'-■•'■..■..■■ ■■'."■•,..-■■■'.'■'":.■ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE - 1 i>1 ■^■KSkSHUI^B MM-i V raw tJ aWB • HI BB ■ '""■ t:<*X? '«?•■■• v H -.-,'. rv . I ■ ' HI area ^ HHB^^^H HM nSSn ■ 1 1 ■ ^^^81 ffrFs ffl i ■ -: '£/:,-, '..',.," /#V. •''V-X'T '' '«•)' I ■ ■ ■ BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." BALLADS FROM "PUNCH" AND OTHER POEMS WAR HAM ST. LEGER LONDON DAVID STOTT, 370, OXFORD STREET, W 1890 P&S2^3 + &3 77/i? following Ballads from "Punch" are reprinted by the kind permission of Messrs. Bradbury, Agnew &* Co. TABLE OF CONTENTS. BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." Summer Boating Song The Larks and the Roses . . " One at a Time " .. The Plaint of the Grand Piano The Lay of the Lost Critic . . " The Revenge " The Ballad of the Broken Baronet The Plaint of the Minor Poet An Anticyclonic Ode Spring Song A Transpontine Study An Appeal to Apollo Domestic Melodies — No. i. My Wife has gone away No. 2. To Lucasta No. 3. Upon Thyrsis taking The M.P.'s Aspiration A Winter Garden Upon Amaryllis Bohemian Ballad To May An Autumn Lay How it Strikes the Clock The Soldier's Fear . . Poetry and Pastry . . The Great Adventurer On the Receipt of a Photograph The Old Telephone . . a Journey PAGE 1 3 5 8 M 19 25 3 1 34 37 40 42 44 46 47 49 5° 53 54 55 58 61 65 66 70 73 75 VI CONTENTS. An Angel's Visit A City Idyll To my Hairdresser Theme with Variations Tommy's Turk A Ballad of Betrothal Ballads of To-day — Furnival's Inn Drifting Teddington Lock Paterfamilias Loquitur ToChloe Very Early Spring Thoughts in a Garden Suburban Love Song A Rumination An Unappreciated Genius A Ballad of Salad Prothalamium The Dispassionate Shepherd to his Love A Symposium Farewell to the Forest Good-bye, Summer ! Tommy on Museums A Ballad of the Three Years' System A Seasonable Ditty Ode. (On the pleasure arising from Ginger-cake) A Ballad of Evil Speed At a Certain Music Praenuntia Veris Near Mentone A Day Out On the Towing-path A Sonnet of Valentines A Soothing Song for August Williams Redivivus A Summer Soliloquy PAGE 77 80 82 85 88 92 95 97 99 101 103 iq6 109 112 114 117 119 121 124 126 127 130 134 13S 140 142 145 149 150 151 153 154 *59 160 162 i°5 CONTENTS. vn MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. PAGE At Twilight . 166 Broken Off 167 A Fancy . 169 " Ira Furor Brevis " . 171 A Song after Sunrise ■ 173 A Middle-aged Valentine 176 On a Yacht . 17S A Summer Night • i79 My Valentine. . . 180 The Vigil . 183 To Flowers in a London Lane . 186 After Tennis . 187 Lucinda . 189 In the Fog . 191 A March Song • 193 Sport of the Storm • 193 Reflections. (At Brighton) • 197 March Song • i99 A Last Gasp 201 Orpheus Agonistes 202 Reminiscences. (By a Dyspeptic) • 205 A Prisoner at the Bar . 208 Lines by a Latter-day Lakist . 211 A Protestation . 214 A New Year • 215 A Farewell 217 A Change of Weather . 218 Second Love 220 Two Sonnets 222 March 224 Julia Maying • 225 " Donee Eris Felix " 227 The Last Voyage 229 A Summer Buzzing . 231 Christmas Eve ■ 233 To a Fair Unknown • 236 viii CONTENTS. PAGE August • 238 Rus in Urbe • 239 Elegy on a Pipe 241 " Ashes to Ashes " ■ 244 Cricket on the Lawn . 246 The Music and the Snow . . ■ 249 A Derby Day Ballad . 250 A Lament from Llandudno • 255 The Poet's Apology . • 257 To a Lexicon • 259 A Girl of Gold . 262 The Child and the Beggar. . 265 The Midshipmite . 267 The Arrow and the Hound . 268 Two Views of the Boat Race 270 Chill October 272 Faint Heart • 274 Ode to March • 277 Lines to a Peruvian Air • 279 A Boat Race Ballad . 2S1 A New Year Carol ■ 283 A Royal Grievance . 285 An April Song . 287 Looking Back . 288 A Lament from the Lawn . . 291 An Equine Soliloquy ■ 294 A Modern Lover • 297 A Bank Holiday Grumble .. • 3°° A Cry from Dublin ■ 3° 2 A Stranded Poet • 303 Words for Music • 3°5 The Lover to Big Ben • 3°7 To " Brass Buttons " • 310 Over • 3i3 Pumpkins ■ 318 Au Revoir . 320 An Old Book • 324 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." SUMMER BOATING SONG. PUNon the slumbrous meadows, *— ' Sun on the sleeping trees ; Massy and deep the shadows Stirred by no vagrant breeze. Rhythmical in the riggers, Oars with a steady shock Tell how we work like niggers For a cool in the plashy lock. And it's oh, for the neck of the camel, The ostrich, snake, giraffe ! And what if to-morrow I am ill, To-day it is mine to quaff. Bother my rates and taxes ! Crown me the mantling bowl ; The world has gone off its axis, It's nothing but Life and Soul. BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." To-day, like the books of the Sibyl, Is waningly dearer still, As the sunset echoes wibble From a cloud-clean saffron hill. Calm is the solemn surface Of waters that woo the skies, And tenderly calm is her face Who gazes with larger eyes At the deepening purple above her, While over her, small and white, There leans, like a courtly lover, The sweetness of all the night. All day in the sun we boated, How can I tell how far ? For years in the sun we floated, For ages that yellow star Behind the poplar has trembled, And down to the wine-dark deep, While softer day dissembled The Midsummer call to sleep. And it's oh, for the neck of the camel, The ostrich, snake, giraffe, What though to-morrow I am ill, To-night I am fain to quaff. THE LARKS AND THE ROSES. (Ballad, by Milton Feather ly Jonsone.) THE roses were blowing, like whales in the sea Where the apple-bloom icebergs plunged fearless and free, And the larks carolled madly their high jubilee In the ether. The daisies ran riot in sunshine and shade, And the call of the cuckoo was heard from the glade, Where Summer with mellow monotony play'd On her zither. Tempo di False. Ho, larks and roses ! Hey, the bonny weather ! Hey, we rose at morning prime ; Ho, we larked together ! 'Mid roses and larks in our shallop we glide By Inglesham poplars, on Teddington's tide, Where the waters of Thame under Sinodun slide, And at Marlow, BALLADS FROM "PUNCH.' By Cliveden's green caverns, and Abingdon's walls, Where wirgles the Windrush, where Eynsham weir falls, By Sonning, or Sandford (whose lasher recalls Mr. Barloiu). Con tenerezza. Oh, larks, and ro(w)ses On the shining river ; Silver water-lilies, love ; Love will last for ever ! But the blooms turn'd to apples for urchins to munch, And the roses were sold at a penny a bunch, And the larks were served up for an Alderman's lunch, Dead and cold, love ; And the lustre has faded from tresses and cheek, And the eyes do not sparkle, the eyes that I seek, And the temper is strong and the logic is weak Of my old love. Snuffiamente. No larks and roses In a winter gloaming ; Ruby-red love's nose is ; Chilblain time a-coming. "ONE AT A TIME." HEAVILY through the Casino The fumes of the roses float ; Heart of my heart ! How could he know She had come by the tidal-boat, As stiff as a royal merino, Or the fur of the sea-side goat ? {Andante hideoso.) And he danced on one and the other, He was far too ugly to care, And Beauty her shrieks would smother, And Valour forget to swear, For he was a famous Poet, And rich and debonair. ( Tempo di Valse. ) " One at a time, love, one at a time ! Ever he murmured the old sweet rime ; One at a time, love ; fair is fair, Haro ! and motley's the only zuearl " BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." (Pttffo ma 12011 troppo.) And he leaned from the lush Casino, And scanned the sounding sea ; Like the salt of a fruitless Eno, It cream'd with a mocking glee, Or moaned like the Moning Congou At a foggy Five o'Clock Tea. They play'd at the little horses, But little of them reck'd he, As he yearn'd for the stars in their courses And the moon in her crescentrie, And his pulses reserv'd their forces, For there in the dusk was She. ( Twingiamente. ) And the vacant space where his heart had place Throbb'd with a fancied pain, As the phantom boot on a long-lost foot Wakes bygone griefs again. (Maestoso giocoso.) There's a lonely tomb where surges boom And the griddering pebbles grind, — But he dances on one and the other, He is far too ugly to mind. ONE AT A TIM J-:: " One at a time, love, one at a time! Softly he murmurs the sweet, old rime ; One at a time, love ; fair is fair, Haro .' am! motley s the only wear." I THE PLAINT OF THE GRAND PIANO. WAS a grand piano once — nay, hearken what I say — The grandeur is no longer here, it left me yesterday. One leather-souled executant at a sitting could demolish The mellow pride of tuneful years, of tone, and power, and polish. A dapper man, with weary brow, and smile of conscious pow'r, A Jove, prepared to improvise tone-thunder by the hour Is Nasmyth Hammermann, whose touch would disconcert the dead, Whose foot would rush with pedal-crush where angels fear to tread. He kept his soul in patience while lesser people played, As one who bears with cruder views that taste-bound souls degrade ; He pitied plaintive melody and winning modulation, Biding his time — and then it came — the afternoon's sensation. THE PLAINT OF THE GRAND PIANO. g He hovered over the keyboard, like a wild beast over its prey, And he tossed his head, and he rattled his wrists— and then he began to play ; To play ! And in that crowded room was none with heart to see That what was play to him and them was worse than death to me ! He struck a chord, as a hawk strikes a lark who is dumb with fear, And his fingers spread over the octaves like a slander in full career, And my overstrung nerves that waited the worst nigh sprung from the shuddering case As he finished his horrible prelude with an awful bang in the bass. He gloated ; I waited ; and then began a butchery great and grim, And melody screamed and harmony writhed, and form, rent limb from limb, Was hurled in murderous largesse to the careless, ravening crowd, Who chatted and laugh'd the louder, as my agony waxed more loud. io BALLADS FROM " PUNCH" He checked his course, and he wirgled round, till he found the soul of pain, And he thumped it with pitiless finger, again, again, again ! Then, like a pawing horse let go, he tore at headlong pace, And drowned the tortured treble's cry in the roar of an anguished bass. My tenderest tones, that answer clear the artist's lightest touch, Were yank'd in handfuls out like hair in some fierce maniac's clutch, And my beautiful keys, that never yet had sullied their tuneful pride, Like elephants with the tusk-ache in ivory anguish cried. Hark to the murmurs sad and low, self-struck upon my strings, Such music as a dying love, unknown, unsolaced sings, For yesterday's undreamt disgrace can never not have been, And I must shrink from music now, and sob ' ' Unclean, unclean ! " THE PLAINT OF THE GRAND PIANO, n The girls have practised on me in endless ladders of scales, Whereby they mounted to castled heights, and the realms of fairy tales ; And I loved their wayward endeavours, and my patient sweetness at last Won them to tell me their love's young dreams as I hallowed their childhood's past. And the Governess, meek and modest, who counted the tale of bars, Would slip from the sleeping children, and the school- room worries and jars ; And the tender heart would open to me, and, work-a-day woes forgot, The pencil-cramped hands would tremble, and the tears from her heart well'd hot. They called her a Perfect Treasure, but 'twas I alone who knew The tale of the young life's struggle, so tender and brave and true ; And when she touched me I told it, and somebody listened and learned, And the winter-time went out of her life, and the daffodil days returned. 12 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." And Maud in her tempers would bang away — Sweet Maud — for I often heard The fortissimo suddenly ended in a kiss like the chirp of a bird. And Mabel's curious reveries — how soon a piano discovers When a girl gives one hand to her music, and the other is clasped in her lover's. Perchance some tender hand again may soothe my tortured heart, May heal the scars of Hammermann with balm of rare Mozart ; Perchance the Nocturne's mystic feet may through my caverns stray, When great Beethoven's passion-storms have cleansed the plague away. But no, farewell that happy past ; henceforth I'm only fit To play the concertina's part to wandering niggers' wit ; Or, as a street-piano, find as jubilant a goal As a wet day in China when you do not know a soul. THE PLAINT OF THE GRAND PIANO. r 3 Yet it may be my past deserts may win a loftier place, Low in the outer walks of Art, not blatant in disgrace ; And Music's tutelary powers may bid their Outcast go And be the sacred music in a panoramic show, And moan " The Village Blacksmith " when the lights are burning low. THE LAY OF THE LOST CRITIC. YES, Sir, you're right ; I have come down. Thanks. Three of Irish cold. Well, like the fox who lost his tail, I've little to unfold. Thank you, I don't mind if I do. My dear, the same again. — / was a Critic once, who lived on " Chicken and Champagne." You see me now, a Sandwich-man ! Me ! who was once a scorner [Warner: Of Sims's dramatized low life, of peasant pride in The author's skill, the actor's art, were caviare to me, A Boardman now — a Woodman once who didn't spare the Tree. The pallid playwright, sick with care, would angle for a smile, [awhile ; The actor, like a pricked balloon, would sink his side My pen blackmailed the wretched Pro's like levelled pistol's muzzle ; [guzzle ! I had a price, and got it too. Law ! how I used to THE LAY OF THE LOST CRITIC. 15 Whene'er I hear the captive cock that from the area crows, (For down our court they keep a lot to trouble my repose,) Whene'er I pass the bottle-shop, my tears I scarce restrain, They 'mind me of those bygone hours of Chicken and Champagne. I thought myself a power indeed. Nor was I all to blame, For men I scarcely knew by sight would conjure with my name. — "A great night at the Club to-night ; Jack Bounder's coming down ! " — They called me Jack behind my back, and trembled at my frown. Oh, happy days of pleasing toil, of feasting on the best, When conscious pride of guerdon earned gave every meal a zest ! Loud was the laugh that ever met the oldest joke from me, And mine the health that always went with rousing three times three ! 16 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." And so the prosperous years sped on, till in an evil day I spurned the Critic's easy throne, and thought to write a play. I'd prove to flattering crowds that still fresh laurels could be won, And show poor playwrights how the thing ought really to be done. And I would wed a chorister, a slender, fair-haired thing. I thought that she might act— in time. (I knew she could not sing.) I pitched upon a German farce to start my honest life, Picked all the "plums" from all the parts, and wrote them for my wife. Gods ! how they hissed and hooted ! You could scarcely hear a word ; — The artistes turned in wrath on me, because they got "the bird." And she, my destined bride, remarked, with irony abstruse, "You've had so much of Chicken, that you ought to welcome Goose." THE LAY OF THE LOST CRITIC. i 7 And so the spell was broken. Oh, what a fool was I To risk the unassailed success of those who never try ! No more obsequious Managers besought me for a play, And meanest mummers ceased to care a rap what I could say. Then down and ever down I sunk ; dropped out of all my Clubs ; And in a year or two I came to " pressing" round the "pubs." But, venal still, I made a bit by penning spiteful " pars " On those who had not half-a-crown when " whispered" at the bars. But that is past — and here I am ; and few things make me sore, Save when at luncheon-time I chance to pass Milano's door, And see the Drama's minor lights sail in in silk and satin ; — The pride of learning haunts me still — I curse in Greek and Latin. Good-bye, Sir. Thank you kindly. It is time for me to go To advertise Fitznoodle's play with measured tread and slow. i8 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." Fitznoolle ! whom I slated so, it turned his hair half- grey ! — And now I carry boards about to advertise his play ! Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell to thee, thou stranger host — He writeth best who writeth least, and yet who praiseth most. He writeth best who findeth good to praise in great and small, For fools who can't tell good from bad make game alike of all. "THE REVENGE." A Ballad of the Ordnance. f" 'LL tell you the story, my Masters, for I was one of -*■ the crew Who mann'd the Revenge in the Roossian war of eighteen- ninety-two, I'm one of the seven heroes — you can put it so if you like, Who lived to tell of the famous fight, when we sunk her rather than strike. The last of the seven survivors. And eighteen years ago. A score and more sat down to dine in public all of a row. But the annual banquet thinn'd us, and the Music Halls tell at last, And the Charity Organisers make history very fast. Our ship was built by an English firm for a foreign naval pow'r, But they sold the ship and the foreigner too in Britain's trial hour ; So we knew that the craft was smart and staunch as money and skill could make her, And if it hadn't been for her guns, no vessel afloat could take her. 2o BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." But they used to serve self-acting guns to the Navy of that day, That drove the breech-piece through the side, or blew the muzzle away : And the crews jumped overboard, and waited in water up to their necks, Till the iron shards had settled themselves a little about the decks. 'Twas all very well in peace-time, and the drill was pleasant enough, For the order was, No firing, when the weather is cold or rough, But it didn't answer in action when the enemy's fire was hot, For we stood to our guns, and cheered like mad, but never returned a shot. But ours was the fastest ship afloat, and armed with a terrible beak, So most of the cruise in '92 was a game of hide-and-seek. For we sank the power fullest ironclads with our ram at a single blow, And many a mast-head flag I've snatched as the vessel was sucked below. " THE REVENGE." One brilliant summer morning a squadron hove in sight ; Lor' how we cheered, for all our chaps were spoilmg for a fight ; And down, full-speed, upon the fleet our gallant vessel bore With a mighty rift in the sea behind, and a pillar of foam before. And snowy fleeces slowly round the Russian war-ships grew, And vivid flashes lit the way as monster bolls tore through ; But she ducked and dodged like a playful dog as higher the smoke arose, And quivered and shook with the joy of bailie hurling upon her foes. And the deadly space grew shorter, till plain the foe we saw, And the triumph in their faces changed suddenly to awe : " Hi ! Hi ! You've crossed a dozen mines ! " the Russian Captain cried, "You're out of action, you lubbers !" And we crashed through his iron side. 22 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." Ship after ship with foaming jaws the thirsty ocean drank, As fast before our deadly prow they shuddered and reeled and sank ; But still with floating pall of smoke fresh war-ships round us drew, And still, as fast as one was sunk, we had to tackle two. Our vessel reeled and staggered, too ; in swathes her heroes fell, As round and through and over us came tons of shot and shell ; And her plates like sheets were flapping, and cheerly above the din Whenever they gave a loud rat-tat, our Captain cried, " Come in ! " The still sea-floor was strewn with wrecks and guns and gallant dead, Whose stony eyes stared up to mock the tumult overhead ; And fiercer still the fight went on, till, when the sun was low, Our shatter'd ship could neither stand nor deal another blow. THE REVENGE.- 23 And then the Captain called us round ; the fight grew slack, it seem'd, As through the rolling mounds of smoke the muffled sun- set beam'd ; And when the lees of that strong crew were gathered round to hear, You could not see how few we were : you heard it in our cheer. " My lads," he said, "you've fought this day as English- men should fight, We've kept all day a fleet at bay — we won't give in at night. The water through our riven sides is pouring in by tons — We cannot win — we will not strike — now, lads, to the guns ! " Unwitting of that stern resolve the Russians closer drew, While still in triumph at the peak the British ensign flew ; But vultures wheel, and sea-birds scream, when through the vessel runs That last stern whisper of the brave — " We're going to fire the guns ! " 24 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." And still in fearful whispers the Russian sailor tells How the air grew dark with muzzles, and jackets, and coils, and shells, And part of a forty-three-ton gun hit the Admiral on the head, And he cried, " It is grand — but it is not war " — and his gallant spirit fled. And so the Revenge, unconquered, went down by the Baltic shores, And they punished the seven survivors for wasting the Ordnance stores ; And they've issued a gun that a child could fire, and none of it blows away ; The others were good enough for us — the Navy has had its day ! THE BALLAD OF THE BROKEN BARONET. T^ITZ-JOGYNS at his breakfast sat, late-risen from -^ his bed, Fitz-Jogyns of the ample purse, large heart, and empty head ; And by him was the Baronet, whose friendship was the crown Of all the simple triumphs of his short career in town. But wan and wrinkled was his cheek, unkempt his hair to-day, Where watchful time had cleft the dye with a great gash of grey, And open-mouthed Fitz-Jogyns sat, like one who doth not know, While thus the Baronet spake on, with husky voice and low : — " Last night you saw me. point de vice, in fashion's nicest mould ; A shrivelled husk of self-respect this morning you behold, Who'd gladly take his leave of life, and, if you have it handy, A dash of seltzer- water in a claret-glass of brandy. 26 BALLADS FRO.^f "PUNCH." " I told you that the wine we drank — and fast your praises ran — Was a sort of Indian sherry from the Isles of Andaman ; I don't believe the vine would grow precisely in that zone. The wine was made in Bermondsey — a vintage quite my own. "Now for awhile the moral scales have fallen from my eyes, The hot remorse of ' coppers ' melts the adamant of lies; And hear, Fitz-Jogyns, while I sketch, succinctly as I can, Thefacitis descenszts of a shifty gentleman. " Well-born, well-bred, I launched in life with dreams of a career That need not owe to favour what it ne'er should lose by fear; But weighted with the poet-pow'r that sways imagined scenes, And high desires that could not brook the limit of my means. ' ' ' Above Suspicion ' I had made the motto of my life ; With mutual credit I'd have run away with Cresar's wife ; And shady things, as done by me, a Cato might disarm, Their very shadiness acquired a cool and mystic charm. THE BALLAD OF THE BROKEN BARONET. 27 " And with the best I ruffled it in Town and Camp and Court, Till here a horse and there a card those halcyon days cut short ; But, calm in all contingencies, 'twere false to say I fell — I rather changed with frequency my Social Parallel. " Barr'd by involuntary schisms from mixing with my peers, I found kind hearts and simple faith in friends of humbler spheres ; And oh, be sure you're downward bound when you begin to prize The moral virtues of the friends whose manners you despise. " There is a charm that lingers still about this social wreck, Fair flow'rs of speech and courtly blooms the corpse of honour deck, And so persuasive are my ways, that, on the lowest ramp, I half persuade myself that I am really not a scamp. " I've dash'd, a high-horse Cavalier, the writter's soaring hope ; With Indian craft I've shot the moon on the pacific slope ; 28 BALLADS FKOM •'PUNCH." By force or fraud to one and all the destin'd moment came To curse my charming manners and revile my ancient name. "As waltz-worn spinsters closer cling to waning hopes of marriage, As baby-laden ladies steer straight for a smoking-carriage, As authors haunt the friend in need who reads their first romance, So round the titled carcase flock the vultures of finance. " 'What's in a name?' the poet asks. Well, I have found in mine A standing tasting-order for all sorts of curious wine, A round of brief Directorships on Companies, where need Makes Baronets acquainted with strange board-fellows indeed ; "A passport to the vaguest Clubs of brotherhood complete, Where booted Lords on common ground with Belted artists meet, Where Lion cubs of comic strain accost the shady City, And nothing much is known against a few of the Committee. THE BALLAD OF THE BROKEN BARONET. 29 " But chiefly in exploiting wines I've shown my practis'd skill, The Mithridates of the docks, impervious to ill, — Yet deem not that the gentle tout can duly earn his bread Unless above the face of brass he wear the flinty head. " And mine, methought, were proof indeed. I've quaffed the livelong day, Huge flasks of Cipanasti in the small trattcrie, I've drunk Sauer Staut without a wink beside the Castled Rhine, And whelmed the storied scene in floods of Bauclnotter- wein. " I've sampled every deadly brand the chymick art can blend, I've sampled them myself before I've tried them on a friend, And weird Antipodean draughts, where all the headaches flee From bucketsful of happier growth, have wrought no ill to me. " I've lived on Autowitz, which drives the rude Carinthian boor To play tattoos with Alpenstocks upon his tutor's door ; 3 o BALLADS FROM •'PUNCH." One glass makes strong men swear eternal friendship to a stranger, At two their dearest friends incur considerable danger. " And after these I did not dream that any draught could do Such mischief as the Indian brut I tried to palm on you ; But that is past, and I have made what slight amende I can, And told in brief the story of a shifty gentleman. " That brandy's excellent of yours. It soon will set me right ; The potent spirit quite o'ercrows the poison of last night ; And looking on the world again with a much clearer head, I'd ask you to forget, dear boy, whatever I have said. " But this remember, if you wish a shady thing to do, Choose faults of which your world is prone to take a gentle view ; And don't revoke your Honour card, or you will come like me, To drift like a Social Phantom-ship on a Rank Outsider Sea ! " s THE PLAINT OF THE MINOR POET. O that's what you call a good notice ? You give me a grasp of the hand, And, carried away by emotion, a drink you invite me to stand ; And, because I am moody and sober, you say what a fellow I am, I wish I'd a quire of the papers down the throat of the writer to cram ! See, I rend the review into ribbons ! That doesn't express how I hate These carping appraisers of poets, these slingers of butter and slate. But better their finicking bitters, than their infinite insult of sweets, When men, who I know never read me, compare me with Shelley and Keats. It may be they glance at the pages, such dutiful critics they are, As Custom-house officers, careless, pass Tauchnitz and scent and cigar, 32 BALLADS FROM " PUNCH:' But, you say, they compare me with masters. Why, there is the sting, don't you see? For the poet's unborn, nay, unbearable, who's meet to be measured with me ! I envy not Spenser his splendour, nor Shakespeare his wit-racking range ; For none of their gifts or achievements my talent untold would I change. Tis Time, not a rival, that wrecks me ; and daily I curse the decree That by brute force of years has enabled these bards to anticipate me. I edit the sunrise and sunset, I carry the keys of the Spring, Investing with merit artistic the songs that the night- ingales sings ; Such splendours on life I have lavished as start into light from the mist, When the eye in fine frenzy goes rolling full tilt on a Philistine fist. I'd instaur a Utopian era, but nought could persuade me to lose One glorious orgie of vengeance —to extirpate all the Reviews ! THE PLAINT OF THE MINOR POET. 33 Knlightened at last, and repentant, while Nemesis after them treads, They should praise me, and quote me, and read me — and then I would cut off their heads. The world has been waiting and waiting, till sick with a hope that's deferr'd, When I sing it the song of its patience, no ripple of interest is stirr'd ; And "the passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice," When the girl he would render immortal can brand his effusions as " nice." The circle gets smaller and smaller, my singing is fitted to bless, Though the quaint and elaborate volumes roll year after year from the press. You think that may prove they are worthies?, as critics have said. Be it so. As Browning's musician would put it, ' ; You're welcome to argue. I know." D AN ANTICYCLONIC ODE. AS on my steady threadbare way- Through life I jog, There is one thing that makes me gay- A London fog. I love to wake an hour too late. In calm seraphic, Unruffled by the noise I hate, Of constant traffic. And find the genial evening hour, Meridian scorning, Assert its humanizing pow'r At early morning. Without there reigns a hushing spell O'er London's loud land, And even 'bus conductors dwell Awhile in cloudland. And common objects through the fog Come looming large, And lamp-posts up against you jog In jocund charge. AN ANTICYCLONIC ODE. 35 And streets impervious before, For fiscal reasons, Become a safe resort once more, In foggy seasons. At thaumaturgic mist's command, The sordid real Melts in the boundless wonderland Of the ideal. My well-brushed hat, my muffler white, My coat of blue, Disguise the fact that they're not quite As good as new. Streets where young bards their, unsung verse In third-floor rooms bury — (The nascent Muse will oft rehearse To sombre Bloomsbury) — Become to wandering fancy's view, While vision slumbers, The weird old cities Dore drew In shilling numbers. D 2 36 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." And station roofs for once may change Their wonted frowns, And blend majestic in a range Of mystic downs. From cloud-clad tow'rs the hours are spelt, Whose turrets fair, Less blest than Prosfero's visions, melt Into thick air. But lo ! the swathing vapours fleet Like darkness sifted, And from the rather shamefaced street The fog has lifted. Again, amid its leafless planes, I see the Abbey ; Unchanged, like it, the fact remains That I am shabby. SPRING SONG. By Lightly Turner. THE weight that crushed the shrinking buds Is lifted from the earth, The soft south wind sets free the floods That fill the land with mirth. Sweet April melts in happy tears, As maiden pride breaks down ; And, more than I have loved for years, This year I love Miss Brown. With shining eyes of azure grey She looks you through and through, Until you know not what you say, And care not what you do. On lip and brow the laughter lurks To dazzle and surprise, As when the urchin's mirror jerks The sunlight in one's eyes. We know not why, we know not how, The long- familiar charm Should prompt at last the fatal vow, And curve the dallying arm. 38 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." Why nestling love springs up full-fledged, And flouts the chilling frown — I only know that I am pledged For ever to Miss Brown. Yet ruth restrains the bounding joy And curbs the flying pen, In thinking how this must annoy A lot of other men. For why should others' visions die And other hopes sink down To mere domestic calm, while I Monopolize Miss Brown? And can I then forget those eyes Beneath the clustering curls — Those lambent glances of surprise At praise of other girls ! Or that supremacy of grace I notice more and more, The lucid candour of her face When corner'd by a bore ! No ! while the sweet world meets the dawn Still earlier, day by day, And writes in daisies on the lawn What poets cannot say ; SPX/NG SONG. 39 While baby birds in every nest The feathered patience crown, Still, with Spring's early promise blest, 1 11 only love Miss Brown. But when the solemn feet of night Are wet with August clew, When the stars beat so large with light, And fall adown the blue ; When the white rose's gracious lips Are delicately wet, And the star-gazing lover trips Across the tennis-net — When, like a skylark, soars the glass, And through the shaded room The fragrant drought of trodden grass Blends with the rose's bloom ; When on the sunny lawn she gleams In white pellucid gown, Will it have gone the way of dreams— My passion for Miss Brown ? A TRANSPONTINE STUDY. YOU think she's a dainty dairymaid From a Watteau-Dresden dairy, A nymph from a New Arcadia's glade, Or a Savoy Theatre fairy ; A figure cut from a bon-bon box, A cook from a School of Cookery : Oh, no— she's a study in pink and white. Of a girl from a London rookery. Red-kerchieft youths, in furry caps, Would woo and win— and whop her, But her demeanour is perhaps Discouragingly proper ; And when on gallant lover's breast Reposing all her weight she's, In modest wise she drops her eyes, But never drops her H's. Her thoughts are, like her attic, high, Expressed in language stately ; Though where she picks the language up Has exercised me greatly. A TRANSPONTINE STUDY, 41 And the dangerous classes worship her, As Buddhists their Grand Lama; And that is the London flow'r-girl's form As seen in a melodrama. AN APPEAL TO APOLLO. {From a Quiet Neighbourhood.) A SCORE of organs all the day Wheeze, hammer, reel, and grind it- The Chord the lady tried to play, But failed, alas, to find it. And nomad merchants roar satis cesse Their barter-checking jargon, Until I almost learn to bless Their efforts when they are gone. Their dainty-footed donkeys bray As elsewhere bray no donkeys ; And German bands of demons play In tottering time and wrong keys. With raucous voice he breaks my rest Who thunders forth the dirges Of clothes that once, belike, were "best," The Rag-and-Boanerges. AN APPEAL TO APOLLO. 43 O Phoebus, have them all convey'd Afar, in peace, to fill a Sahara of itinerant trade, But spare the poet's villa ! DOMESTIC MELODIES; OR, SONGS OK SENSE AND SENTIMENT. No. I.— "My Wife has gone away." A GAINST a leaden sky the tree -^ *• (There's one in my suburban garden) Uplifts its ebon tracery, And, as I gaze, I almost see The scanty gravel freeze and harden ; And yet my heart is glad as May, Because my wife has gone away. Sweet ties of home ! New cares in vain Their piety essay to smother, While those old spells the bride constrain To play at maidenhood again, And stay, a child once more, with mother. Thank goodness, mother was not led To come and stay with her instead. Come hither, button-studded boy ! South, north, and west despatch the fiery Cross, with its tale of festal joy ; DOMESTIC MELODIES. 45 With plectral sixpences employ The strings of the electric lyra: ! Bid Smith and Brown and Jones attend The feast of their recover'd friend. To-day in Cambridge guise we'll meet, As when some startling work we still meant, When dancing measures stirr'd our feet, And hope made all the future sweet— Before we met with its fulfilment. We'll spend a true Ambrosian day, Because my wife has gone away. Not that I love Amanda less, But that I wish to love her better, 'Tis well to loose the loving stress That makes me sometimes fail to bless The memorable day I met her ; She putting on the final word A value that I deem absurd. And soon to more marital mind You bring me back, you careless cook, you ! And, thanks to Mary Jane, I find, (Like mouse unwatch'd to play inclined,) MerajSoX?; not travT&v yXvKv. When kettles boil and boots are black, Be sure my wife is coming back ! 4 6 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." no. ii. — to lucasta, ox thinking of going to the Wars. TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind, Nor recreant to thy worth, That in Bulgaria's wastes I find A Special's trying berth. True, from your Bayswater I range, And all its social zeal ; And, for too-doubtful lodgings, change My residence genteel. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too will adore : If I should stay at home too much, You'd find me such a bore. Dt )MES '/'/( ■ MELODIES. 47 No. III. — Upon Thyrsis taking a Journey. THVRSIS, when we parted, swore. This was very wrong of Thyrsis ; Yet, reflecting what 'twas for, One can half excuse his curses. For he saw his luggage neat T'wards a distant platform trundled, While upon the carriage seat Alien packages were bundled. Quickly as the deed was done, Faster flow'd his speech reproving While upon a two-hours' run Faster still the train was moving. Thyrsis was, as usual, late ; I had told him he would be so ; (Which was not an adequate Reason for his blessing mc so.) 48 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH.' Careless words a friend may stab : No one's temper could be shorter. Vet /had to pay the cab, And /had to tip the Porter. He was hustled in, poor soul. With three babies and two nurses : I am glad, upon the whole, I'm not travelling with Thyrsis. THE M.P.'S ASPIRATION. "The Idle Singer of an M.P. Day. OH, let no sudden "Cry" Deprive me of my seat, Before the Speaker's eye Has brought me to my feet ! Then let come what come may. What matter if he go mad, I shall have had my say. Let the long Session endure Till pair on pair be sorted, So I can make quite sure Of being once reported. Then let come what come may, Home-Ruler, Tory, Rad., I shall have had my say. A WINTER GARDEN. FAT children, and food-stuffs, and holly, The tributes of Art to his sway, And the struggle all round to be jolly, Have vanished with Christmas away. But, true to the season, the weather Has banded again with the Parks, To start on the war-path together For a glacial epoch of larks. When pale snows on ice-levels glinter, What cheer for the sun-loving souls Who seek to escape from the Winter Unaided by skating or coals ? Though frost the broad gravel-path hardens. The glasses are beaded with dew ; Though it's desolate out in the gardens, There's life in the greenhouse at Kew. Good-bye to the reign of December, To boughs that are leafless and wet ; From the fires of the Summer an ember Keeps warm the chrysanthemums yet. A WINTER GARDEN. Narcissus and tulip and lily The siege of the season abide, While the fog-demons chubby and chilly Throng thriftless and baffled outside. They stand the dull atmosphere scorning, Like beautiful captives arow, As white as the mists of the morning, Or flushing like sunset on snow — The dress of a fairy of fashion, Whose skirt a wet rainbow has swept ; The cheek of a pearl in a passion, Whom a moonbeam has kiss'd while she slept. Fast-frozen the grey grass beseeches A token of hope for the lawn From the high-tow'ring poplars and beeches, The wind-whisper'd watchtow'rs of dawn. But we turn from the climate of Sweden To breathe the perennial balm, Where aisles like the alleys of Eden Are arch'd by the fronds of the palm. E 2 52 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH. And silence, unvex'd by the raw gust, Benignant, and happy, and hot, Is lull'd by that music of August, The clank of the watering-pot, Where gardeners, passive and pensive, Their leisurely labours pursue, And tropical trunks, comprehensive Hide Flora's mild henchmen from view. Though man, more and more, with his crass works Profanes this sweet Goshen of trees, Though Brentford, with whistles and gasworks, Claims more than its share of the breeze, So much of the fugitive Summer Is caught in the crystalline cage, That the thought of Sweet Spring, the newcomer, Makes mirth of Jack Frost and his rage. The river, again, in the twilight Gleams silvery grey like a dove, And birds twitter clear in the shy light That dawns upon April and love. UPON AMARYLLIS. Causing him some displeasure. ' I ""HEY told her, when a wayward child, ■*■ Her temper to deter, A bogey man, unkempt and wild, Would run away with her ; That richest quarry soonest falls By simpering mien beguiled, Till wide through fashion's gilded halls Young Amaryllis smiled. With frozen glee her growing fears She struggled to restrain, As through the uneventful years She smiled, and smiled in vain. And now she tries the infant plan, And sulks the livelong day, That so at least a bogey man May carry her away. BOHEMIAN BALLAD Of the Society- Variety -Artiste. ~\ 7 0U meaner beauties of the night, -*- That poorly satisfy the eye, (Perhaps it would not be polite The ladies' names to specify,) Where are you when my love is nigh ? Ye wallflowers that first appear, That first appear and latest go, Striking the surging crowd with fear At your insipid anxious row, What wonder that you find it slow ? Ye chanters of the drawing-room, That warble ballads of the day So that you well deserve the doom Of the weak heroes of your lay, Wait till my love comes round your way ! For when my mistress shall appear In the new playhouse I've designed, A serio-tragi-comic Queen, With all the latest fads combined, Out of all sails she'll take the wind. TO MAY. (To cease Fooling.) THE Winter is long, like the coal and gas bills, and longer has grown the shamefaced day, And some of the conscientious hedges are keeping the feast, though it's far from gay ; The grass is mown, and the meads are ready, the trees are waiting, but where is May ? What must the cuckoo be thinking of ycu, and what must the nightingale, Clinging at eve to his bloomy spray with the nightingale's notion of tooth and nail ? And his trills and ripples go down the wind, like the shreds of a fairy sail. The trees, like masts for the festal banners, are ready for their array, And the early comers, in wasted triumph, stream to the stormy day, While the blossoms are blown about like smoke, and the under-leaves are grey. 5 6 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." But you pause in your wilful, wayward sport, with a tear in your bold blue eye, And the sun shines out, and the wind has dropp'd, and the woodland voices cry, With thronging rapture of faith unshaken, that the storms have all gone by. O May, shall we never see you coming, coming at last to the patient earth, With just the flush of the hawthorn petals, maiden shyness on bridal mirth ? Think of your gardens and meads and rivers ; scatter your life on the woodland's dearth. Postscriptum [when the -wind has changed). So, after all, you were only playing, hiding behind the birch-crowned hill, Where the light at evening is clearly golden, a blend of sunbeam and daffodil, And the rays through the new leaves drop like honey, whence flowers their wine distil. TO MA Y. 57 O wayward May, in your Mayward way you have suddenly come to the world like love In a wonder of beauty that baffles telling, on earth below and in heaven above, While the mellow call of the cuckoo mingles with the deep content of the dove. The mustard-and-cress in the kitchen garden gladdens the householder's heart at morn, And merry voices are heard at tennis, and the click of the bat from the green is borne Where the balls keep the cricket-net meshes swaying like gusts on a field of corn. On a votive peg we hang the ulster, and bask in the sun in light array, And the long, long Winter is scarce remembered like a guest that tarried a day, And we gravely believe your nightingale whisper, " It's always like this in May." AN AUTUMN LAY. {By a Belated Oarsman). COME, little maid, to the cracked piano, The semi-grand in the coffee-room ; We'll take your harmonies all cum grano, For the strings vibrate like the crack of doom. Over the lawn the flat clouds loom, And when they lighten the rain falls faster ; Like gossips who relish a friend's disaster, The ducks quack loud in the rain-ruled gloom. I've studied the cracks in the ceiling-plaster, And the statuettes with their stolid leer, And the landscape visions of some young master, Who viewed the world through a haze of beer. We've done as much with the hostel's cheer As sane men may in corpore satio ; So come, little maid, to the cracked piano. Play us " The Battle of Prague," my dear. The silence clouds, like a potion shaken, As the limp strings jar to an ancient pain ; Their light and sweetness no touch can waken, And only the dregs of a tone remain. AN A UTUMN LA Y. 59 The silk-sewn music with fray and stain Swoons on the keys at the urgent stages, And the little maid, as she props the pages, Just murmurs, " Bother ! " and starts again. And the streaming window again engages The thoughts that stray from the field of Prague ; And the moping birds in their gauze-girt cages, And the wax-work fruits of a genus vague ; And the flies that buzz like a lazy plague Round the lone lorn jam, as it stands forsaken ; And the varnished pike in the mill-pool taken About the year that they fought at Prague. But twilight falls, and its folds encumber The misty mounds of the patient trees, And sunset cheers with a touch of umber The puddles of steel-grey Gruyere cheese. And, interposing a little ease, Our frail thoughts dally with false surmises Of a morning as brilliant as mid July's is With bravest sunshine and sweetest breeze. A soothing silence the soul surprises, For the little maid, like a hero true, Has fought her fight through its poignant crises, And shown what practice can dare and do. 6o BALLADS FROM '•PUNCH. And, tearing the moonlight in handfuls through, A giant arm in the cloudland sombre Scatters the light on a world of slumber, Through snowy craters, from gulfs of blue. HOW IT STRIKES THE CLOCK. A CLOCK sees a lot who discreetly Keeps his hands well in front of his face, While the dancers are footing it featly, Or resting securely and sweetly In the holly-hung nook, which so neatly Is not quite filled up by the case. The candles stand straight in the sconces, The boards like a looking-glass shine, And lovingly rubicund John sees To details of supper and wine. An early arrival is taken By radiant hostess in tow, And, with confidence shamefully shaken, He stands face to face with a row Of flotsam and jetsam forsaken, Whose heyday is gone long ago, Who now lie in wait, like the Kraken, To drag buoyant hopes down below. There's a youth who would gladly annul it, Though he sticks, now he's here, to his tryst, With a collar that presses his gullet, And a glove that is strained by his fist, 62 BALLADS FROM ••PUNCH." While the other, however he pull it, All efforts is fain to resist. And he knows he is certain to mull it, As he gives a last desperate twist, And the button flies off like a bullet, And the glove curls away from his wrist. There's a moody man out on the landing Who bites his moustaches and swears, For he is in solitude standing, And she's sitting up on the stairs, And without any glass he can well see The story so prettily told, That somebody else's is Elsie, As dainty in manner and mould As a shepherdess fashion'd at Chelsea In charming choice china of old. And the well-polished floor waxes shinier, And feet that were tiny look tinier, Like the white rose's wind-driven petals, Or the lawn by the blown apple-tree ; And the band to its business settles, And the dance is all glory and glee, And rubicund John's getting winier, And smiles with a courtesy free. HOW IT STRIKES THE CLOCK. 63 Like a heavenly dredger the 'cello Scoops all the soul out of a fellow, Till wildly he worships the snowy-neck'd fay In her virginal white, like the blossoming May, With her curls than the woodbine woodbinier, More precious than spell-guarded metals, More bright than the eye of the day. Then supper, with cracker and motto— Oh, the power of those sibylline leaves — When you say what it's much safer not to, In an ear that too gladly receives. And two surreptitious young creatures, With the backs of their heads for their features, Like a Janus admiring himself, Turn years to a moment of blisses, Of heart-breaking, heavenly kisses, Regardless of prudence's preachers, Papas, and position, and pelf. And I turn on my time very slowly, To give the young couple a chance, For there's something in sorrow that's holy To a soft-hearted clock at a dance. Then the chaperons yawn, and regard me With wistful and sleep-reddened eyes, 64 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." And the youngsters would gladly retard me, As if it's my fault that time flies. And dreaming of dances and marriages, Of rivals, tobacco, or bed, They seek in instalments their carriages, And the vision of pleasure has fled, And, quiet as the chamber of illness, The ball-room grows dim and forlorn, And I tick once again in the stillness, As the wind brings the rain with the morn. THE SOLDIER'S FEAR. UPON the hill he turned, To take a last fond look At the alehouse, and the village church, And the cottage by the brook. To use his pocket-handkerchief, While tears began to swell, The soldier leant upon his sword — It bent — and down he fell. Amid the roar of battle, The warrior's fellest blow Has failed to penetrate the coat That shields the vaunting foe. But though the pliant steel may cost Our bravest and our best, Be sure the sword most yielding there Has passed the strictest test. POETRY AND PASTRY. Dear Mr. Punch, I have written this poem about the mince pies, thinking it might be a good thing to have it printed. I have also put in something about Elsie, because she made them. I don't want my name put to the poem, because the fellows are sure to see Punch, and they don't understand things of this kind, and would very likely laugh at me. And one doesn't care to have one's friends' names humbugged about in the playground. Tom has looked over the verses, and says they are very good now he has invested them with artic merit, and he has put in some of his own, which are rather rot. He very nearly got the Newgate at Oxford, only he wasn't allowed to go in for the Exam, for it, as he had to be in training. I enclose a stamp, not necessarily for use, but as a quarantine of good faith. Yours truly, Ernest Pieman. (My nom de plume.) P. S. — If you don't want to use the stamp, you might send it back to me. POETRY AND PASTRY. 67 The Poem. ELSIE went clown to the kitchen Where they made the Twelfth-Night feast, And it's oh, she look'd so bewitching That cook from her cooking ceas'd, And let her make tart, pie, and cake, And she wasted a pound at least Of butter and flour ; but cook never look'd sour, And she's sometimes a surly beast. Oh, the yule log, and the ewe, ewe lamb, Eut and the yew-tree grey ; And a new year's coming up, my love, For the old year's gone away. [ Tom made this up. He says it gives a cachet. \ She look'd so lovely as she sway'd The paste with dainty fingers, That round the pastry that she made An endless glamour lingers, Like the hidden light of a swallow's flight, Or the silence of perfect singers. How dull and beas'ly are our schools, And starting is the worst day ; F 2 68 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH.' They always have new-fangled rules. And give us French the first day ; And Elsie's face will fill the place, Like a mirage when you're thirsty. Aunt Posy says that horrid boy Will kill himself with eating, But little wots she of the joy That sets my pulses beating : It's not the tart that shakes my heart, It's Elsie, pretty sweeting. And why not die ? What hope is mine ? She's now five years my senior. In vain bright eyes upon you shine If rivals come between you ; But the holidays were all divine, And Elsie was their genia.* Yes ! How can boy make better end, An end more sweet and sudden, Than, smiling, die of Elsie's pie After a course of pudding, * This is a female good genius. POETRY AND PASTRY. 69 With teeth fast fix'd in the mince she mix'd And her pastry white and wooden. Oh, the yule log, and the ewe, ewe lamb But and the yew tree grey ; And a new year's coming up, my love, For the old year's gone away. THE GREAT ADVENTURER. Dear Mr. Punxh, This is what has happened. She and I are really seriously attached to each other. She would make an adorable wife, and I'm sure I'm designed for domestic happiness, as I'm always falling in love, which is quite beastly. It keeps me continually miserable : first, when the girls don't care for me ; and secondly, when they do. Bogie (I call her Bogie because she has such beautiful red hair) is a perfect girl, and we should certainly be very happy ; but when, in the most gentlemanly way, I told her father about it, he asked me a lot of impertinent questions about my income, which was really in the worst possible taste, as he knows very well that I haven't any. How- ever, I've written a poem, which, if not entirely original, is adapted to circumstances with some skill, and I think you will own that, even if it doesn't scan, it is quite true. The people who review books are always asking, Why are there so many Minor Poets ? I can tell them one reason. It's because there are so many sordid fathers of the only girl a fellow ever really loves. He hinted some- thing about an adventurer — like a man in a farce at a THE GREAT ADVENTURER. 71 matinie — so I call my poem, Love the Adventurer (only, unfortunately, he doesn't). Here, however, is the effort :— Love the Adventurer. WHEN Love seeks a business-man's daughter, His hopes he will dash By asking how he means to support her Without any cash : The hat that is sat on You may have it blocked next day, But when the old man tries that on Love must get out of the way. You may warble love-songs in an agreeable baritone, You may wear small gloves of a mild canary-tone, You may write for the papers, Or have evolved the plot of a really new and original play ; But you'll only lose love's labours ; You can't make him see things your way. You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist ; (Though it's cmite another thing to inveigle The creature to desist) 72 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." You may move (with a crowbar) The lioness to give o'er her prey ; But there is really no bar To the inquisitiveness of a proposed father-in-law, in the matter of prospects and pay. Lovelace Lackland. ON THE RECEIPT OF A PHOTOGRAPH. AND is my hair as thin as that, And are my feet so big, And am I really getting fat, With eyes like slumbrous pig ? And does the smile, wherewith I thought To show the peace within, Appear with wreathed folly fraught Like this insensate grin ? Small wonder when, amid the dance, I seek the young and fair, They ask, with soft, confiding glance, " Oh, would you mind a square ? " i While rage and wounded vanity, Like mingled powders fizz, I cry, " Is this dark daub like me?" And conscience cries, " It is ! " Ah ! like the splash that makes you mad, And Amaryllis scream, When in swift launch the careless cad Goes hurling up the stream, 74 BALLADS FROM ''PUNCH." Or when the clouclland crystals fleck The air with feathery mazes, A snowball bursts upon your neck And makes you jump like blazes, — Or when the booby-trap is sprung Above your chamber door, Or when the chairless weight is flung, Unchecked, upon the floor, Or like the street-door's sudden slam, Such is the shock to me, Contrasting what I really am With what I hoped to be. Farewell the dreams of fond romance, Of wedding-bells and dresses, The dear discomforts of the dance, The fancied fondness of a glance, False smiles and doubtful tresses. Henceforth I spurn the worldling-crew, Renounce my cousin Mabel, And yield myself heart-whole unto The pleasures of the table. THE OLD TELEPHONE. {A Ballad of the day.) T T stands as of yore in the dear dark corner, ■*■ But the dust has gather'd, the voice has flown ; There, like a little forlorn Jack Horner, It lingers, unlook'd-for, the old telephone. The blinds in the office hang yellow and slanting, The sun strikes mottled athwart the pane, And ever a low lone voice is chanting, From days evanish'd, an old refrain : Ring, ring-a-ring ! Are you there ? Who are you ; What do you want? Ring-a-ring ! Are you there? Answer, O love ! While I rest for a bar, you Murmur your numbers, my fair, my fair ! Ring, ring-a-ring ! Like the joy-bells chiming ; Whirr ! Like a coffee-mill talking alone ; Silence ! Like poets who sleep at their rhyming ; An answer softer than cushat's moan. Yes, for a voice on the desert of business Fell like the dew, though the face was unknown ; And ever my brain with delirious dizziness Reels when I think of the old telephone. BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." Ah ! but the world whirls wearily round me, And I with the weary world am whirl'd ; Should it suddenly stop, it could scarce confound me, If, some bright morning, the angels found me Recklessly round the lamp-posts curl'd. But, in garden old, or in window'd minster, From chordless organ, or frozen bird, From bachelor bold or blushing spinster, Such soul-sweet music was never heard. In love's bright play-bill I largely star you ; I hear you ever, my unseen fair ; King, ring-a-ring ! Are you there ? Who are you ? And echo sobs — There is no one there ! AN ANGEL'S VISIT ; Or, The Artist's First Commission. AN hour ago and the world was grey, — A thoroughly Bloomsbury kind of day, — When you think of the bills that you cannot pay And turn from beautiful thoughts away, Like a sulky child from kisses, And wonder how poets sweet things can say Of a world so chilly and hard and grey, Where the wise are gloomy, and fools are gay With their sorrowful, sordid blisses. My hopes were low, and my heart was sore, For a soul's mosaic litter'd the floor, While vile pot-boilers the easels bore, And the kettle croon'd of the cheap tea-store, On smouldering coals that waved of yore In a graveyard antediluvian, When there came a tap at the studio-door — Such golden music ne'er heard before The treasure-seeker who strikes a crore Of buried rupees, or the hidden ore Of Incas in vaults Peruvian. 78 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." The rain was lashing the windows high, As if in spite of the brilliant sky That lives in my picture of last July, My holiday record of last July, My only relic of .Summer, When a wide-eyed welcome of brightest sun Spread all the room over, and dwelt upon The hyacinth's clusters of cinnamon To welcome the sweet new-comer. Then the veteran chair with a missing limb, And all that was common and mean and grim, Grew suddenly seemly, and fine and trim, Like courtliest old-world lovers ; For a luminous beauty around her flowed, And her face like the waking of morning glowed, And her hair like crag in a hollow road Where a leafy sunlight hovers. Now I hear but her nightingale melody, Though her brother, I think, talked more than she, And they didn't say half as much to me As they found to say to each other ; But every tone of her crisp, clear notes Like a water-lily on silence floats, Though dizzied memory vainly quotes What she came about with her brother. AN ANGELS VISIT. 79 She has taken the loneliness all away, And only the grace and the comfort stay ; And the light that she leaves is so pure and bright That rain and wretchedness merely make A beautiful rainbow for her sake, Who found the room in a doleful plight, And a life hung over with shadows, And out of her bounty has made it gay, As the lowliest cottage is brave in May With the cowslip bell, and the hawthorn spray, And all the spoil of the meadows. And I settle down to the sober light When the glory is tidied away for the night, And shy sweet odours can take the air — Too delicate for the noonday glare And the romping games of the burly bee — And, marring the calmness greatly, Hard chafers suddenly seize your hair, And bats zig-zag like a tailless kite, And solemn owls with their silent flight Winnow the dimness that soon will flee As the red moon rises stately. A CITY IDYL. " r ~p , IIERE'S a corner in pork, and a starling -^ Is building her nest in the corner ; And it's oh, (it is always oh,) my darling, There is hope in the heart of your City Jack Horner, Who sits in the corner to pull out a plum. Then hey, for the bonny bright day that will come For you and for me, my darling ! " Money was hard, and your father was hard— Yarely is piping the starling — And we were depress'd as coffee or lard, But firm as copper, my darling ! " And your mother was brisk as inquiries for wheat- Cotton is weak in the glooming — For she thought that love's call we should fail to meet, But like shard-borne beetles at twilight sweet The Jan Van Beers went booming. ' ' And bacon closed with a steady tone, Like choristers clearly quiring, And hogs were ten points up, my own, Like the solemn pine on the mountain lone, Or pinnacles, cloud-aspiring. A CITY IDYL. 81 • And closing prices, and stocks andjshares Are fair with a future pleasure, As I wander, a victim to shocks and stares, In my mooning hours of leisure. ' For tin is as quiet as eventide, And ribs like the sun declining ; But rails rule firm as my winsome bride, And love looks up like mining. ' And it's oh, my love, my love, And it's oh, my dear, my dear ! I've done good work with the corner in pork, And better with Jan Van Beer." Thus sang the uncouth swain to the bulls and bears While the still morn went out in shirtings^grey ; He touclvd the tender stops of booms and scares, With eager thought warbling his Mincing Lay. He thought without alarm of settling day, Nor jumped with panic fear when prices fell Crashing, but every eve he took his way To Tooting, all his tale of love to tell While the stars rose, and wild swans left their haunts, Stags sought the pools, and the grand elephants Waved their Grand Trunks aloft, and all was well. G TO MY HAIRDRESSER. {Not to make Conversation.) YOU tell me that the clay is fine. You say my hair is getting thin, Anon you proffer Smearoline, Or comment on my tender skin ; Good friend, for goodness' sake forbear, I prithee only cut my hair. For think — a shy, retiring man, I shun the toilet's public rite, Until my cousins— cousins can — Reproach me for a perfect fright. And must I bear, too shy to snub, The babble of your Toilet Club ? 1 know, for every day for years I've scann'd the glass with careful eye, Whether the heaven clouds or clears, Whether the roads are wet or dry ; Indeed, indeed, I do not care Whether you think it foul or fair. TO MY HAIRDRESSER. And why observe with honied zest, What men by many phrases call, That phase which must be dubb'd at best Unduly intellectual? What though my loftier temples shine, That is no business of thine. Think you, when, in your wrapper swathed, I cower beneath the harrowing comb, Or crouch, in creaming lather bathed, Beneath the hose's numbing foam, Or bear, while tears unbidden gush, The rigours of your softest brush,— Think you, at such a time as this, I care to hear, with nerves unstrung, The dirge of bygone days of bliss Trip lightly from a stranger's tongue ? What if your victim stood at bay, And told you you were bald or grey ? The head you handle like a block, And brand with slighting comments cool, Has bravely borne the battle's shock, And starr'd the grey old walls at school ; Has sprained a Bishop's reverend wrist, And badly bruised a Judge's fist. 84 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." They were not fudge and Bishop then, But only chubby, scrubby boys ; And now they're grave and reverend men. I value those remember'd joys, And grieve that evil should be said About my own, my only head. Your politics are nought to me ; I'll keep my views about the weather : I only wish we could agree That I am neither wood nor leather. Be gentle ; 'tis the nobler plan, And stint your chatter, if you can. THEME WITH VARIATIONS. OEATED to-day at the organ, ^-^ Ready to play what you please, I gaze like an infinite Gorgon, Till you feel hardly at ease. Hark to the sough of the bellows Storing harmonious gales, When the pipes speak to their fellows — Well, I will play you the scales. Out of this simple material Music's vast multitude throngs, Festal and plagal and ferial Operas, dirges, and songs. Here is a clue to unravel, Here is a theme never fails ; A switchback unending to travel Over the smooth-running scales. Hark, how we rush up the gamut, A ladder in fieriest need ; And now, like a hind who says, "Dam'ut ! We play very low down indeed. 86 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." Up, like a storm-beaten packet, Down, and the passenger pales : Here comes the steward thro' the racket- Gaily I play you the scales. Off goes the right hand, convulsively, Up to the manual's end ; Left hand pursues it impulsively, Like an unauthorized friend. Fashion's caprices may criticize Aught of its standard that fails ; Fearing scorn's finger nor pity's eyes, Boldly I practise the scales. This is a wedding march — trousseau, Presents, and favours, and rice : Now 'tis the Dream of a Rousseau Changed to a waltz in a trice. Thus unencumber'd, indefinite, Each his own melody hails, Each sees the hand of a chef in it, Safe in the haven of scales. Some may interpret them leatherly, Thunder of fort and of fleet ; Others will warble them weatherly, Milkmaid and ferry complete ; THEME WITH VARIATIONS. 87 Vesperish, cloister'd, and choirsome, Heimweh with mill-wheels and dales, Frankly unmeaning and tiresome, All are embraced by the scales. Trade, with its spacious surroundings, Spices, and bullion, and bales, Argosies, sinkings, and soundings, Postage for far-away mails ; Justice with eyes in a bandage, Fish who are chivied by whales— Ah, you might live to a grand age Ere you could play out the scales. Brennus and Rome, and its history, Alpenstocks, axes, and veils, Dragons and creatures of mystery Swingeing their horrible tails. Jockey, and boxer, and rower, Men who climb walls out of gaols, Butterflies — bother that blower ! He's let the wind out of the scales. TOMMY'S TURK. YOUNG TOMMY had a turban'd Turk, A model toy, a birthday token ; You wound him up, and watch'd him work — Till he got broken. His head would wag, his eyes would roll, He moved his arms with gesture stately, And played a dozen antics droll, Which pleased us greatly. The idol of the chattering crowd, He acquiesced in every notion, And with unfailing tact allow'd Our deep devotion. He ruled, a despot kind and strong, The nursery's turbulent tribesmen swaying, Till something with his works went wrong, And he ceased playing. None can tell how. His subjects set Such store upon his fellow-feeling, That they were likely to forget Mere wires and wheeling. TO.l/.l/F'S TURK. 89 Did Willy's killing kindness press Down the reluctant Paynim's thrapple Those crumbs of cake, and watercress, And bits of apple? Did Cissie, curious child of Eve, Seek to explore his inmost being, And, frightened, her researches leave Unblest with seeing ? Or Mab, who duty never shirks, An advocate of Western polish, Had dreams perchance of teaching Turks To speak in Dollish. For all the dolls at home can speak, And, on the slightest provocation, Engage, with ventriloquial squeak, In conversation. And she, belike, essay'd to teach The unresponsive Asiatic, And caused, instead of answering speech, Reserve rheumatic. 9 o BALLADS FROM "PUNCH.' He sits, serene as other Turks, In faultless Oriental vesture ; But never since they hurt his works Has changed a gesture. O Tommy's Turk, your fate and mine Are by a mystic bond united, And neither of us gives a sign Of being blighted. On Southern shores the waters fair Murmur their office pure and priestly, And Elsie flirts and dances there ; — It's simply beastly. Unmoved I meet my daily lot, Mechanically eat my dinner, Indifferently lose a " pot," Or back the winner ; Waltz with dear Mrs. Bumblebee, Although no normal arm can span her- Fat, fair, and fortiter in re, And suave in manner. TOMMY'S TURK. qi Or to Miss Jonquil on the stairs Where Elsie shone a drift of whiteness, Pour out the unexpressive pray'rs Of pure politeness. And if our fingers chance to touch, If I gaze fondly at her tresses, It is because their taste is much The same in dresses. I'll hie away to Gamlingay, Chester-le-Street, or Thorpc-le-Soken ; I cannot work ; like Tommy's Turk, My springs are broken. A BALLAD OF BETROTHAL. I AM beloved ; not a doubt of it, Goal of my longing for years ! Now, how the deuce to get out of it, Minus reproaches and tears. Not that my passion has wavered Since I first plunged over ears Deep in the well of illusion, Deeper than plummet e'er sounded, And, with ecstatic confusion, Words which I spoke to you quavered, Laden with burden unbounded, Faltering tentative " dears." Once you would chirp like a linnet, Now you sit silent as Fate — Baffled, I muse for a minute, Then I remember I'm late. Brown I have often kept kicking His heels, in a comfortless state,' He never gave me reproaches, Only, " You are a nice fellow." A BALLAD OF BETROTHAL. 93 He's made me miss trains and coaches, Counting the clock's steady ticking, / don't turn sulky and yellow, /only whistle and wait. Once you flushed furtively, shyly, Love in your eyes was aglow, When, by some stratagem wily, I stole a march on the foe. Now that we're publicly plighted, Why should you harass me so ? Changing our sunshine to thunder ? If other duties should call, love, Why should you icily wonder When I would greet you delighted, Why I come near you at all, love, Cold as a lady of dough ? Beware, O Amanda, I pray you, The scourge of the stay-at-home spouse ! No longer constraint! to obey you, I'd stick like a leech to my vows. No office to seek in the mornings, No visiting stables and cows, No afternoon club with the papers, No home-coming, welcome and cheery, 94 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH" But checking of butchers and drapers, And kitchen commotions, and "warning-, 7 ' If you shrink from a picture so dreary, Don't train me loo much to the house ! Lady, I cannot be true to you, If like a knife you come down, Keen to exact what is due to you, Killing romance with a frown. Start we a sensible " chummery,"' Such as men live in together, Suited for all sorts of weather, Free from this Valentine flummery, Each with the length of the tether. BALLADS OF TO- DAY. Furnival's Inn. {By Houquet Walkere.) T N your still garden, when the bells are chiming, -*- When the rooks clamour, and the crocus blows, And house-boat snails the border-bricks are sliming, And light and shadow line the lawn in rows, Think how, amid the roar of City traffic, I make heart's music to the jarring din, And spin Alcaic, Elegiac, Sapphic, Taking mine ease in Furnival's Old Inn. " FurnivaVs Inn, and FumivaVs out/, Furnival ' s grown a gadabout ; FurnivaVs here, and Furnival's there, Thorough the crescent, athwart the square ; FurnivaVs off, and FurnivaVs on, IVhither, ye Shepherds, has Furnival gone ? Rolls there a 'bus by, or careers a hansom, Rattles the peaceful Pickford's chariot-van, Love still, with smiling eyes, will pay the ransom, Still chant serene what man hath made of man. 96 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH: Though on their prancing destriers the Templars Stay not the traffic now in Fetter Lane, The Mail-cart Knight reveres his great exemplars, And drives his palfrey half as fast again. Still, through a conflorescent spilth of splendour, Vanquishing Venice and the lim lagoon, The heart will yearn for England's April tender, Singing, Go, rill, along with sober boon. And, like some great Express to Bath or Grantham, Gleams of your voice that day you came to tea Mingle for ever with the old-world anthem, Sung on May morns to Tudor minstrelsie, " Fumival's Inn, and FurnivaVs outt, FurnivaVs grown a gadabout ; Furnival's here, and Fumival's there, Over the crescent, and through the square ; FurnivaVs off, and Fumival's on, Whither, ye Nymphs, has the malapert gone?" BALLADS OF TO-DAY. 97 "W Drifting. {By Ilouquet Walkire). ILL we walk a little faster?" said the Miller to the Maid. " There's the Cooper close behind us, and a Miller's ne'er afraid ; But 'twould make the laddie's heart beat sair beneath the chestnut shade, If he saw us walk together in the hey-day, yeo-ho weather, Since hand in hand a week agone wi' you the Cooper stray'd." " Oh, Miller, Miller, Miller," the winsome lass replied, " In flow'ring rush and meadow-sweet that grow the stream beside, The ferry-boy his ferry-boat against the bank has tied ; Then, sweetheart blithe and merry, you shall row me o'er the ferry ; Though Cooper John is cross and sad, the stream is deep and wide." H 98 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." He has row'd her o'er the river ; they have climbed the fencing slight, Where Lettice fair, the laundry lass, has hung the kirtle white, And in Farmer Giles's clover-field their troth they're fain to plight ; But the brindled bull was feeding, broke in upon their pleading, And toss'd them o'er the palings in the golden evening light. Up to the star-land sailing, Over the pleasaunce paling, It is merrie, merrie, merrie in the crimson evening glow ; Birds in the orchard housing, Kine in the clover browsing, And a ferry-boat is drifting fast where deep weir-waters flow. BALLADS OF TO-DAY. 99 Teddington Lock. By Archie Smiler. '" I ""IS noon, joyous noontide, by Isleworth clock, ■*■ As we speed with the tide up to Teddington Lock. So fast and so full is the bountiful flood, Forgotten and hidden are shallows and mud. The sun flashes up from each eddying swirl, The trees keep their tresses in crispest of curl ; Each glance is a laugh, and each word is a song, As we strongly and steadily paddle along. And the pains of the past and the future we mock, As we urge our light shallop to Teddington Lock. There's a call, like a blackbird's who sits on a branch, — The mellow salute of an on-coming launch. Our shallop discreetly gets out of the way, As it drives through the water all billows and spray ; And it brays like a donkey, and crows like a cock, A.s it proudly precedes us in Teddington Lock. Ah ! why does my rubicund countenance blanch, As I scan the white gossamer gowns on the launch ? Is it love that thus claims to be honoured at sight? Would I woo, would I win, those fair women in white ? H 2 ioo BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." No, gladly I'd sink through the floor of the boat, Regardless of whether the rest of us float. The sunlight is dulled, there's a nip in the breeze, And the curl is gone out of the hair of the trees, And the Lock fills as slowly as ever it can As I gaze on a waist I no longer may span, And the past shakes like jelly at memory's knock— I have met my old sweetheart in Teddington Lock ! She sits so serenely unconscious and cool, While I feel like a culprit and look like a fool ; At the blink of her een I am fain to forget The captious caprice of the cruel coquette, And all our fond follies come back in a flock, As I suddenly see her in Teddington Lock. You may row on the river, or sail on the sea, You may sparkle at dinner or five o'clock tea, You may revel at Ramsgate, or sulk at Southend, You may swagger at Southsea, at Yarmouth unbend, You may crush your fine feelings with business cares, And blight your romance with political airs ; But the past springs to light like a jack-in-the-box, When you meet your old sweethearts on launches in locks. PATERFAMILIAS LOQUITUR. THE holidays are o'er ! no more we see Boots in all places where no boots should be ; No more the hungry brood sweeps clear the platter With the perpetual grace of cheery chatter ; No more the bolster battle-cries are borne Through the warm slumbers of the early morn. No more indignant James comes in to tell How master Tom has stormed his citadel, And, scorning covert threat and suasion soft, Rules for an hour the monarch of the loft. Once more 'tis safe the shrubbery paths to tread Without a javelin hurtling by one's head ; No longer lurk behind the orchard trees White-headed Indians, chubby Soudanese ; And neighbouring pigs wallow with wonted grace, Free from the terrors of the sudden chase. Again we face the frost, without dismay, Lest we be called to skate an hour ere day, Or with a book endure a day-long fall Secure from lawless cricket in the hall. Now in the servants' mystic realm again Their ancient order and decorum reign ; 102 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." Yet can I read in Bibb's, the butler's, eye A latent sorrow for the larks gone by. Unruffled now in temper, and in look Sedate and calm once more is Mrs. Cook. Yet all her larder's treasures she'd explore, And spend her skill to greet the boys once more. The coachman, as a Lord Chief Justice grave, His loved solemnity no more must waive ; Majestic silence seals his lips, and yet I know his dignity is half regret. For now the lords of home's fair pastures free Plunge in the schoolroom's fierce democratic ; Now in reluctant ears the school-bell sounds ; On the soaked grass once more the football bounds ; The home-sick novice hears the horrid thud, And headlong prints his flannels in the mud. Now ponder sullen brows o'er Homer's page, While luckless masters share Achilles' rage. And rising scholars mourn their studious lot, And brand the classic bards as " awful rot." Ah ! though at home the endless clamours cease, There is much desert to a little peace. Come, Easter, come, to Pater and to boys, And bring them back with all their tricks and noise. TO CHLOE. To have some move Supper. I ASK not again to encircle that waist, Though prettier never a girdle has graced ; That our feet in the fetters of rhythmical bars May twinkle together, like hide-and-seek stars ; I look not again for the flush on thy cheek, The eyes that of mystical maidenhood speak, The rabblesome sunlight of clustering curls, And the dancing delight of the dearest of girls ; I seek not to bind you for waltzes far on, When one, or the other, or both, may be gone, Nor to throw others over, with falsehood and pain,- But let us, my fair one, have supper again. Should I slip in alone I should quail at the eye Of the waiter who served me with turkey and pie, Who plenished my plate with the choicest of fare, And filled up my glass with assiduous care. But happy and bold with a chivalrous grace, With you for my object I'll make for a place. io 4 BALLADS FROM ••PUNCH." I do not desire you to drink or to eat, Coquette with the Clicquot, or toy with a sweet, But I, gentle lady, with might and with main, Will really and truly have supper again. Then leave we the Arabs, Venetians, and Japs, The satin -skinned beauties in charity caps, The tricksy young pinafored creatures in socks, And the slim scintillations of ankles and clocks. The sweet fishermaid from some myrtle-clad coast, The statue diviner than sculpture can boast. The youth in a velvet of willow-leaf hue, The dashing Hussar in his medals and blue ; Like pattern in paper on waiting-room wall, Like crests of the billows, that rise as they fall, Love's fancies in endless procession advance, But supper stands firm in the swirl of the dance. For you and for me in the wonderful crowd, Nay, let us confess it, some fancy cries loud, And the swoop of the music, like gales of the spring, Brings tidings of summer to come on its wing. But I find that the costume of Francis the First Develops inordinate hunger and thirst ; TO CHLOR. So seek we the supper-room, silent and cool, With the Bandit and Milkmaid, the Fairy and Fool, And list to the soul-racking music unmoved, And eat unmolested, and laugh unreproved. For the world it is weary, and true-love is vain, So let us, I pray you, have supper again. VERY EARLY SPRING. (By a Mixed- Impressionist.) THE day lengthens In crocus and daffodil light ; The cold strengthens, Till one's wife is a regular fright ; Blinding and choking, Like a storm in a desert of sand, Is the dry joking Of the well-meaning mud in the Strand. Snowdrops tranquil, Glad of their snowdrop lot ! Fragrant jonquil, Hyacinths, sixpence a pot ! Yellow in Jaffa Oranges, juicy and sweet ; Yellow in daffa- downdillies sold in the street ! Copper and amber Over St. Clement's Danes The clouds clamber, Then— oh, my hat !— how it rains ! VERY EARLY SPRING. 107 An hour's journey By a leisurely local train, And, furzy and ferny, Here is the home again. The tree-tops feather The sharp, cold line of the sky ; In the windy weather The clacketty mill-sails fly. The brown furrows Follow the sturdy team ; On sandy burrows Patches of sunlight gleam. (The breezy vision Is banished from fancy's eye By fierce collision With a corpulent passer-by. ) Like solemn Hindoos, The night-clouds are swathed in white, And the shop-windows Shame them with shameless light ; But day lingers Over the weary land, With wan fingers Soothing its sleeping hand, 108 BALLADS FROM "PUNCH. 1 As a lone mother, Weary with anguish wild, Her grief will smother Nursing a neighbour's child. THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. THE air with sunlight is alive, The sappy boughs are supple, And every seat that's meant for five Can only hold a couple. The soft wind warbles like a dream, The supple boughs are sappy, And all the scatter'd couples seem Mysteriously happy. His mate the mellow mavis greets, Sappy the supple boughs are, And all the pairs on all the seats Exchanging silent vows are. Mute eloquence of lowly love ! Sweet void, by words unfillable ! Convention's fetters far above, They need not breathe a syllable ! She contemplates her o'er-teemed gloves, Her boots' conspicuous newness ; While he the circumambient loves Surveys through smoke-wreaths' blueness. no BALLADS FROM "PUNCH." Ah, would th.it I and Geraldine, Each a Supreme Caucasian, Could walk like them upon the green, Unvex'd by conversation. But I and plighted Geraldine, When forth we fare together, First do full justice to the scene, And then discuss the weather. The weather ! We whose spirits bold Feel every star-beat tingle, Gather the moonlight's broken gold From the foam-curdled shingle ; Throb strangely when the new leaves shoot, As though too tightly bodied, And wave a courteous salute When breezy trees have nodded ! O tyrant custom ! Happy they Who heed not, nor obey it ; Who, having nothing left to say, Simply sit still and say it. THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. in They lounge at ease beneath the trees, Or pace the paths together, And let the well-contented breeze Whisper about the weather. SUBURBAN LOVE-SONG. THE blacks float down with a lazy grace, Hey, how the twirtle-birds twitter ! And softly settle on hands and face ; And the shards in the rockery glitter. The boughs are black and the buds are green— Hey, how the twitter-birds twirtle ! And Cicely over the trellis-screen Is bleaching her summer kirtle. The mustard and cress (can they grow apart— Those twin-souls, cress and mustard ?) Are springing apace ; they have made such a start That the pattern is rather fiuster'd : For I made a device in the moist dark mould, In the shape of A's and S's, In capital letters, firm and bold, I sow'd my mustard and cresses. And I traced a heart and a true-love knot In a geometrical pattern, And it seems to have run to I can't tell what, For Flora has proved a slattern. SUBURBAN LOVE-SONG. 113 Or the sparrows, whose chirpings at daybreak shrill, Like the voice of a giant Cicala, Of most of the letters have had their will, In a vegetarian gala. Here comes no nymph where the blue waves lisp On the white sands' gleaming level, Where the sharp light strikes on the laurel crisp, And flowers in the cool shade revel. But the garden shrubs are as fair to me As pine, and arbutus, and myrtle That grow by the shores of the Grecian sea, Where deathless nightingales twirtle. And the little house, with its suites complete, And the manifold anti-macassar, And the chalet cage, whence he greets the street — Me