PKbUU!) gl8K17 The A A^ c/^ ^ ^ ■•^^ — 1 r\ ^— ^^mm nn U = = 33 U ^ = 3D H = = ^ 4 = = 1 = r 3 m =^= D> 1 = ss ss-' 9 UBRARt UNIVD^ITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE Ex Libris ISAAC FOOT yC^l// y / UiZ7^^ /^^ \ THE KESTREL S NEST AND OTHER VERSES THE KESTRELS NEST AND OTHER VERSES BY ALFRED COCHRANE dW dirav KaKbv ARISTOPHANES ACHARNIANS LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. AND NEW YORK : I 5 EAST i6tH ST. 1894 [All rig/its reserved] y Lirf Edinburgh : T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty D EDICA T ION TO L. N. AND E. N. My critics, in the early times When first I bored you with the rhymes. Which now my timid Muse outpours Before less gentle eyes than yours, Be pleased for our old friendship' s sake This little book of verse to take. To call to mind our firelight talks, Lawn arguments and woodland watks, When the fresh winds of Whitsuntide Sang through the fern on Simonside, Or when the autumn leaves were few And withered in the avenue. For, since I know you can endure The music of the Amateur, My songs, whate'er they may expect From others of deserved neglect, Take comfort in the hope to find. Your verdict now, as always, kind. January 1894. PREFACE The majority of these verses have already beeu published in the >S'^ James's Gazette, the Pall Mall Gazette, Vanity Fair, the Spectator, the Theatre, Baily's Magazine, Golf, the Cricket Field, Temple Bur, and Pastime. I am very grateful to the editors of these newspapers and magazines for their kindness in giving me permission to reprint them. A. C. CONTENTS THE KESTREL S NEST .... MY FAIR FRIENDS ..... OMNIA VINCIT ..... MY SIREN ...... BALLADE OF THE AFFRIGHTED BACHELOR UPON LESBIA ARGUING .... THE lover's lament .... TO anth^a, who may command him anything THE BALLADE OF ' YOURS SINCERELY ' BALLADE OF THE PHILISTINE . TO MY PARTNER ..... FROST-BOUND ..... THE BALLADE OF MODERATE CIRCULATION THE WALTZ ...... A BURNT child's COUNSEL THE GREAT QUESTION .... THE MISCHIEF-MAKING KETTLE I 3 5 7 9 II 13 15 17 19 21 23 25 27 29 31 34 Vlll CONTENTS PAGE TO MISS KITTY STEYNE ..... 37 TO MISS PEGGY ...... 38 ENGLAND, PAST AND PRESENT ... 43 THE novice's REMONSTRANCE AT GOLF . . 45 BALLADE OF THE CORNER STROKE ... 47 BALLADE OP THE SCHOOLBOY SQUIRE . . 49 THE LAMENT OF AFFARIC . . . . 5I PHILOSOPHY OP THE SUMMER • • • • 53 highwayman's BALLADE OP THE TURNPIKE . 57 A STREAKY STOIC . . . . . -59 TEMPORIS ACTI . . . . . . 6I TO A. J. WEBBE ...... 64 BALLADE OF THE RECTORY ROSES ... 66 THE referee's WHISTLE .... 68 THE BALLADE OF CLASSICAL MUSIC . . . JO TO MISS JANE AUSTEN ..... 72 THE BALLADE OF HOMECOMING ... 74 9 .: THE KESTREL'S NEST May 24, 1893 High in the rocks above the burn, The rocks that hft a dusky crest, From depths of meadowsweet and fern We found the Kestrel's Nest. A rugged home, whence nesthngs three. Fierce httle balls of fluffy grey. Forth from their crevice peered to see The woods and fields of May. It was a nari'ow house to hold. Prisoned against their chafing will. These pirates of the windy wold, With lightning stoop and kill. In autumns when yon fields shall lie Far, far beneath Avide wings that beat, Poised in the dun September sky, O'er leagues of sallow wheat. £.-^cn».\K. JoO.XX?<\X- 26. 2 THE kestrel's NEST Well may the challenge come to mind In long-forgotten centui'ies set. To which our vaunted age can find No human answer yet. Hear it anew, thou witless wretch, With all thy wisdom, doth thy mouth Bid yonder callow tiercel stretch His wings towards the South ? MY FAIR FRIENDS (carefully selected) I HAVE a friend — a beauteous friend, Sweet as the flowers in May ; I love to stare at her dark hair And eyes of honest grey. Spellbound I blink and cannot think Of anything to say. I have a friend — a cultured friend, Who fathoms Browning's mode. To whom I sing my newest thing In villanelle or ode. Who likes my prints and mezzotints, My quartos and my Spode. I have a friend — a waltzing friend, With figure trim and neat. Whom by some chance from dance to dance I never seem to meet ; Yet at a ball, before them all, She has me at her feet. MY FAIR FRIENDS I have a friend — a tennis friend ; We challenge all who come ; Her forehand smash is full of dash. She makes the service hum ; Her strokes divine, down the side line. Leave me amazed and dumb. Stormed with such various charms, my heart Is sore beset to choose ; If one but smile, it throbs awhile ; The voice of one subdues ; To one it jumps in dancing-pumps, To one in tennis-shoes. Each in her element, I fear. Will ever me enthrall While I love books and comely looks. The tournament and ball ; My heart will burn for each in turn, And will adore them all. OMNIA VINCIT Long from the lists of love I stood aloof. My heart was steeled and I was beauty-proof; Yet I, unscathed in many a peril past, Lo ! here am I defeated at the last. My practice was, in easy-chair reclined, Superior-wise to speak of womankind. Waving away the worn-out creed of love To join the smoke that wreathed itself above. Love, I said in my wisdom, Love is dead. For all his fabled triumphs — and instead We find a calm affectionate respect. Doled forth by Intellect to Intellect. Yet when Love, taking vengeance, smote me sore, My Siren called me from no classic shore ; It was no Girton trumpet that laid low The walls of this Platonic Jericho. OMNIA VINCIT For when my peace of mind at length was stole, I thought no whit of Intellect or Soul^ Nay ! I was cast in pitiful distress By brown eyes wide with truth and tenderness. i MY SIREN All unadorned and unarrayed^ On seaweed or on stones. Old Homer's Sirens sang and played No doubt in homely tones ; And yet that classic esplanade Was white with sailors' bones. My Siren tells her tuneful tale, In lampht drawing-rooms ; Where, amid plush and Chippendale, The glossy Broadwood looms. Beyond the lilies and the pale Cloud of azalea blooms. My fascinated eyes are bent Upon her as she sings ; I nurse a dangerous sentiment. Which worships beauteous things, Bred of that exquisite content, Which only dinner brings. MY SIREN At her white throat the diamonds dart Their many twinkhng fire, Worth decks her with his matchless art, In daintiest attire. And Wagner's mighty brain and heart, Her melody inspire. Ah me ! we Greeks of latter years, In equal peril cast. Where even the staunchest comrade fears That he will yield at last, Find none to seal with wax our ears. Or bind us to the mast. BALLADE OF THE AFFRIGHTED BACHELOR ' PROXIMUS ARUET UCALEGON ' What ! Jack engaged ? That is a feat ; And has our arrant foe. Young Cupid, in our very street Thus dared to bend his bow ? I scarcely have the nerve, you know, This seltzer to unwire, It really is a startling blow, Ucalegon's a-fire. A week since, in yon wicker seat. Whence cynic maxims flow. He sat, and hobwards thrust his feet, A slippered Romeo. The honeydew's romantic glow Was in his cherished brier ; How are the mighty ! — breathe it low- Ucalegon 's a-fire. 10 BALLADE OF THE AFFRIGHTED UACHELOR But worse, the sparks with ruddy heat Leap, flashing to and fro, And httle visions, incomplete, For half a second show : Of eyes so brown and sweet, I trow. They tempt the shyest squire. Who will not be forewarned, although Ucalegon 's a-fire. Envoy Friend, pass the matches, and forego Dreams, clad in this attire. Which, like smoke-rings, will larger grow, Ucalegon 's a-fire. 11 UPON LESBI A— ARGUING Mv Lesbia, 1 will not deny, Bewitches me completely ; She has the usual beaming eye, And smiles upon me sweetly : But she has an unseemly way Of contradicting what I say. And, though I am her closest friend. And find her fascinating, I cannot cordially commend Her method of debating : Her logic, though she is divine. Is singularly feminine. Her reasoning is full of tricks. And butterfly suggestions, I know no point to which she sticks. She begs the simplest questions ; And, when her premisses are strong. She always draws her inference wrong. 12 UPON LESBIA ARGUING Broad, liberal views on men and things She will not hear a word of ; To prove herself correct she brings Some instance she has heard of; The argument ad hominem Appears her favourite stratagem. Old Socrates, with sage replies To questions put to suit him, Would not, I think, have looked so wise With Lesbia to confute him ; He would more probably have bade Xantippe hasten to his aid. Ah J well, my fair philosopher. With clear brown eyes that glisten So sweetly, that I much prefer To look at them than listen. Preach me your sermon : have your way. The voice is yours, whate'er you say. 13 THE LOVER'S LAMENT The gallant swains of long ago Would greatly do and dare. But now the Brave can never show That they deserve the Fair ; I 'd prove myself a doughty knight. If there were any one to fight. I have no bolts and bars to burst, To slay no gaoler grim, No hundred-headed snake to worst, No Hellespont to swim : Tasks such as these, in this my grief. Would be a positive relief. Her sire, who should be fierce and rude, Should clank his spurs, and cry Curses on all who dare intrude, And for his offspring sigh. Is quite the mildest man between The Marble Arch and Bethnal-green. 14 THE LOVER S LAMENT He has no spurs : he never swears. Is neither dour nor strong, But better versed in stocks and shares Than in Arthurian song, And does not seem himself to fling Into the spirit of the thing. He never asks of me to flaunt Her sleeve upon my targe, But calls my tastes extravagant, And assets far from large ; Forgetting that such things were not Said to Geraint and Lancelot. The sands of chivalry are run. The times are out of joint. No bride can gloriously be won At an umbrella-point : Your modern paladin must face The lances of the Commonplace. 15 TO ANTH^A, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING (new style) Am I sincere ? I say I dote On everything that Browning wrote ; I know some bits by heart to quote : But then She reads him. I say — and is it strictly true ? — How I admire her cockatoo ; Well ! in a way of coui-se I do : But then She feeds him. And I become, at her command. The sternest Tory in the land ; The Grand Old Man is far from srand But then She states it. Nay ! worse than that, I am so tame, I once admitted — to my shame — That football was a brutal game : Because She hates it. l5 TO ANTHjEA My taste in Art she hailed with groans, And I, once charmed with bolder tones, Now love the yellows of Burne-Jones : But, then. She likes them. My tuneful soul no longer hoards Stray jewels from the Empire boards; I revel now in Dvorak's chords : But then She strikes them. Our age distinctly cramps a knight ; Yet, though debarred from tilt and fight, I can admit that black is white. If She asserts it. Heroes of old were luckier men Than I— I venture now and then To hint— retracting meekly when She controverts it. ^1 17 THE BALLADE OF 'YOURS SINCERELY ' Decorum holds us in her net, Close friends in word and deed, Who oft in full accord have met, Or laughed and disagreed. So to the cold and chilling creed Our letters bow austerely ; I am ' hers truly,' and I read That she is 'mine sincerely.' That she is mine is something, yet I would it were decreed That some less distant epithet Might end her dainty screed. Stiffly correct, it checks the steed Which else might gallop queerly; He reaches no romantic speed While she is 'mine sincerely.' Our friendly terms in writing set Follow a prosy lead. Still pay stolidity a debt. And chains of caution need. 18 THE BALLADE OF 'YOURS SINCERELY* Strephon, too shy his suit to plead, An idyll sings severely ; While Chloe pipes upon her reed That she is ' his sincerely,' Envoy. We of such nonsense take no heed, For ours is friendship merely ; What else can you expect, indeed, While she is ' mine sincerely ' ? 1.9 BALLADE OF THE PHILISTINE 'To be your Valentine.' — a. lang Now let a lance be set in rest Against the cultured few, For who should say which knight were best. If none the gauntlet threw. The swordsman's blade, of temper true. Disdains to prune the vine. And rusts without a helm to hew, I '11 be your Philistine. The dove who lights with ruffled breast On sunny tiles to woo, May find his heart's desire expressed In her consenting coo ; Yet withered flowers of converse strew Agreement's barren shrine, I '11 sprinkle them with Vandal dew And be your Philistine. My sun of Art, below the West Is sinking out of view, I leave these islands of the Blest, These skies of peacock blue ; 20 BALLADE OF THE PHILISTINE And did the whole exotic crew To fetter me combine, I 'd burst their chains of lihes through To be your Philistine. Envoy. Princess, the triumph is to you, Defeat is always mine, Yet from the dust I rise anew To be your Philistine. 21 TO MY PARTNER (with many apologies) The polka surged into my brain, I clasped you tightly, while To its intoxicating strain We pranced in gallant style : I was adoring you, although I failed to catch your name. And was about to whisper low Of love — when down we came. I say we came, if truth be told I stood alone erect. For at the crash my loving hold Became more circumspect ; Some lady's train was round your heel. We staggered to and fro. Till, unprepared to dance a reel, I gently let you go. Spilt milk, they say, and partners spilt. Need not the futile tear. So, pray, absolve me of my guilt And lend a pardoning ear, 22 TO MY PARTNER While I disclose the contrast neat, Which one may here divine. In fancy I was at your feet. In fact you were at mine. 23 FROST-BOUND The chafing Nimrod reads the Field, Beside his billiard-table, Or taps the glass that will not yield. Or smokes about the stable. I wander to the lake — and there What mixed emotions rack me. Stirred by a vision of bright hair. Grey furs, and gleaming Acme ! Upon the bank I stand and see My Phyllis having races With sundry fools, who, unlike me. Can stand in slippery places. There is the grape-vine neatly done. The Mohawk cut with vigour. While I on skates can cut but one. And that a sorry, figure. 24 FROST-BOUND You devotees of horn and hound Who curse these days of leisure^ Pity a kiekless wight, frost-bound From quite a different pleasure. 25 THE BALLADE OF MODERATE CIRCULATION Although no wreath or lam*el crown Is round my classic brows entwined, Although I do not flood the town, Morocco-bound and silken-lined : One listener I can always find. One listener patient and sedate. My public, though select, is kind, I am my lady's laureate. I carol that her eyes are brown, That she is pensively inclined, I sing her every smile and frown. Her schemes accomplished and designed And where we walked or where we dined. Or what we settled in debate. Are in my flowing verse enshrined, I am my lady's laureate. And since her judgment sets me down As Keats and Tennyson combined, I care the less that my renown Is to her drawing-room confined : 26 THE BALLADE OF MODERATE CIRCULATION For still, although with thanks declined My works are buffeted by fate, Though cruel editors are blind, I am my lady's laureate. Envoy O minor bards, ye see me wind Up the ascent with feeble gait Laying this solace to my mind, I am my lady's laiu-eate. 27 THE WALTZ (by one who can not do it) Those troubadours who still the praise rehearse Of waltzing, calling it by turns divine. Ecstatic, heavenly, do not in their verse Allude, I fear, to mine. Indeed I doubt if the same dancing-room Could hold their dreamy bliss and mine beside. To judge from those unnumbered hosts, with whom I usually collide. The big-moustached dragoon of cheap romance, Who to the fluttering heroine softly croons Love whispers, does he never in the dance Bump against more dragoons ? They always float, as in a fairy bark. Wafted by zephyrs on a magic mere. Though they would qualify that sweet remark, If I were wafted near. 28 THE WALTZ Their rhythmic gliding, locked in a caress, All else forgot, the mazy concourse through, Would, I am conscious, suffer more or less If I were gliding too. Terpsichore denied to me the art Of winning my fair lady thus, I doubt, I have to do the storming of her heart When we are sitting out. 1 29 A BURNT CHILD'S COUNSEL ' VESTIGIA NULLA RETRORSUM ' Yes, I have seen it all along How deeply you adoie her : You are the last to swell the song. Sung by that hopeful, hopeless throng, Who think that she can do no wrong. And bow themselves before her. Of course, like every one who plays This kind of dazzled fool, You can judiciously appraise Her smiles, her wiles, her tricks and ways, Your head, although your heart 's ablaze, Is absolutely cool. Besides you make, we all admit. A handsome lord-in-waiting. And so that scoundrel Cupid's wit Embroiders for your benefit A picture of the biter bit. Distinctly captivating. 1 30 A BURNT child's COUNSEL Yet your delusion is absurd. She does not care a fig ; No more than Circe, when she stirred Among her grunting, grovelling herd, And smiled upon them all, pi'eferred At heart some special pig. Look ! are not all the footprints plain J All pointing the same way ? No, all my warnings are in vain. You will not fear your fate and deign To learn from this Egyptian slain As late as yesterday. Well, Luck be with you, squire of dames. And help to heal your scars ! When these are unattractive games Moths will despise the candle flames, And flies be proof against the claims Of casual treacle jars. 31 THE GREAT QUESTION (by an innocent baciielok) Assist me in my lonely chair. Who pufF the fragrant cloud in air, And ask suggestions. How I shall put what people call The most momentous one of all Momentous questions. In my devotion's earhest flush, Without a qualm, without a blush, I thought with ardour Of this fulfilment of my dreams ; But now, alas ! the problem seems A great deal harder. Novels are useless : heroes there Receive assistance far from fair, I notice lately ; Their lady always starts and sighs. Or tell-tale tears are in her eyes. Which help them greatly. 32 THE GREAT QUESTION Mine gives no help : to books and plays She measures out judicious praise Or cultured strictures ; I follow blindly where she leads^ In criticising Swinburne's screeds And Whistler's pictures. I wish to pass from Gladstone's sins, Fi'om ' Dodo ' and ' The Heavenly Twins,' From Ibsen's pages. And our discussion gently turn So that she may my secret learn By easy stages. Our chatter dallies to and fro, Now how on earth is it to grow More confidential } And when ought I to seize her hand } — A detail which I understand To be essential. Is it a feature of the part To press a hand upon the heart And mention Cupid ? In days as commonplace as these Ought I to sink upon my knees, Or is this stupid ? THE GREAT QUESTION 33 One slender hope still comforts me, I babble of my griefs where she Perhaps may note them : She may in her Pall Mall admire These musings of a lovelorn squire, And guess who wrote them. 34 THE MISCHIEF-MAKING KETTLE You picture it : an eight-day clock The tale of hours repeating, And grandsire chuckling in his stock To think of Boney's beating ; The flash of fire on oaken beam, And scarlet-cushioned settle, While on the hob a jet of steam Hissed softly from the kettle. The thoughtless yeomen sowed and reaped. Or grumbled at the season. While, with a lid that bounced and leaped. The kettle hatched its treason ; Keeping their punch and negus hot. Whene'er they made a night of it ; Until a Greenock lad, called Watt, By evil chance caught sight of it. Then, though some great thought nearly gainedy His eager eye was troubling. The kettle, like a fool, maintained A conscientious bubbling ; i \ THE MISCHIEF-MAKING KETTLE And, piping through a cheery spout, Its too suggestive ditty. With sundry spurts and puiFs let out The secret, — more 's the pity ! What next ? The steam-jet shrieked aloud, And never craving pardon, Blew through the open door a cloud Across the quiet garden ; It drave this hideous noise and din. Where sunny brooks were gleaming, Across green fields and dells, wherein The shepherds lay a-dreaming. The coach-guard owned his horn's defeat, Like Marsyas in the fable, And let the cracks of Watling Street Grow fat in stall and stable ; For all the tunes the old world sang, To music sweet and tender. Were drowned by that fierce roar that rang Across the kitchen fender. And Pan stands far aloof and sighs : ' Ah ! sink your shaft and tunnel. And where my sapling rowan dies Show me the Scotchman's funnel ! 36 THE MISCHIEF-MAKING KETTLE For you, who hurry breathless through A round of huckstering duties, Who take Life thus, what eyes have you To mark my wayside beauties ? ' 37 TO MISS KITTY STEYNE (rondeau) Miss Kitty Steyne — an echo rare Of Georgian sweetness lingers there, And fancy, at the sound, portrays Some blushing toast, the Tonbi'idge craze. With sprigged brocade and powdered hair. You should be making Fox despair, George Sebvi/n sigh, and Walpole stare. Setting their modish hearts ablaze. Miss Kitty Steyne Yet, bringing laughter everywhere. And sovereign charms to banish care. To win a modern gallant's praise You come in these degenerate days. No whit less blithe and debonnair. Miss Kitty Steyne. 38 TO MISS PEGGY (^TAT 6) It is well to be there at the start, after all, And to utter the openhig word ; For as long as the chorus of singers is small. It is not very hard to be heard. And I think, if the verse of the future regards The attraction of eyes that are blue. There '11 be plenty of twentieth-centuiy bards Writing sonnets. Miss Peggy, to you. So while you are only a six-year-old elf. Undisturbed by remorse or regret. For the witchery set in your trim little self Hasn't compassed much mischief as yet — Ere the sheen of your beauty, grown bright with the years. Shall have made my poor Pegasus shy, Let me smite on the strings, and a strain in your ears, Let me venture. Miss Peggy, to sigh. TO MISS PEGGY 39 Though, I fear, just at present the amateur muse, With her wildly-poetical dreams, Is obscured, to a certain extent, in your views By the glamour of chocolate creams. And Dan Cupid himself, whensoe'er he aspires To subdue you, will feather his darts. Not with gallant young lovers, or sporting esquires. But with trifle. Miss Peggy, or tarts ; Yet no doubt you will grow up in time, if you wait — 'Tis a lot which most people befalls — And a very few years will behold you in state Going forth in your carriage to balls. Then perhaps you will see an old white-headed man Through the crowd of admirers advance. And, a prey to the ruin flashed over your fan. Humbly ask you, Miss Peggy, to dance. In a beautiful ode to a beautiful maid. Which a man many years ago wrote. There 's a line at the head which I 'm almost afraid, In a cycle of primness, to quote ; 40 TOMISSPEGGY But in her case twin epithets boldly he links. Bringing mater and Jilia in ; And in ijoiir case the verdict of Horace, me- thinks. Is a hard one. Miss Peggy, to win. In the future, to judge by things recently seen, The extension of feminine aims May induce you to join, at the age of eighteen, In essentially masculine games. We shall see you play football, or running a mile. Or a cleek you will skilfully grip ; Or you may be renowned for the workmanlike style Of your fielding. Miss Peggy, at slip. Then, w-hen you are making the racquet balls hum, I am sure you will startle the men. If, as swift as the lightning of midsummer, come The paternal backhanders again ; And at cricket, if bowlers are wanting in wit. And will bowl you half-volleys divine. May you hit them as hard as your father has hit A great many. Miss Peggy, of mine ! TO MISS PEGGY 41 In the coming Novembers of course you '11 be there, When the wide fields are muddy and soft. When the black trees and hedgerows are drip- ping and bare. And the sun a pale yellow aloft ; In the soul-stirring drama of horn and of hound, Though the ranks of the Tynedale are fleet, Yet I warrant the child of your parents is found Quite a bad one. Miss Peggy, to beat. Well, and what do the cards say ? ^ Is that to your mind ? Nay ! that ghost can be easily laid ; For the sparks of the future must surely be blind If they let you remain an old maid. And your terrors will pass in delight on the day That a Somebody — gallant and true. Sets the church bells at Newton a-chiming away All in honour. Miss Peggy, of you. Good-bye and good luck ! In the doorway you stand. Where the lintel is hung with your toys ; And here's the great puzzle of life to your hand. With its vista of trials and joys. ^ Miss Peggy's favourite card game was ' Old Maid.' 42 TO MISS PEGGY May the sky, when the sun 's at the zenith, be fair, All unshadowed by danger or doubt, And the day, which has dawned with a promise so rare, Be as cloudless. Miss Peggy, throughout ! 43 ENGLAND, PAST AND PRESENT (After reading Nyren's ' Young Cricketer's Tutor ') But for an hour to watch them play, Those heroes dead and gone. And pit our batsmen of to-day With those of Hambledon ! Our Graces, Nyren.i, Studds, and Wards, In weeks of sunny weather. Somewhere upon Elysian swards. To see them matched together ! Could we but see how Small withstands The three-foot break of Steel, If Silver Billi/s ' wondrous hands ' Survive with Briggs or Peel ! \i Mann, with all his pluck of yore, Can keep the leather rolling. And, at a crisis, notch a score, When Woods and Hearne are bowlins; ! 'O No doubt the Doctor would bewitch His quaint top-hatted foes. Though, on a deftly-chosen pitch. Old Harris bowled his slows ; 44 ENGLAND, PAST AND PRESENT And Aylward, if the asphodel Had made the wicket bumpy, Would force the game with Attewell, And Stoddart collar 'Lumpy.' When Time of all our flannelled hosts Leaves only the renown. Our cracks, perhaps, may join the ghosts That roam on Windmill Down, Where shadowy crowds will watch the strife, And cheer the deeds of wonder Achieved by giants whom in life A century kept asunder. 45 THE NOVICE'S REMONSTRANCE AT GOLF (to f. p.) Grey clouds above a sombre sea. And strong winds howling off the land, 'Tis very far from tee to tee. And weary work to flog the sand ; When all my longest drives are stopped In hopeless rabbit-scrape or cup, When each approach is duly topped. And never nearly takes me ' up.' While, in the depths of my distress, I hear my hated caddie say. In scornfvd accents, that I press. Or do not get my hands away : He does not know that skill is vain. When fickle Fortune spreads her wing. And that a storm of scudding rain Plays havoc with a Laidlay's swing. Forward once more : my teeth are set. Once mol'e I trudge along and call By some quite novel epithet. The game, my driver and the ball. 46 THE NOVICES REMONSTRANCE And still my mentor has his word, Which this dejected novice thinks Is not unlike the counsel heard Upon a different kind of links. Links where the ci'itic never sees The deadly bunker gaping wide. And fraught with dread calamities For which no foresight can provide : But when the dismal fun begins. Preaches of failure and of pluck. With no allusion to the whins, The lies, the weather, and the luck. 47 BALLADE OF THE CORNER STROKE BY THE BOWLER I VOW he shall not sleep beyond the grave ; The Acherontian cliffs shall hear his wail, What time he roameth by the Stygian wave, And Charon trimmeth not for him the sail ; By far the vilest in the moral scale, Lonely beneath the dark Cimmerian pall, He shall go wander, weary, gaunt, and pale — This is the man who snicketh the leno;th-ball. '»' It was my best ; no better one I crave To bowl ; it hurtled like an autumn gale. And yet, withal, a crafty twist I gave, Sufficing, as I fancied, to prevail. Then as I looked his exodus to hail. Expectant to behold his timbers fall. It went for four hard by his inner bail — This is the man who snicketh the length-ball. He smiled, and questioned if it were a shave, Whereat I yearned in dungeon or in jail To prison him for years and years, the knave ! Yet merely trusting that his heartwouldquail, 48 BALLADE OF THE CORNER STROKE I bowled at treble pace, without avail, For fiends appeared to aid him at his call ; And he edged fourers till the feat grew stale — This is the man who snicketh the length-ball. Envoy Sirs, I was taken off; expletives fail ! He never used the weapon's face at all ; They bowled him with an under like a snail — This is the man who snicketh the length-ball. 49 BALLADE OF THE SCHOOLBOY SQUIRE TO C. W. H. C. At school no rival he admits, His greatness none deny : A king, whom epoch-making hits To leg have lifted high : Yet here at home in late July, By one of Beauty's queens, Behold him smitten hip and thigh, This gallant in his 'teens. No lore scholastic benefits One whom the sirens ply. And where his fair Althaea sits He humbly hovers nigh : Alert, attentive, awkward, shy. Beside her chair he leans. Prepared for her to live and die, This gallant in his 'teens. D 50 BALLADE OF THE SCHOOLBOY SQUIRE But, August fled, the path he quits Where jjrimrose garlands lie, And gathers up his fifth-form wits So sadly knocked awry : More than homesick, he knows not why, He finds in prosier scenes The classics more than usual dry, This gallant in his 'teens. Envoy Lady, he '11 fathom by-and-by What this strange fever means — Spare him the tribute of a sigh, This gallant in his 'teens. 51 THE LAMENT OF AFFARIC (in his own tongue) [Bein^ the complaint of the great hound at find- ing himself superseded in the affections of his mistress by a small Scotch terrier.] Beside the ingle I maun lie While he's iipo' her knee, Curled up sae snug just where my jowl In ither days wad be ; To think a feckless ' chiel frae Skye ' Should come 'tAvixt her an' me. He 's mazed her wi' his canny tricks, For he can whine an' greet, An' sit up wi' his head asklent, Perched up on his twa feet. To speir wi' winsome paws for cake Or ilka thing to eat. My life is gey an' fu' o' woe, My heart is unco sore. To ken the pats she gi'es me noo Are no the pats o' yore ; To ken the voice I lo'ed sae weel Less tender than before. 52 THE LAMENT OF AFFARIC But sin my mistress wills it so. An' naething mak's amends, 1 maun awa' wi' dowie gait To where the pathway tends. To the lone land o' stricken lives, Dead loves, an' worn-out friends, Where ithers, no a' dogs torbye. Gang hame the tears to stem. Sad, hopeless hearts, wha couldna rax A dainty kirtle hem, Sad e'en to whom ae face was fair That ne'er wad look on them. 5S PHILOSOPHY OF THE SUMMER Come, leave your learned friends who spar, Who cannot yet agree. On what we were, or what we are, Or what we hope to be : Relax awhile that forehead grave To hear the north wind shrill The burden of his blustering stave Across the heathered hill. For even now, my jaded sage. Your last and newest creed May gather lessons from the page Which he who runs may read : Perhaps these woods of oak and birch May teach you unawares. Truths that escape the eyes which search The world from study chairs. So when your wordy discontent Grows tedious, for a space, And all the bootless argument That racks the market-place. 54 PHILOSOPHY OF THE SUMMER Come to these lonely forest glades And watch the squirrels play, Where the stale clash of struggling blades Sounds faint and far away. Here doubts that we can never solve At least we may forsake, Here burning brains no more revolve And hearts no longer ache : When the green leaves are overhead With sunlight dancing through. Where the wild hyacinth has spread A wondrous belt of blue. It needs a sorry soul to whine That life 's a dismal thing. When, flushed from tufts of celandine. The woodlark starts to sing : Or where beside the woodland's edge, In dells of grass and fern. The moorhen flutters to the sedge That rims the sparkling burn. Here the sleek shorthorns in the shade Crop clover by the gate. Without (thank heav'n !) a dairymaid Who, tossed by savage Fate, PHILOSOPHY OF THE SUMMER 55 Comes our weak intellects to vex, Like D'Uvbervillian Tess, With sombre riddles of the sex, Far too abstruse to guess. When the spruce chaftinch twitters clear Amid the apple bloom. No social problems bore my ear. No prophecies of gloom ; And when the sparrows in the eaves Salute the morning haze, I catch among the ivy leaves No word of Ibsen's plays. In a round hole beneath the thatch A little titmouse sits. Who, despite Malthus, means to hatch A dozen lesser tits : For fads and freaks and party cries, Which vex the subtler brain. The jovial twinkle in her eyes Bespeaks a fine disdain. The creed of our secluded choice Is far behind the times. And finds an almost plaintive voice In tinkling village chimes— 56 PHILOSOPHY OF THE SUMMER A voice that, somehow, never lacks A cure for cares and griefs. Not found in all your yellow-backs With up-to-date beliefs. For as our stretching woodland ways With sturdy oaks are set. That braved the tempest in the days Of some Plantagenet, As if the flying centuries Were loth to work their will. So here the old faith slowlier dies. The old hope lingers still. It is as though the God you mock Had fled your dusty shelves. Content to let his graceless stock Control the world themselves. And found in this fair place a home To see his works are good, Where, as of old, he still may roam At sundown through the wood. / 57 HIGHWAYMAN'S BALLADE OF THE TURNPIKE (sung in chorus at the ' BLUE POSTS ' IN THE haymarket) When Fortune, at the board, is hard On elbow or on brain ; And coui'ting her with dice and cai'd. Is something worse than vain ; 'Tis hey ! for boot and spur again, And holsters a la mode ! We'll tempt her with another main, Upon the turnpike road. With empty purses to regard, And honour to maintain. We '11 see if she be evil-starred To-night, on Finchley Plain ; When, to the creaking wheels' refrain. The ' Comet ' drags a load, Through wind and darkness, rut and rain, Upon the turnpike road. 58 BALLADE OF THE TURNPIKE Hark ! Kitty's dancing in the yard. And rattling the curb chain ; A glimpse of her, for Joe the guard. Will serve, in Gallows Lane. Her sire, an Arab without stain, Was one Tom King bestrode ; I '11 lay you Bow Street know the strain Upon the turnpike road. Envoy Here 's to King George's glorious reign ! And ill to such as bode The rumble of the Tvburn wain. Upon the turnpike road ! 59 A STREAKY STOIC (^QUAM memento) You, who are anxious to possess A mmd serene when cares oppress. Be warned by me, or you may find Yourselves with too serene a mind. Once some one told me that the world Might into particles be hurled. And yet the stars would circle on. Without observing we had gone. From mastering that fact I date This irritating mental state Of calmness, which at every turn Views Life with stolid unconcern. Once with a really genial thrill I burnt an inconvenient bill. But now, when I escape a dun, I find it only moderate fun. bo A STREAKY STOIC I love a maid, or think I do. With comely face and eyes of blue ; And, quite astounding though it be. She does not care a straw for me. She will refuse to be my wife, Which ought, I know, to blight my life ; But will, I fear, produce a blight That leaves me when my pipe 's alight. Oh ! he's degenerate, this Care, Who sits behind me on my chair, I give his ribs a friendly poke. When I can see him through the smoke. And yet methinks his laugh he takes On mornings when my bootlace breaks ; Then will he wait to have his say. Until my language clears away. And whisper, ' Fair and broad the tide Where rivers of Damascus glide ! Yet can my pattern Stoic face Black Care astride a broken lace ? ' 61 TEMPORIS ACTI The schoolboy bard, when subject-matter flags. Will often figure as a grey-haired rhymer. And give the world ' Farewell to School,' with tags Which savour slightly of the Latin Primer : With what delightful tenderness and pride He takes that famous gentleman for guide Who turned his thoughts to Argos as he died ! His Argos stands — a palace fair and bright Thronged with the beautiful^ the strong, the clever ; A palace clover-scented, with the light Of summer lingering on its towers for ever. But pause, and hear what one has got to say Who trod the schoolyard in a vanished day, Whose hair is far too truly growing grey. Thus, let me build — upon a blushing brow I placed the cap and touched the seventh heaven. While round a waist more obvious then than now I girt the samite of the first eleven. 62 TEMPORIS ACTI Fair palace ! yet from underneath the thatch Peers the grim ghost of an infantine catch. Which having dropped, I lost our opening match. Friends — I had friends who linked their arms in mine. Deemed me heroic, as no doubt was fitting. And looked with fervour on the skill divine Of shots at goal and wonderful ofF-hitting : But now sweet eyes, I notice with alarm. Rarely grow tender as they note the charm. Of yore so potent in the brawny arm. Then in those days my head was carried high Above a snowy parapet of collar, I ceased to spell my Virgil with an ' i,' And deemed myself an almost finished scholar : That finish I can now too clearly see. For Virgil, whether spelt with '^ i ' or ' e,' Sings in a language quite unknown to me. Some things, my Postumus, we may forget ! And some things it is sorrow to remember. For many-sided is the dim regret That haunts the leafless pathways of November : TEMPORIS ACTI 6S And yet in all our wintry discontent. The soft winds breathe upon the summer spent. To show us only what was excellent. So let us hope, since I who meant to scofF Swell, after all, the oft-repeated chorus, Since tender memories pluck the troubles off. And leave the rose without a thorn before us, That we ourselves may fare as fares the past. With all our follies to oblivion cast, And what was best remembered at the last. 64 TO A. J. WEBBE October 24th, 1893 You, sir, who for a space leave bat and ball To play a match more thrillhig than them all. Accept these halting words that wish you well. Heard through the chiming of your marriage bell. For the old memories that move this song Will think of you as more than skilled and strong, More than the hero of a schoolboy's eyes. More than a kindly comrade, staunch and wise. Since to recall old battles far away, On halcyon mornings of an Oxford May, Is surely once again to see you stand At the Pavilion gateway, bat in hand. Once more for us who live apart, aloof. The sunlight falls on the Museum roof. The chestnuts are aflower, and round our feet Once more the clover of the parks is sweet. TO A. J. WEBBE 65 So, though I know the daring of my aim — For, were there epics of the National game^ To meetly sing the weapon which you wield Would need some Homer of the cricket-field — Yet for the sake of those past summer times Forgive the weaving of these homely rhymes, And friendly phrases that would fain express Wishes for you and yours of happiness. 66 BALLADE OF THE RECTORY ROSES TO M. E. C. The summer, where your Bourbons blow, Is come, I dare aver, With linnets twittering to and fro Through evergreen and fir ; And in the sun the drowsy stir, Where great bees dip their noses In mignonette and lavender, Among the Rectory Roses. There's Madame Eugene all aglow, And there, unless I ei-r. The gallant Xavier Olibo Bends in the breeze to her ; La France, a queenly blossomer, Her royal heart uncloses Beside the crimson Senateur, Among the Rectory Roses. Forgetting, while the bright hours go, The brown and withei-ed spur. Which to October days will show Their beauty's sepulchre ; BALLADE OK THE RECTORY ROSES 6? When that cold-hearted chorister, The Autumn wind, composes A requiem for the blooms that were Among the Rectory Roses. Envoy Princess, in city buzz and whirr Your dusty rhymer proses. Whose heart is still a wanderer Among the Rectory Roses. 68 THE REFEREE'S WHISTLE (as heard by our side) In clear metallic bitterness. Far-heard above the storm of cheers, It pipes a signal of distress To sorely-disappointed ears, A thin-voiced meddler with success Like Milton's fury with the shears. Look you ! it was a cruel stroke. For nobly we had screwed the pack. To gallant deeds our forwards woke. They weathered many a sounding hack, Like foxhounds from the gorse they broke, And only to be ordered back. Was it illegal after all ? Is our great effort thrown away ? Was it a genuine dead ball } Was it thrown forward ? who can say ? That shrieking verdict of recall Is one that all men must obey. THE referee's WHISTLE 69 Perchance an application dim, In such catastrophes as these, May strike, without consoling him, A Rugby Union Socrates ; That Luck's a jade of trick and whim, And very difficult to please. 70 THE BALLADE OF CLASSICAL MUSIC ' I am never merry when I hear sweet miisic. ' -^Merchant of Venice. What time the string quintett is long, And concert chairs grow hard, may be. While strange-named fiddlers going strong. Have not yet finished ' Movement 3.' Think not our saddened air ennui, Others have this dejection had : We do but with the poet agree. And still sweet music makes us sad. When pining for an English song. Some ballad of the 'rolling sea/ The jovial wedding-bells' ding-dong, The commonplace ' to Dorothie ' — We hear a Letto-Slavic glee Or dainty berceuse from Baghdad, Sorrow again asserts her plea. And still sweet music makes us sad. THE BALLADE OF CLASSICAL MUSIC 71 Then when the rapt attentive throng, The morceau done, to talk are free. Hark ! how there float the cult among- Strange words of mystic grammarie — A whisper of a ' theme in E/ Gossip about a 'tenor Strad,' Things that mean naught to you and me. And still sweet music makes vis sad. Envoy Be merciful, fair devotee. The leit motif, which makes you glad. Sometimes the novice fails to see. And still sweet music makes us sad. 72 TO MISS JANE AUSTEN (gratefully) We homely souls, whose courage fails At perils hid in modern tales, Dread airings of religious dreams. Social reforms and moral schemes, Turn to those simple idylls sung, When this old century was young. And watch the Pump-room beauties greet Their courtly swains in Millsom Street. They live for us — this old-world throng — Their joys, their loves to us belong. Their sorrows, where the pages show Traces of tears shed long ago. Ours is the loss, we freely own. Who leave more stalwart fare alone, And in our unlearned hearts rejoice To hear this quaint, old-fashioned voice : TO MISS JANE AUSTEN 73 As country-folk whose ears are sore. Dinned with the pavement's clash and roar. Through April hedgerows hear again The blackbird's whistle in the lane. 74 THE BALLADE OF HOMECOMING (to etwalLj in berbyshirEj in summer-time) It was when the June sun was ablaze on the street, And when summer was holding her sway. That we yearned with the longmg of dust- covered feet By the Derbyshire hedgerows to stray ; Far from engines that buzz, and from whistles that bray. Far from smoke that is black and begrimes, To the depths of that quiet green garden that lay In the shade of the Hospital limes. But the southern expi'esses were wondrously fleet. And they winged us, with none to say nay. From this rattle and din to that low-cushioned seat On the lawn, with the swallows at play ; THE BALLADE OF HOMECOMING 75 At the gate the old. almsman is waiting for ' taay ' With his ear to the church-tower chimes, As he leans on the red wall and puff's at his clay In the shade of the Hospital limes. And then when to westward the glow and the heat, Over Dalbury, faded away, When the soft breath of midnight was heavy and sweet With the fragrance of roses and hay, While the great yellow moon stood aloft in the grey. We sat out where the jessamine climbs. And your dainty Safrano gleams white on the spray In the shade of the Hospital limes. Envoy. Over all is the blue of a midsummer day, Hot and cloudless in holiday times, When home was the sweetest of homes. Mistress May, In the shade of the Hospital limes. 5 - ;.f*-^- ^ Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press. V^ DATE DUE 1 "^ 1 GAYLORD PRINTED iN U.S A. ur souTHFRrj Rrr.ifiNAi library facility AA 000 640 131 9 -I L LINIVERSITY OF CA, RIVERSIDE LIBRARY 3 1210 01276 8857