavinia so quotably said. 
 But alas and alack ! I have guineas so few, 
 And bairnies so many — bonnie bairnies, 'tis true, 
 Of gold worth their weight, (not a single grain less,) 
 But bairnies the same, that —but need I confess 
 That volumes expensive from my rows look not down, 
 Rather those you may purchase for less than a crown. 
 
 Yet at times in the air lordly castles I build, 
 From basement to garret with scarce volumes fill'd, 
 Where— in Art's highest style by the best masters bound- 
 Are " the books that can never be mine " by me found.
 
 54 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Still, one or two treasures, or what I judge such — 
 Tho' the reason, perchance, why I prize them so much 
 Applies but to myself — 'mongst my other books dwell, 
 Rare or early editions — of whom wherefore tell ? — 
 Well, of those to whom man in his anguish oft turns, 
 Of Hunt, Browning, Byron, Capern, Patmore, Burns. 
 
 Nor do poets alone constitute my " whole all " 
 Of the books I possess or that hold me in thrall ; 
 Lots of others are mine, but were I to endeavour 
 Half their kinds to depict I'd be taboo'd for ever : 
 Suffice it to say that my shelves the weight feel 
 Of the essays of Addison, Goldsmith, Lamb, Steele ; 
 And of many whom, tho' they once wrote with persistence, 
 Most mortals ignore as e'er having had existence. 
 But, in sooth, books that gentlemen's libraries may 
 Be without not unseldom my spirit most sway ; 
 Whilst of those they may not I'm not always a lover — 
 That they're books but in looks oftentimes I discover.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 55 
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 {Inscribed in an illustrated copy of Bennett's "Sweet 
 By -and- By.") 
 
 Tho' wedded, sweethearts we are still, 
 Bound to succeed in each endeavour ; 
 
 And, tho' 'a kind of heart disease,' 
 Love thrills us keenlier than ever, 
 
 And proves — as on the years do fly — 
 
 Sweeter and sweeter is its By-and-by. 
 
 11. 
 
 {Inscribed in an illustrated copy of Whittier's "Maud 
 
 MUller.") 
 
 Maud and the judge— unhappy twain — 
 What might have been long'd for in vain : 
 
 Not hers thy lot, my lot not his, — 
 We are contented with what is.
 
 56 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 THE UNHAPPY LITTLE MOUSE. 
 
 TO HERBERT, WINNIE, DORA, AND MAY. 
 
 Once Lhere was a little mouse 
 
 Built a tiny little house 
 In the corner of a tiny little cupboard, O ! 
 
 Vet the cupboard was not bare, 
 
 As was that, you'll be aware, 
 Which was owned once on a time by Mother Hubbard, O ! 
 
 There were lots of things in it 
 
 For a monarch mousey tit 
 To partake of at his breakfast or his dinner, O ! 
 
 Yet ere long it came to pass 
 
 That ihe little mouse, alas ! 
 As the days and weeks went by kept getting thinner, O ! 
 
 In the cupboard there were cakes, 
 Just like those mamma dear makes 
 
 On May's birthday, Winnie's, Dora's, or on brother's, O ! 
 There were tarts and pies as well, 
 And some cheese, so nice to smell, 
 
 Little mouse preferred its odour to all others, O !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 57 
 
 But, as I've already said, 
 
 Little mouse grew thin instead 
 Of increasing to the fulness of a brewer, O ! 
 
 Which at first may strange appear, 
 
 Tho', when you the reason hear, 
 You will own that ne'er effect to cause was truer, O ! 
 
 Little mouse from morn till night 
 
 Lived in flutter and in fright, 
 And its house dared rarely leave a single second, O ! 
 
 For the owners of the cupboard 
 
 Were accustomed things to up-hoard, 
 And the mouse well knew that it their foe was reckoned, O ! 
 
 Well it knew that if they could 
 
 Lay their hands on it they would, 
 And in cold blood murder it with pride and pleasure, O ! 
 
 So from morning until night 
 
 Little mouse in fear and fright 
 Passed away the hours which years did seem to measure, O ! 
 
 And from night to morn, likewise, 
 
 Mousey feared a sad surprise 
 From a creature whose bright eyes like diamonds glis- 
 tened, O ! 
 
 A fierce creature whose delight 
 
 Was to prowl about all night, 
 And for little mice till daybreak looked and listened, O !
 
 58 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 So, you see, the little mouse. 
 
 In its tiny little house, 
 In the corner of a tiny little cupboard, O ! 
 
 Had its trouble and its care, 
 
 Tho' the cupboard was not bare, 
 
 As was that, you'll be aware, 
 Which was owned once on a time by Mother Hubbard, O !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 59 
 
 MY MODEL YACHT. 
 
 LITTLE HERBERT loquitur : 
 
 I am growing quite a sailor, 
 
 So a vessel I have got, 
 Not, indeed, a great big whaler, 
 
 But a tiny model yacht. 
 
 I have christen 'd her The Viking, 
 Tho' that she's a queen you'll wot, 
 
 Yet for carnage little liking 
 Has my tiny model yacht. 
 
 I myself of her am captain — 
 Mate or boatswain has she not ; 
 
 And the steering I am apt in 
 Of my tiny model yacht.
 
 60 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Scudding fast before the breezes, 
 Oft it is my happy lot, 
 
 On the lake upon the Leazes 
 To behold my model yacht. 
 
 Yes, I'm growing quite a sailor, 
 
 So a vessel I have got, 
 And my comrades always hail her 
 
 As a model, model yacht.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 61 
 
 AN UN-yESTHETIC LOVE-SONG. 
 (With apologies to o. \v. ) 
 
 A barrel of beer and a glass of gin hot 
 
 Are goodly gifts for me ; 
 For my own true love a half-gallon pot 
 
 Fill'd to the brim with tea. 
 
 For thee a bloater from Yarmouth town 
 (Fresh, O fresh, is a fish of the sea !) ; 
 
 For me some beef, and, to wash it down, 
 A pint of porter (ah me ! ah me !). 
 
 Sherbet and zoedone for thee 
 
 (Teetotal drinks have taking names !) ; 
 A cup of claret and pink for me 
 
 (O ! men are stronger than dames !).
 
 62 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 With Christmas chime and pantomime, 
 December welcomes winter-time : 
 With ice and snow and mistletoe, 
 And cheeks that red as roses glow : 
 With romp and rout, within, without, 
 And merriment's light-hearted shout : 
 With frozen streams, where gladness beams, 
 And the keen air with laughter teems, — 
 And maidens glide o'er the still'd tide 
 With chosen champions by their side, 
 And — full of joy without alloy — 
 To Love's soft whispers listen coy. 
 
 Tho' cold winds blow and rack with woe 
 The heart of him whose purse is low, 
 Yet should he not bewail his lot — 
 Stern Fate for all has trials got, 
 Which rich and poor must both endure 
 Ere they eternal rest secure :
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 63 
 
 Moreo'er the bells whose music swells 
 Each breast with hope that nothing quells, 
 East, west, south, north, " Peace to the earth ; 
 And to mankind, goodwill," ring forth : 
 And he who knows nor fears nor woes 
 Of winter-time helps him who does. 
 
 Like spectres stand o'er all the land 
 Gaunt, leafless trees once green and grand ; 
 And birds now roam across the foam 
 That in their branches built their home : 
 And the gay flowers of sunny hours 
 Are only seen in hothouse bowers : 
 Vet why should we dejected be ? — 
 December comes with jollity ; 
 With goodly cheer dispels each fear 
 That Nature breeds when dull or drear ; 
 And all mankind in love doth bind — 
 In love that thrills heart, soul and mind.
 
 64 . MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 BUNGO'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 I have a black retriever clog, 
 
 A noble animal is he, 
 And to him I am much endeared — 
 As he to me. 
 
 I got him when he was a pup, 
 
 When scarce, indeed, a fortnight old 
 Now would I not exchange him for 
 His weight in gold. 
 
 I call him Bungo, which, you'll say, 
 Is a strange name ; well, so it is, 
 At least to you, but not to me — 
 For it is his. 
 
 His language, too, none understand 
 
 Save I, yet it is plain to me, 
 So marvel not at this, his true 
 Soliloquy : —
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 65 
 
 " Oh ! what a lucky dog I am, 
 
 Fed by a loving master's hand 
 Each day, upon the very best 
 Of the whole land. 
 
 "A house, moreo'er, all to myself, 
 
 The cosiest that you ever saw, 
 And filled, whene'er the nights are cold, 
 With nice warm straw. 
 
 " My master loves me, I am sure, 
 
 Such kindly words he speaks to me, 
 And, when out walking, lets me bear 
 Him company : 
 
 " Sometimes, too, lets me carry what, 
 I think, he calls his walking-stick ; 
 And he has taught me to perform 
 Full many a trick. 
 
 "And, in return, him I do love, 
 
 (For love doth ever love beget), 
 
 And always at his absence feel 
 
 Inclined to fret. 
 E
 
 66 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 " And so I would, but that I know 
 
 'Twould make me lean and haggard-eyed, 
 And that, I wot, to him would not 
 Give joy or pride. 
 
 " Yes, he does love me, I am sure, 
 And often pats me on the back, 
 So, day and night, to please him I 
 Must nothing lack. 
 
 " I'll guard his house when he's asleep, 
 
 And thieves to steal shall not break in ; 
 And, when he is awake, aye strive 
 His praise to win." 
 
 What else dear Bungo would have said 
 
 I am unable to report, 
 For, seeing me, he suddenly, 
 
 Like gran'da's clock, stopped short.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 67 
 
 HURRAH FOR THE SPRING. 
 
 Hurrah for the Spring, for the bountiful Spring, 
 
 To welcome whose coming the merry birds sing, 
 
 And twitter and chirp 'mid the blossoming trees ; 
 
 To greet whom the swallow re-crosses the seas 
 
 From lands where, till winter was over, it fled, 
 
 For the winds of the North fill its wee heart with dread : 
 
 A mere speck in the sky 
 
 Soars the glad lark on high, 
 And the thrush blithely pipes its sweet strains far and nigh : 
 Hurrah for the Spring, for the bountiful Spring, 
 To welcome whose coming the cuckoo doth sing. 
 
 Hurrah for the Spring, for the bountiful Spring, 
 That aye in its lap doth the fairest flowers bring : — 
 The daisy, of childhood the emblem and joy, 
 Bearing bliss and delight without guile or alloy ; 
 The primrose that shines like the brightest of gold 
 That the eye of a mortal did ever behold : 
 
 The daffodil, too, 
 
 With its soft yellow hue, 
 And the ladysmock white, and the violet blue : 
 Hurrah for the Spring, for the bountiful Spring, 
 That aye in its lap doth the celandine bring.
 
 68 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Hurrah for the Spring, for the bountiful Spring, 
 
 At whose advent the chattering rivulets fling 
 
 Airy hubbies about, so delighted are they 
 
 To resume to the ocean their musical way : 
 
 The bees, too, are humming their heartiest thanks 
 
 For the beautiful, bright honey-stores on their banks ; 
 
 And in lake and in mere, 
 
 With their waters so clear, 
 That the fishes are pleased doth most plainly appear : 
 Hurrah for the Spring, for the bountiful Spring, 
 At whose advent the bees and the brooks hum and sing. 
 
 Hurrah for the Spring, for the bountiful Spring, 
 That with pleasure is hailed by both beggar and king ; 
 For it scatters its blessings all over the land, 
 With prodigal, love-giving, open-palm'd hand : 
 By rich and by poor, and by old and by young, 
 Its praises are ever ecstatically sung, 
 
 For the blood fast doth flow, 
 
 And the palest cheeks glow, 
 When the end is proclaimed of the season of snow : 
 Hurrah for the Spring, for the bountiful Spring, 
 That hath blessings for beggar as well as for king.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 69 
 
 A BEGGAR BOY'S APPEAL. 
 
 My parents died when I was young, 
 When but a simple child ; 
 
 And not a single soul since then 
 Has e'er upon me smiled. 
 
 My only jacket is in rags, 
 So long has it been worn ; 
 
 My waistcoat is too big for me, 
 My trousers are all torn. 
 
 No cap have I upon my head, 
 
 No shoes upon my feet ; 
 So I must beg the livelong day, 
 
 In wind, and rain, and sleet. 
 
 Sometimes I get a penny-piece, 
 Sometimes a crust of bread ; 
 
 Yet oh ! sometimes I do so wish 
 That I may soon be dead.
 
 7 o MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 To steal sometimes I'm tempted sore, 
 
 But that I'll never do; 
 So I must beg the livelong day 
 
 Of Christian and of Jew. 
 
 Far sooner would I work than beg, 
 If work I could but get ; 
 
 But no ! because I'm not well dress'd 
 The dog is at me set. 
 
 If none will give me work to do 
 To earn my daily bread, 
 
 Then must I beg, from day to day, 
 Or droop, in death, my head. 
 
 But will no person give me work ? — 
 For I would work with joy : 
 
 It is not alms I ask, but work — 
 Work for a beggar-boy.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 71 
 
 HARVEST-TIME. 
 
 Autumn tints appear 
 On the falling leaves ; 
 
 Harvest-time is here 
 
 With its golden sheaves. 
 
 Laughter loud and long 
 On the air is borne ; 
 
 Willing hands and strong 
 Toil amid the corn. 
 
 Fast the yellow stooks 
 Into stacks are made : 
 
 O ! the joyful looks 
 
 On each face display'd I 
 
 All mankind is glad, 
 
 Tho' the days grow drear ; 
 How can hearts feel sad ? — 
 
 Harvest-time is here. 
 
 Yet into each soul 
 
 May this truth sink deep :- 
 Till the seed is sown 
 
 None the grain can reap (
 
 72 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 "THE ROWFANT BOOKS." 
 
 TO FREDERICK LOCKER-LAM PSON. 
 
 The Rowfant Books, — let statesmen brawl 
 
 For office, priests for bishops' crooks — 
 I'd sooner shelve against my wall 
 
 The Rowfant Books.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 73 
 
 A NEW NEWCASSEL SANG. 
 
 Is doon th' street th' tuthor neet 
 
 Aw happint ti be wawkin', 
 Aw owortyeuk two Tyneside cheps, 
 
 An' loodly they war tawkin' : 
 Syed yen, "An' hev ye hard th' news?"— 
 
 " What news?" his myet cried, lurnin' ; 
 " Whei ! Joe Crawhall is hard it wark 
 
 Newcassel sangs adornin'. 
 
 Fal de lal, etc. 
 
 " Aw's warn'd ye knaw his bits i' byeuks, 
 
 His Chaplets an' his Garlands ; 
 Thor fyemus for thor bonny lyeuks 
 
 In forrin, e'en, an' far lands : 
 Th' funny cuts in them he puts, 
 
 Han' cullor'd, tee, myest all, man, 
 Myek monny foak wi' lafter choak — 
 
 A morderer is Crawhall, man. 
 Fal de lal, etc. 
 
 " But his new byeuk when it cums oot 
 Will beat them all aw'm sartin, —
 
 74 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Th' subject's yen wivvoot a doot 
 Thit he has his hyel hart in : 
 
 Awd Cappy in his canine glee 
 'Hint Ralphy toonward trottin' 
 
 Will greet yor site an' ye delite, 
 But — what will thor be not in ? 
 Fal de lal, etc. 
 
 "Th' dog, tee, that bit Markie Dunn 
 
 Itsel' ye'll see disportin'; 
 An' Lizzie Mudie's ghost hoo-hoo'n ; 
 
 An' Lukie Bessie cortin ; 
 Th' Keelmin gannin' ti th' church, 
 
 Whese myestor wis relidgis, 
 Ti pass off for a godly man 
 
 In hopes i' higher wages." 
 
 Fal de lal, etc. 
 
 Just then St. Nick bigan ti strike, 
 
 An' tell th' time iv eevin, 
 In tones see shrill they myed me ill, 
 
 An' me did fairly deevin : 
 Aw hard nowt mair th' speaker syed, 
 
 But ti' mesel' did sweer, sors, 
 Joe's byeuk ti' buy— th' price tho' high- 
 
 Syeun is it dis ippeer, sors. 
 
 Fal de lal, etc.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 75 
 
 LIFE'S YEAR. 
 
 SPRING. 
 Children at play, 
 Merry and gay ; 
 Knowing not sorrow, 
 Nor fearing the morrow. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 Slaves of I >an Cupid ! 
 Dreadfully stupid 
 In worldly affairs — 
 Scorning Life's cares. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Husband and wife ! 
 Settled for life ; 
 Seeing old graces 
 In new forms and faces. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 Children once more ! 
 Life's struggles o'er : 
 Gloating in stealth 
 O'er hoarded wealth.
 
 76 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 MAMMA, IT IS RAINING AGAIN. 
 
 " Mamma, it is raining again, 
 And I in the house must remain ; 
 Oh ! this is the fourth or fifth day 
 That I have been robb'd of my play." 
 
 " Yet weep not, my dear little boy, 
 All happiness has some alloy, 
 All pleasure is season'd with pain, 
 And, remember, 'tis God sends the rain." 
 
 "But, mamma dear, you know when it rains 
 What sorrow my bosom sustains ; 
 You know how I love the fresh air — 
 Ah me ! I do wish it were fair." 
 
 " Be patient, my dear little boy, 
 The best of good health you enjoy, 
 And, tho' within doors you must stay — 
 'Tis only until a fine day.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 77 
 
 " Now, there^is your poor cousin Jim, 
 So feeble and weak in each limb, 
 That e'en when the rain is away 
 He's not able to go out and play. 
 
 " Yet ne'er he his lot does bemoan, 
 Then why should my little boy groan, 
 And grumble because of the rain?" — 
 " Mamma, I won't do so again."
 
 7 8 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 RONDEAU. 
 
 TO AARON WATSON. 
 
 Thro' lust of gold we blithely brave 
 The secret terrors of the grave — 
 Face dangers fearlessly : — nor flee 
 The cannon's mouth, the stormy sea, 
 The gloom of mine or pit or cave. 
 
 Yet oft as meanly we behave — 
 
 Inanely — nay, insanely— rave ; 
 
 Shun manhood in servility — 
 
 Thro' lust of gold. 
 
 Alas ! that we should so deprave 
 The nature that our Maker gave, 
 
 And in His house, e'en, bend the knee 
 
 Unto the idol £ s d : 
 Ah me ! how many a man's a knave 
 Thro' lust of gold.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 79 
 
 MARY. 
 
 She dwelt among the trodden ways 
 
 Of London's famous city, 
 A maid, whom poets used to praise 
 
 In many a doleful ditty. 
 
 Her bosom, as the lily white, 
 
 Half visible to the eye ! 
 Her cheeks, as when the sun at night 
 
 Is sinking in the sky ! 
 
 She lived much loved, yet did few know- 
 When Mary would be married ; 
 
 But she is now a wife, and, oh ! 
 The hearts this fact has harried !
 
 8o MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 THE LEARNED YOUNG MISS. 
 
 There once was a learned young miss 
 
 Who found far more unalloy'd bliss 
 In simple division, 
 And compound addition, 
 
 Than ever she did in a kiss, 
 In a kiss, 
 
 Than ever she did in a kiss. 
 
 From morning till night she would pore 
 
 O'er her books till she scarcely could stir, 
 And her eyes were as red 
 As the hair on her head, 
 
 And her brains were bemuddled and sore, 
 'Died and sore, 
 
 And her brains were bemuddled and sore. 
 
 She never went out for to play, 
 
 But sat at her tasks all the day, 
 So, altho' she was clever, 
 She was lank and lean ever, 
 
 And gradually wasted away, 
 'Sted away, 
 
 And gradually wasted away.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 81 
 
 Her friends used to tell her 'twas wrong 
 For people to study so long 
 
 Without exercise, 
 
 And their health to despise, 
 That they might be praised men among, 
 
 Men among, 
 That they might be praised men among. 
 
 But she only replied with a grin, 
 And to study again would begin, 
 
 Till, alas ! one sad night 
 
 She vanish'd from sight — 
 She became so exceedingly thin, 
 
 'Dingly thin, 
 She became so exceedingly thin. 
 
 And from that date to this she has ne'er 
 By mortal been seen anywhere ! — 
 
 A warning to all 
 
 Who contemn bat and ball 
 As need ml in this world of care, 
 
 World of care, 
 As needful in this world of care.
 
 82 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 JOHN JONES, AUTOGRAPH COLLECTOR: 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 John Jones collected autographs, 
 
 And, as a man who strong ale quaffs 
 
 Finds that his thirst the more increases 
 
 The more he quaffs — at last ne'er ceases ; 
 
 Or, as one of the Heber kind, 
 
 To bibliophilic tastes inclined, 
 
 Who the more volumes he possesses 
 
 His craving for them ne'er knows less is — 
 
 Buying and buying till, indeed, 
 
 He has not leisure them to read ; 
 
 So Jones in tireless endeavour 
 
 His hobby vvhipp'd and spurr'd, nor ever 
 
 Grew weary of the chase exciting 
 
 After distinguish'd folk's handwriting. 
 
 In shops where butlerine was sold 
 
 His friends did often him behold ; 
 
 And in the wnrk-rooms of men who 

 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 83 
 
 Trunks for a living made ; — a few 
 Had even seen him in disguise 
 Searching, with keen, expectant eyes, 
 The refuse boxes at the doors 
 Of merchants and solicitors. 
 A letter was what most he prized, 
 And many were his schemes, devised 
 To win one to himself addressed ; 
 And — if the truth must be confess'd, 
 And shamed he whose abode is Hades— 
 The victor's meed he ofttimes made his. 
 To politicians he would write, 
 Beseeching them for " light— more light" 
 Upon some burning question they 
 Had been elucidating — say, 
 Home Rule for Erin's hapless land ; 
 Or, Compensation to the band 
 Of Bonifaces who had made 
 Enormous fortunes in a trade 
 Teetotallers affirm the Devil's, 
 And cause of more than half Earth's evils. 
 To poets, too, in hopes of gleaning 
 Some hidden or uncertain meaning, 
 He wrote in polish'd, well-turn'd phrases, 
 And — as so frequently the case is
 
 \ 
 
 84 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 When Flattery's tongue is set a-wagging — 
 
 And it there's seldom any gagging — 
 
 Unanswered rarely were his queries, 
 
 E'en tho' of them he ask'd a series. 
 
 To artists for their terms he sent, 
 
 Assuming it was his intent 
 
 To have his portrait ta'en, if he 
 
 Was rich enough to spare their fee, 
 
 Hut hinting, in a casual way, 
 
 He could their highest prices pay. 
 
 To thieves and vagabonds of note, 
 
 In hopes of a reply, he wrote : 
 
 To pugilists, who — as for fun — 
 
 Fought battles neither lost nor won : 
 
 To murderers, e'en, whose brutal crimes, 
 
 Lessening the dulness of the times, 
 
 Were welcomed by a blase nation 
 
 As themes for general conversation. — 
 
 Naught came amiss to Jones's net, 
 
 He reckoned fish all he could get. 
 
 One class of autographs, howe'er, 
 
 He had no liking for ; yet dare 
 
 lie scarce refuse them when they came, 
 
 Tho' they that penn'd them had small fame 
 
 These were the bills and dunning letters
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 85 
 
 That tradesmen dedicate to debtors. 
 Of them Jones had a goodly store 
 That, as the months went by, grew more 
 And more in bulk ; for tho' he'd pay 
 For what he fancied in the way 
 Of autographs, nor rue the cost, 
 His soul in them being so engross'd, 
 Vet when it came to meaner matters 
 With cobblers, tailors, hosiers, hatters, 
 He postponed payment till a day 
 That in the distant Future lay.— 
 But he is dead — Peace to his ashes ! 
 For when he died, tho' little cash his, 
 To clear his debts sufficed the gold 
 For which his autographs were sold.
 
 L'ENVOI. 
 
 A BALLADE OF ENFORCED IMPECCABILITY. 
 
 When tlie Corinthians heard tluit Philip was going to attack them 
 
 . , they fell to work, . . . every one lending a hand ; but 
 
 Diogenes observing this, and having nothing to do (for NOBODY 
 
 employed him), fell a-rolling his tub up and down the Cranium.— 
 
 Lucian. 
 
 To you, DEAR sir, at your request, 
 Some half-a-score of lines addressed 
 For ENVOY, I had planned to write, 
 When lo! my Lucian that same night 
 Warned me of such a dire offence 
 To ' newest journalism's' sense. 
 Yet since Diogenes was seen 
 In equal straits, and though it's mean 
 To take advantage of a Greek, 
 Behind his tub, I refuge seek — 
 Willing to praise, but nobody 
 Wants of my praise — so poor I be.
 
 VENVOI. 87 
 
 Though I should laud you to the skies 
 
 Not one more churl your volume buys ; 
 
 While if I damned, as critics do, 
 
 'Twould hurt not you — 'tzcould NOT hurt you. 
 
 I. 
 
 To roll (heir logs would please me well, 
 
 Bu( (hen alack ! (hey won't roll mine . 
 1 Spectator ,' ' Saturday, ' l Pall Mali; 
 
 Print of my work no single line ; 
 
 No one invites me out to dine, 
 Or even ' slates ' me, — there's the rub ; 
 
 No tapers burn before my shrine : — 
 They roll their logs — Til roll my tub ! 
 
 II. 
 
 If but their bribes I could repel 
 With virtue brave, if superfine, 
 
 Or if my books would only sell, 
 
 Then might I fit with their design : 
 But no one makes the faintest sign, 
 
 Me, and my books, alike they snub — 
 No flatteries can I decline — 
 
 They roll their logs — I'll roll my tub ! !
 
 88 V ENVOI. 
 
 in. 
 
 Yet in no solitary cell, 
 
 Meek, hermit-like, will I repine ; 
 Since by myself I needs must dwell, 
 
 The lean shall slang the fatter kine, 
 
 And sneer at what they all combine 
 To praise in esoteric club. 
 
 Across their walnuts and their wine 
 They roll their logs.- — Til roll my tub!!! 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Virtue, impeccable, divine, 
 
 Behold in nie ! The rest I dub 
 Log-rolling scribblers — so I shine — 
 
 They roll their logs — Til roll my tub. 
 
 — G. w. 
 
 T II F END. 
 
 DERBY AND NOTTINGHAM I FRANK MIRKAY.
 
 By the same author : uniform with the present volume. 
 
 TO BE PUBLISHED NEXT YEAR. 
 
 JOLTS AND JINGLES 
 
 A BOOK OF POEMS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE 
 
 BV 
 
 THOMAS HUTCHINSON 
 
 Author of "Ballades of a Country Bookworm." 
 
 The Edition will be entirely on Hand-made Paper, and will be 
 
 limited to 
 
 1 20 Copies in Foolscap 8vo., and 
 
 50 Copies, Large Paper, in Demy 8vo., 
 
 NUMBERED AND SIGNED. 
 
 About 80 pp., elegantly printed, and bound in limp parchment. 
 
 Subscribers' Nantes should be sent at once to the Publishers. 
 
 Price (in advance), 3/- ; Large Paper, 6/-. 
 
 On the day of publication the price will be raised to 4/6 and ir- 
 respectively. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 STANESBY & CO., 179, SLOANE STREET, S.W. 
 
 (Formerly Murray & Stanesby). 
 
 DERBY AND NOTTINGHAM: 
 FRANK MURRAY.
 
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