Mine is a house at Notting Hill:The Indian's tum-tum smites my ear;A crowd enjoys a casual 'mill'With no policeman lingering near.The thief attempts the chain and watchConspicuous in my spacious vest;Their balls of brass the tumblers catch,In soiled and spangled garments dressed.Around my steps street-organs bringThe dirtiest brats that can be seen;And boys turn wheels, and niggers singTo banjo and to tambourine.The dustman bawls; the beggars teaseWhen coppers are not duly given;Whilst papers, flowers, and fusees,Annoy me six days out of seven.
Mine is a house at Notting Hill:The Indian's tum-tum smites my ear;A crowd enjoys a casual 'mill'With no policeman lingering near.The thief attempts the chain and watchConspicuous in my spacious vest;Their balls of brass the tumblers catch,In soiled and spangled garments dressed.Around my steps street-organs bringThe dirtiest brats that can be seen;And boys turn wheels, and niggers singTo banjo and to tambourine.The dustman bawls; the beggars teaseWhen coppers are not duly given;Whilst papers, flowers, and fusees,Annoy me six days out of seven.
Mine is a house at Notting Hill:The Indian's tum-tum smites my ear;A crowd enjoys a casual 'mill'With no policeman lingering near.
Mine is a house at Notting Hill:
The Indian's tum-tum smites my ear;
A crowd enjoys a casual 'mill'
With no policeman lingering near.
The thief attempts the chain and watchConspicuous in my spacious vest;Their balls of brass the tumblers catch,In soiled and spangled garments dressed.
The thief attempts the chain and watch
Conspicuous in my spacious vest;
Their balls of brass the tumblers catch,
In soiled and spangled garments dressed.
Around my steps street-organs bringThe dirtiest brats that can be seen;And boys turn wheels, and niggers singTo banjo and to tambourine.
Around my steps street-organs bring
The dirtiest brats that can be seen;
And boys turn wheels, and niggers sing
To banjo and to tambourine.
The dustman bawls; the beggars teaseWhen coppers are not duly given;Whilst papers, flowers, and fusees,Annoy me six days out of seven.
The dustman bawls; the beggars tease
When coppers are not duly given;
Whilst papers, flowers, and fusees,
Annoy me six days out of seven.
Fish have their times to bite—The bream in summer, and the trout in spring,What time the hawthorn buds are white,And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering.The pike bite free when fallThe autumn leaves before the north-wind's breath,And tench in June, but there are all—There are all seasons for the gudgeon's death.The trout his ambush keepsCrafty and strong, in Pangbourne's eddying pools,And patient still in Marlow deepsFor the shy barbel wait expectant fools.Many the perch but smallThat swim in Basildon, and Thames hath noughtLike Cookham's pike, but, oh! in all—Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught.The old man angles stillFor roach, and sits red-faced and fills his chair;And perch, the boy expects to kill,And roves and fishes here and fishes there.The child but three feet tallFor the gay minnows and the bleak doth plyHis bending hazel, but by all—Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die.
Fish have their times to bite—The bream in summer, and the trout in spring,What time the hawthorn buds are white,And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering.The pike bite free when fallThe autumn leaves before the north-wind's breath,And tench in June, but there are all—There are all seasons for the gudgeon's death.The trout his ambush keepsCrafty and strong, in Pangbourne's eddying pools,And patient still in Marlow deepsFor the shy barbel wait expectant fools.Many the perch but smallThat swim in Basildon, and Thames hath noughtLike Cookham's pike, but, oh! in all—Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught.The old man angles stillFor roach, and sits red-faced and fills his chair;And perch, the boy expects to kill,And roves and fishes here and fishes there.The child but three feet tallFor the gay minnows and the bleak doth plyHis bending hazel, but by all—Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die.
Fish have their times to bite—The bream in summer, and the trout in spring,What time the hawthorn buds are white,And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering.
Fish have their times to bite—
The bream in summer, and the trout in spring,
What time the hawthorn buds are white,
And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering.
The pike bite free when fallThe autumn leaves before the north-wind's breath,And tench in June, but there are all—There are all seasons for the gudgeon's death.
The pike bite free when fall
The autumn leaves before the north-wind's breath,
And tench in June, but there are all—
There are all seasons for the gudgeon's death.
The trout his ambush keepsCrafty and strong, in Pangbourne's eddying pools,And patient still in Marlow deepsFor the shy barbel wait expectant fools.
The trout his ambush keeps
Crafty and strong, in Pangbourne's eddying pools,
And patient still in Marlow deeps
For the shy barbel wait expectant fools.
Many the perch but smallThat swim in Basildon, and Thames hath noughtLike Cookham's pike, but, oh! in all—Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught.
Many the perch but small
That swim in Basildon, and Thames hath nought
Like Cookham's pike, but, oh! in all—
Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught.
The old man angles stillFor roach, and sits red-faced and fills his chair;And perch, the boy expects to kill,And roves and fishes here and fishes there.
The old man angles still
For roach, and sits red-faced and fills his chair;
And perch, the boy expects to kill,
And roves and fishes here and fishes there.
The child but three feet tallFor the gay minnows and the bleak doth plyHis bending hazel, but by all—Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die.
The child but three feet tall
For the gay minnows and the bleak doth ply
His bending hazel, but by all—
Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die.
Hang thee, vile North Easter:Other things may beVery bad to bear with,Nothing equals thee.Grim and grey North Easter,From each Essex-bog,From the Plaistow marshes,Rolling London fog—'Tired we are of Summer'Kingsley may declare,I give the assertionContradiction bare,I, in bed, this morningFelt thee, as I lay:'There's a vile North EasterOut of doors to-day!'Set the dust clouds blowingTill each face they strike,With the blacks is growingChimney-sweeper like.Fill our rooms with smoke gustsFrom the chimney-pipe.Fill our eyes with water,That defies the wipe.Through the draughty passageWhistle loud and high,Making doors and windowsRattle, flap and fly;Mark, that vile North EasterRoaring up the vent,Nipping soul and body,Breeding discontent!Squall, my noisy children;Smoke, my parlour grate;Scold, my shrewish partner;I accept my fate.All is quite in tune withThis North Eastern Blast;Who can look for comfortTill this wind be past?If all goes contrary,Who can feel surprise,With this Rude North EasterIn his teeth and eyes?It blows much too often.Nine days out of ten,Yet we boast our climate,Like true English men!In their soft South EastersCould I bask at ease,I'd let France and NaplesBully as they please,But while this North EasterIn one's teeth is hurled,Liberty seems worth justNothing in the world.Come, as came our fathersHeralded by thee,Blasting, blighting, burningOut of Normandy.Come and flay and skin us,And dry up our blood—All to have a KingsleySwear it does him good!
Hang thee, vile North Easter:Other things may beVery bad to bear with,Nothing equals thee.Grim and grey North Easter,From each Essex-bog,From the Plaistow marshes,Rolling London fog—'Tired we are of Summer'Kingsley may declare,I give the assertionContradiction bare,I, in bed, this morningFelt thee, as I lay:'There's a vile North EasterOut of doors to-day!'Set the dust clouds blowingTill each face they strike,With the blacks is growingChimney-sweeper like.Fill our rooms with smoke gustsFrom the chimney-pipe.Fill our eyes with water,That defies the wipe.Through the draughty passageWhistle loud and high,Making doors and windowsRattle, flap and fly;Mark, that vile North EasterRoaring up the vent,Nipping soul and body,Breeding discontent!Squall, my noisy children;Smoke, my parlour grate;Scold, my shrewish partner;I accept my fate.All is quite in tune withThis North Eastern Blast;Who can look for comfortTill this wind be past?If all goes contrary,Who can feel surprise,With this Rude North EasterIn his teeth and eyes?It blows much too often.Nine days out of ten,Yet we boast our climate,Like true English men!In their soft South EastersCould I bask at ease,I'd let France and NaplesBully as they please,But while this North EasterIn one's teeth is hurled,Liberty seems worth justNothing in the world.Come, as came our fathersHeralded by thee,Blasting, blighting, burningOut of Normandy.Come and flay and skin us,And dry up our blood—All to have a KingsleySwear it does him good!
Hang thee, vile North Easter:Other things may beVery bad to bear with,Nothing equals thee.Grim and grey North Easter,From each Essex-bog,From the Plaistow marshes,Rolling London fog—'Tired we are of Summer'Kingsley may declare,I give the assertionContradiction bare,I, in bed, this morningFelt thee, as I lay:'There's a vile North EasterOut of doors to-day!'Set the dust clouds blowingTill each face they strike,With the blacks is growingChimney-sweeper like.Fill our rooms with smoke gustsFrom the chimney-pipe.Fill our eyes with water,That defies the wipe.Through the draughty passageWhistle loud and high,Making doors and windowsRattle, flap and fly;Mark, that vile North EasterRoaring up the vent,Nipping soul and body,Breeding discontent!Squall, my noisy children;Smoke, my parlour grate;Scold, my shrewish partner;I accept my fate.All is quite in tune withThis North Eastern Blast;Who can look for comfortTill this wind be past?If all goes contrary,Who can feel surprise,With this Rude North EasterIn his teeth and eyes?It blows much too often.Nine days out of ten,Yet we boast our climate,Like true English men!In their soft South EastersCould I bask at ease,I'd let France and NaplesBully as they please,But while this North EasterIn one's teeth is hurled,Liberty seems worth justNothing in the world.Come, as came our fathersHeralded by thee,Blasting, blighting, burningOut of Normandy.Come and flay and skin us,And dry up our blood—All to have a KingsleySwear it does him good!
Hang thee, vile North Easter:
Other things may be
Very bad to bear with,
Nothing equals thee.
Grim and grey North Easter,
From each Essex-bog,
From the Plaistow marshes,
Rolling London fog—
'Tired we are of Summer'
Kingsley may declare,
I give the assertion
Contradiction bare,
I, in bed, this morning
Felt thee, as I lay:
'There's a vile North Easter
Out of doors to-day!'
Set the dust clouds blowing
Till each face they strike,
With the blacks is growing
Chimney-sweeper like.
Fill our rooms with smoke gusts
From the chimney-pipe.
Fill our eyes with water,
That defies the wipe.
Through the draughty passage
Whistle loud and high,
Making doors and windows
Rattle, flap and fly;
Mark, that vile North Easter
Roaring up the vent,
Nipping soul and body,
Breeding discontent!
Squall, my noisy children;
Smoke, my parlour grate;
Scold, my shrewish partner;
I accept my fate.
All is quite in tune with
This North Eastern Blast;
Who can look for comfort
Till this wind be past?
If all goes contrary,
Who can feel surprise,
With this Rude North Easter
In his teeth and eyes?
It blows much too often.
Nine days out of ten,
Yet we boast our climate,
Like true English men!
In their soft South Easters
Could I bask at ease,
I'd let France and Naples
Bully as they please,
But while this North Easter
In one's teeth is hurled,
Liberty seems worth just
Nothing in the world.
Come, as came our fathers
Heralded by thee,
Blasting, blighting, burning
Out of Normandy.
Come and flay and skin us,
And dry up our blood—
All to have a Kingsley
Swear it does him good!
TheAcademyreports that the students of Girton College have dissolved their 'Browning Society,' and expended its remaining funds, two shillings and twopence, upon chocolate creams.
Let us begin and portion out these sweets,Sitting together.Leave we our deep debates, our sage conceits,—Wherefore? and whether?Thus with a fine that fits the work begunOur labours crowning,For we, in sooth, our duty well have doneBy Robert Browning.Have we not wrought at essay and critique,Scorning supine ease?Wrestled with clauses crabbed as Bito's Greek,Baffling as Chinese?Out the Inn Album's mystic heart we took,Lucid of soul, andThreaded the mazes of the Ring and Book;Cleared up Childe Roland.We settled Fifine's business—let her be—(Strangest of lasses;)Watched by the hour some thick-veiled truth to seeWhere Pippa passes.(Though, dare we own, secure in victors' gains,Ample to shield us?Red Cotton Night-cap Country for our painsLittle would yield us.)What then to do? Our culture-feast drag outE'en to satiety?Oft such the fate that findeth, nothing doubt,Such a Society.Oh, the dull meetings! Some one yawns anaye,One gapes again ayea.We girls determined not to yawn, but buyChocolate Ménier.Fry's creams are cheap, but Cadbury's excel,(Quick, Maud, for none wait)Nay, now, 'tis Ménier bears away the bell,Sold by the ton-weight.So, with unburdened brains and spirits light,Blithe did we troop hence,All our funds voted for this closing rite,—Just two-and-two-pence.Do—make in scorn, old Crœsus, proud and glum,Peaked eyebrow lift eye;Put case one stick's a halfpenny; work the sum;Full two and fifty.Off with the twine! who scans each smooth brown slabYet not supposethWhat soft, sweet, cold, pure whiteness, bound in drab.Tooth's bite discloseth?Are they not grand? Why (you may think it odd)Some power alchemicTurns, as we munch, to Zeus-assenting nodSneers Academic.Till, when one cries, ''Ware hours that fleet like clouds,Time, deft escaper!'We answer bold: 'Leave Time to Dons and Dowds;(Grace, pass the paper)Say, boots it aught to evermore affectRaptures high-flying?Thoughwechoose chocolate, will the world suspectGenius undying?'
Let us begin and portion out these sweets,Sitting together.Leave we our deep debates, our sage conceits,—Wherefore? and whether?Thus with a fine that fits the work begunOur labours crowning,For we, in sooth, our duty well have doneBy Robert Browning.Have we not wrought at essay and critique,Scorning supine ease?Wrestled with clauses crabbed as Bito's Greek,Baffling as Chinese?Out the Inn Album's mystic heart we took,Lucid of soul, andThreaded the mazes of the Ring and Book;Cleared up Childe Roland.We settled Fifine's business—let her be—(Strangest of lasses;)Watched by the hour some thick-veiled truth to seeWhere Pippa passes.(Though, dare we own, secure in victors' gains,Ample to shield us?Red Cotton Night-cap Country for our painsLittle would yield us.)What then to do? Our culture-feast drag outE'en to satiety?Oft such the fate that findeth, nothing doubt,Such a Society.Oh, the dull meetings! Some one yawns anaye,One gapes again ayea.We girls determined not to yawn, but buyChocolate Ménier.Fry's creams are cheap, but Cadbury's excel,(Quick, Maud, for none wait)Nay, now, 'tis Ménier bears away the bell,Sold by the ton-weight.So, with unburdened brains and spirits light,Blithe did we troop hence,All our funds voted for this closing rite,—Just two-and-two-pence.Do—make in scorn, old Crœsus, proud and glum,Peaked eyebrow lift eye;Put case one stick's a halfpenny; work the sum;Full two and fifty.Off with the twine! who scans each smooth brown slabYet not supposethWhat soft, sweet, cold, pure whiteness, bound in drab.Tooth's bite discloseth?Are they not grand? Why (you may think it odd)Some power alchemicTurns, as we munch, to Zeus-assenting nodSneers Academic.Till, when one cries, ''Ware hours that fleet like clouds,Time, deft escaper!'We answer bold: 'Leave Time to Dons and Dowds;(Grace, pass the paper)Say, boots it aught to evermore affectRaptures high-flying?Thoughwechoose chocolate, will the world suspectGenius undying?'
Let us begin and portion out these sweets,Sitting together.Leave we our deep debates, our sage conceits,—Wherefore? and whether?Thus with a fine that fits the work begunOur labours crowning,For we, in sooth, our duty well have doneBy Robert Browning.Have we not wrought at essay and critique,Scorning supine ease?Wrestled with clauses crabbed as Bito's Greek,Baffling as Chinese?Out the Inn Album's mystic heart we took,Lucid of soul, andThreaded the mazes of the Ring and Book;Cleared up Childe Roland.We settled Fifine's business—let her be—(Strangest of lasses;)Watched by the hour some thick-veiled truth to seeWhere Pippa passes.(Though, dare we own, secure in victors' gains,Ample to shield us?Red Cotton Night-cap Country for our painsLittle would yield us.)What then to do? Our culture-feast drag outE'en to satiety?Oft such the fate that findeth, nothing doubt,Such a Society.Oh, the dull meetings! Some one yawns anaye,One gapes again ayea.We girls determined not to yawn, but buyChocolate Ménier.Fry's creams are cheap, but Cadbury's excel,(Quick, Maud, for none wait)Nay, now, 'tis Ménier bears away the bell,Sold by the ton-weight.So, with unburdened brains and spirits light,Blithe did we troop hence,All our funds voted for this closing rite,—Just two-and-two-pence.Do—make in scorn, old Crœsus, proud and glum,Peaked eyebrow lift eye;Put case one stick's a halfpenny; work the sum;Full two and fifty.Off with the twine! who scans each smooth brown slabYet not supposethWhat soft, sweet, cold, pure whiteness, bound in drab.Tooth's bite discloseth?Are they not grand? Why (you may think it odd)Some power alchemicTurns, as we munch, to Zeus-assenting nodSneers Academic.Till, when one cries, ''Ware hours that fleet like clouds,Time, deft escaper!'We answer bold: 'Leave Time to Dons and Dowds;(Grace, pass the paper)Say, boots it aught to evermore affectRaptures high-flying?Thoughwechoose chocolate, will the world suspectGenius undying?'
Let us begin and portion out these sweets,
Sitting together.
Leave we our deep debates, our sage conceits,—
Wherefore? and whether?
Thus with a fine that fits the work begun
Our labours crowning,
For we, in sooth, our duty well have done
By Robert Browning.
Have we not wrought at essay and critique,
Scorning supine ease?
Wrestled with clauses crabbed as Bito's Greek,
Baffling as Chinese?
Out the Inn Album's mystic heart we took,
Lucid of soul, and
Threaded the mazes of the Ring and Book;
Cleared up Childe Roland.
We settled Fifine's business—let her be—
(Strangest of lasses;)
Watched by the hour some thick-veiled truth to see
Where Pippa passes.
(Though, dare we own, secure in victors' gains,
Ample to shield us?
Red Cotton Night-cap Country for our pains
Little would yield us.)
What then to do? Our culture-feast drag out
E'en to satiety?
Oft such the fate that findeth, nothing doubt,
Such a Society.
Oh, the dull meetings! Some one yawns anaye,
One gapes again ayea.
We girls determined not to yawn, but buy
Chocolate Ménier.
Fry's creams are cheap, but Cadbury's excel,
(Quick, Maud, for none wait)
Nay, now, 'tis Ménier bears away the bell,
Sold by the ton-weight.
So, with unburdened brains and spirits light,
Blithe did we troop hence,
All our funds voted for this closing rite,—
Just two-and-two-pence.
Do—make in scorn, old Crœsus, proud and glum,
Peaked eyebrow lift eye;
Put case one stick's a halfpenny; work the sum;
Full two and fifty.
Off with the twine! who scans each smooth brown slab
Yet not supposeth
What soft, sweet, cold, pure whiteness, bound in drab.
Tooth's bite discloseth?
Are they not grand? Why (you may think it odd)
Some power alchemic
Turns, as we munch, to Zeus-assenting nod
Sneers Academic.
Till, when one cries, ''Ware hours that fleet like clouds,
Time, deft escaper!'
We answer bold: 'Leave Time to Dons and Dowds;
(Grace, pass the paper)
Say, boots it aught to evermore affect
Raptures high-flying?
Thoughwechoose chocolate, will the world suspect
Genius undying?'