A YOUNG POET'S ADVICE.

Let all men living on earth take heed,For their own souls' sake, to a rhyme well meant;Writ so that he who runs may read—We are the folk that a-summering went.Who while the year was young were bent—Yea, bent on doing this self-same thingWhich we have done unto some extent,This is the end of our summering.We are the folk who would fain be freedFrom wasteful burdens of rate and rent—From the vampire agents' ravening breed—We are the folk that a-summering went.We hied us forth when the summer was blentWith the fresh faint sweetness of dying spring,A-seeking the meadows dew-besprentThis is the end of our summering.For O the waiters that must be fee'd,And our meat-time neighbour, the travelling "gent;"And the youth next door with the ophicleide!We are the folk that a-summering went!Who from small bare rooms wherein we were pent,While birds their way to the southward wing,Come back, our money for no good spent—This is the end of our summering.

We are the folk who would fain be freedFrom wasteful burdens of rate and rent—From the vampire agents' ravening breed—We are the folk that a-summering went.We hied us forth when the summer was blentWith the fresh faint sweetness of dying spring,A-seeking the meadows dew-besprentThis is the end of our summering.

For O the waiters that must be fee'd,And our meat-time neighbour, the travelling "gent;"And the youth next door with the ophicleide!We are the folk that a-summering went!Who from small bare rooms wherein we were pent,While birds their way to the southward wing,Come back, our money for no good spent—This is the end of our summering.

Envoy.

Citizens! list to our sore lament—While the landlord's hands to our raiment cling—We are the folk that a-summering went:This is the end of our summering.

H. C. Bunner.

(A Ballade.)

You should study the bards of to-dayWho in England are now all the rage;You should try to be piquant and gay:Your lines are too solemn and sage.You should try to fill only a page,Or two at the most with your lay;And revive the quaint verse of an ageThat is fading forgotten away.Study Lang, Gosse, and Dobson, I pray—That their rhymes and their fancies engageYour thought to be witty as they.You must stand on the popular stage.In the bars of an old fashioned cageWe must prison the birds of our May,To carol the notes of an ageThat is fading forgotten away.Now this is a 'Ballade'-I say,So one stanza more to our page,But the "Vers de Société,"If you can are the best for your 'wage.'Though the purists may fall in a rageThat two rhymes go thrice in one lay,You may passably echo an ageThat is fading forgotten away.

Study Lang, Gosse, and Dobson, I pray—That their rhymes and their fancies engageYour thought to be witty as they.You must stand on the popular stage.In the bars of an old fashioned cageWe must prison the birds of our May,To carol the notes of an ageThat is fading forgotten away.

Now this is a 'Ballade'-I say,So one stanza more to our page,But the "Vers de Société,"If you can are the best for your 'wage.'Though the purists may fall in a rageThat two rhymes go thrice in one lay,You may passably echo an ageThat is fading forgotten away.

Envoy.

Bard—heed not the seer and the sage,'Afflatus' and Nature don't pay;But stick to the forms of an ageThat is fading forgotten away.

C. P. Cranch.

When, in the merry realm of France,Bluff Francis ruled and loved and laughed,Now held the lists with knightly lance,Anon the knightly beaker quaffed;Where wit could wing his keenest shaftWith Villon's verse or Montaigne's prose,Then poets exercised their craftIn ballades, triolets, rondeaux.O quaint old times! O fitting chants!With fluttering banners fore and aft,With mirth of minstrelsy and dance,Sped Poesy's enchanted craft;The odorous gale was blowing abaftHer silken sails, as on she goes,Doth still to us faint echoes waftOf ballades, triolets, rondeaux.But tell me with what countenanceYe seek on modern rhymes to graftThose tender shoots of old Romance-Romance that now is only chaffed?O iron days! O idle raftOf rhymesters! they are 'peu de chose,'What Scott would call supremely "saft"Yourballades, triolets, rondeaux.

O quaint old times! O fitting chants!With fluttering banners fore and aft,With mirth of minstrelsy and dance,Sped Poesy's enchanted craft;The odorous gale was blowing abaftHer silken sails, as on she goes,Doth still to us faint echoes waftOf ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

But tell me with what countenanceYe seek on modern rhymes to graftThose tender shoots of old Romance-Romance that now is only chaffed?O iron days! O idle raftOf rhymesters! they are 'peu de chose,'What Scott would call supremely "saft"Yourballades, triolets, rondeaux.

Envoy.

Bards, in whose vein the maddening draughtOf Hippocrene so wildly glows,Forbear, and do not drive us daftWith ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

The Century.

(To T. W. Lang.)

The burden of hard hitting: slog away!Here shalt thou make a "five" and there a "four,"And then upon thy bat shalt lean and say,That thou art in for an uncommon score.Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,And thou to rivalThorntonshalt aspire,When low, the Umpire gives thee "leg before,"-"This is the end of every man's desire!"The burden of much bowling, when the stayOf all thy team is "collared," swift or slower,When "bailers" break not in their wonted way,And "yorkers" come not off as heretofore.When length balls shoot no more, ah never more,When all deliveries lose their former fire,When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,-"This is the end of every man's desire!"The burden of long fielding, when the clayClings to thy shoon in sudden showers downpour,And running still thou stumblest, or the rayOf blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a "skyer"And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,—"This is the end of every man's desire!"

The burden of much bowling, when the stayOf all thy team is "collared," swift or slower,When "bailers" break not in their wonted way,And "yorkers" come not off as heretofore.When length balls shoot no more, ah never more,When all deliveries lose their former fire,When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,-"This is the end of every man's desire!"

The burden of long fielding, when the clayClings to thy shoon in sudden showers downpour,And running still thou stumblest, or the rayOf blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a "skyer"And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,—"This is the end of every man's desire!"

Envoy.

Alas, yet liefer on youth's hither shoreWould I be some poor Player on scant hireThan king among the old who play no more,-"Thisis the end of every man's desire!"

Andrew Lang.

(Dedicated to Mr. Chaplin, M.P., and Mr. Richard Power, M.P. and 223 who followed them.)

Ministers!-you, most serious,Critics and statesmen of all degrees,Hearken awhile to the motion of us,-Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!Nothing we ask of posts or fees;Worry us not with objections pray!Lo,-for the speakers wig we seize-Give us-ah! give us-the Derby Day.Scots most prudent, penurious!Irishmen busy as humblebees!Hearken awhile to the motion of us,-Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!For Sir Joseph's sake, and his owner's, please!(Solomon raced like fun, they say)Lo for we beg on our bended knees,-Give us-ah! give us-the Derby Day.Campbell-Asheton be generous!(But they voted such things were not the cheese)Sullivan, hear us, magnanimous!(But Sullivan thought with their enemies.)And shortly they got both of help and easeFor a mad majority crowded to say-"Debate we've drunk to the dregs and lees;Give us—ah! give us—the Derby Day."

Scots most prudent, penurious!Irishmen busy as humblebees!Hearken awhile to the motion of us,-Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!For Sir Joseph's sake, and his owner's, please!(Solomon raced like fun, they say)Lo for we beg on our bended knees,-Give us-ah! give us-the Derby Day.

Campbell-Asheton be generous!(But they voted such things were not the cheese)Sullivan, hear us, magnanimous!(But Sullivan thought with their enemies.)And shortly they got both of help and easeFor a mad majority crowded to say-"Debate we've drunk to the dregs and lees;Give us—ah! give us—the Derby Day."

Envoi.

Prince, most just was the motion of theseAnd many were seen by the dusty way,Shouting glad to the Epsom breezeGive us—ah! give us—the Derby Day.

Anonymous(after Austin Dobson).

"Tout aux tavernes et aux filles."

Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack?Or fake the broads? or fig a nag?Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack?Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?Suppose you duff? or nose and lag?Or get the straight, and land your pot?How do you melt the multy swag?Booze and the blowens cop the lot.Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag;Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;Rattle the tats, or mark the spot;You can not bank a single stag;Booze and the blowens cop the lot.Suppose you try a different tack,And on the square you flash your flag?At penny-a-lining make your whack,Or with the mummers mug and gag?For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag!At any graft, no matter what,Your merry goblins soon stravag:Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag;Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;Rattle the tats, or mark the spot;You can not bank a single stag;Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

Suppose you try a different tack,And on the square you flash your flag?At penny-a-lining make your whack,Or with the mummers mug and gag?For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag!At any graft, no matter what,Your merry goblins soon stravag:Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

It's up the spout and Charley WagWith wipes and tickers and what not.Until the squeezer nips your scrag,Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

W. E. Henley.

(After the manner of MasterFrançois Villonof Paris.)

InBalladesthings always contrive to get lost,And Echo is constantly asking whereAre last year's roses and last year's frost?And where are the fashions we used to wear?And what is a "gentleman," what is a "player?"Irrelevant questions I like to ask:Can you reap thetretas well as thetare?And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?What has become of the ring I tossedIn the lap of my mistress, false and fair?Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed;But who is to be the next Lord Mayor,And where is King William of Leicester Square?And who has emptied my hunting flask?And who is possessed of Stella's hair?And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?And what has become of the knee I crossed,And the rod, and the child they would not spare?And what will a dozen herring costWhen herring are sold at threehalfpence a pair?And what in the world is the Golden Stair?Did Diogenes die in a tub or a cask,Like Clarence for love of liquor there?And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

What has become of the ring I tossedIn the lap of my mistress, false and fair?Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed;But who is to be the next Lord Mayor,And where is King William of Leicester Square?And who has emptied my hunting flask?And who is possessed of Stella's hair?And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

And what has become of the knee I crossed,And the rod, and the child they would not spare?And what will a dozen herring costWhen herring are sold at threehalfpence a pair?And what in the world is the Golden Stair?Did Diogenes die in a tub or a cask,Like Clarence for love of liquor there?And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

Envoy.

Poets, your readers have much to bear,ForBallade-making is no great task.If you do not remember, I don't much careWho was the Man in the Iron Mask.

Augustus M. Moore.

(Rondeau.)

On Newport beach there ran right merrily,In dainty navy blue clothed to the knee,Thence to the foot in whiteau naturel,A little maid. Fair was she, truth to tell,As Oceanus' child Callirrhoë.In the soft sand lay one small shell, its weeKeen scallops tinct with faint hues, such as beIn girlish cheeks. In some old storm it fellOn Newport Beach.There was a bather of the specieshe,Who saw the little maid go toward the sea;Rushing to help her through the billowy swell,He set his sole upon the little shell,And heaped profanely phraséd obloquyOn Newport Beach.

H. C. Bunner.

(Inscribed to an Intense Poet.)

"O crikey, Bill!" she ses to me, she ses."Look sharp," ses she, "with them there sossiges.Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree!For lo!" she ses, "for lo! old pal," ses she,"I'm blooming peckish, neither more nor less."Was it not prime—I leave you all to guessHow prime!—--to have a jude in love's distressCome spooning round, and murmuring balmilee,"O crikey, Bill!"For in such rorty wise doth Love expressHis blooming views, and asks for your address,And makes it right, and does the gay and free.I kissed her—I did so! And her and meWas pals. And if that ain't good business,O crikey, Bill!

Was it not prime—I leave you all to guessHow prime!—--to have a jude in love's distressCome spooning round, and murmuring balmilee,"O crikey, Bill!"

For in such rorty wise doth Love expressHis blooming views, and asks for your address,And makes it right, and does the gay and free.I kissed her—I did so! And her and meWas pals. And if that ain't good business,O crikey, Bill!

Now ain't they utterly too-too(She ses, my Missus mine,[11]ses she),Them flymy little bits of Blue.Joe, just you kool 'em-nice and skewUpon our old meogginee,Now ain't they utterly too-too?They're better than a pot'n' a screw,They're equal to a Sunday spree,Them flymy little bits of Blue!Suppose I put 'em up the flue,And booze the profits, Joe? Not me.Now ain't they utterly too-too?I do the 'Igh Art fake, I do.Joe, I'm consummate; and IseeThem flymy little bits of Blue.Which, Joe, is why I ses te you—Æsthetic-like, and limp, and free—Nowain'tthey utterly too-too,Them flymy little bits of Blue?

Now ain't they utterly too-too(She ses, my Missus mine,[11]ses she),Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Joe, just you kool 'em-nice and skewUpon our old meogginee,Now ain't they utterly too-too?

They're better than a pot'n' a screw,They're equal to a Sunday spree,Them flymy little bits of Blue!

Suppose I put 'em up the flue,And booze the profits, Joe? Not me.Now ain't they utterly too-too?

I do the 'Igh Art fake, I do.Joe, I'm consummate; and IseeThem flymy little bits of Blue.

Which, Joe, is why I ses te you—Æsthetic-like, and limp, and free—Nowain'tthey utterly too-too,Them flymy little bits of Blue?

I often does a quiet readAt Booty Shelly's[12]poetry;I thinks that Swinburne at a screedIs really almost too-too fly;At Signor Vagna's[13]harmonyI likes a merry little flutter;I've had at Pater many a shy;In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.My mark's a tidy little feed,And 'Enery Irving's gallery,To see old 'Amlick do a bleed,And Ellen Terry on the die,Or Franky's ghostes at hi-spy,[14]And parties carried on a shutter.[15]Them vulgar Coupeaus is my eye!In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.The Grosvenor's nuts-it is, indeed!I goes for 'Olman 'Unt like pie.It's equal to a friendly leadTo see B. Jones's judes go by.Stanhope he makes me fit to cry.Whistler he makes me melt like butter.Strudwick he makes me flash my cly—In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

My mark's a tidy little feed,And 'Enery Irving's gallery,To see old 'Amlick do a bleed,And Ellen Terry on the die,Or Franky's ghostes at hi-spy,[14]And parties carried on a shutter.[15]Them vulgar Coupeaus is my eye!In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

The Grosvenor's nuts-it is, indeed!I goes for 'Olman 'Unt like pie.It's equal to a friendly leadTo see B. Jones's judes go by.Stanhope he makes me fit to cry.Whistler he makes me melt like butter.Strudwick he makes me flash my cly—In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

Envoy.

I'm on for any Art that's 'Igh;I talks as quite as I can splutter;I keeps a Dado on the sly;In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter!

W. E. Henley.

[11]An adaptation of "Madonna mia."

[12]Probably Botticelli.

[13]Wagner (?)

[14]This seems to be a reference toThe Corsican Brothers.

[15]Richard III.(?)

(Villanelle from my window.)

He stands at the kerb and sings.'Tis a doleful tune and slow,Ah me, if I had but wings!He bends to the coin one flings,But he never attempts to go,-He stands at the kerb and sings.The conjurer comes with his rings,And the Punch-and-Judy show.Ah me, if I had but wings!They pass like all fugitive things—They fade and they pass, but lo!He stands at the kerb and sings.All the magic that Music bringsIs lost when he mangles it so—Ah me, if I had but wings!But the worst is a thought that stings!There is nothing at hand to throw!He stands at the kerb and sings—Ah me, if I had but wings!

He stands at the kerb and sings.'Tis a doleful tune and slow,Ah me, if I had but wings!

He bends to the coin one flings,But he never attempts to go,-He stands at the kerb and sings.

The conjurer comes with his rings,And the Punch-and-Judy show.Ah me, if I had but wings!

They pass like all fugitive things—They fade and they pass, but lo!He stands at the kerb and sings.

All the magic that Music bringsIs lost when he mangles it so—Ah me, if I had but wings!

But the worst is a thought that stings!There is nothing at hand to throw!He stands at the kerb and sings—Ah me, if I had but wings!

Austin Dobson.

(Rondeau.)

Imitated from the French of Count Anthony Hamilton.

Malàpropos do English wits reviveThe Rondeau, which our beauties hear with scorn;Hide in an extinct form a heart alive,And woo bright lasses, whom they wish to wive,Malàpropos, with Gaulish verse outworn.More fondly would these rosebuds of the mornUnfold to airs-gay, playful, amative-Even Astrophel five phrases would contrive—Malàpropos.O dazzling youth, to fashion's follies sworn,Would you their breasts with love's sweet pains were torn?Rondeau and Ballade to the Devil drive;Use honest English when for them you strive,Since never to their hearts would thus arrive—Malàpropos.

More fondly would these rosebuds of the mornUnfold to airs-gay, playful, amative-Even Astrophel five phrases would contrive—Malàpropos.

O dazzling youth, to fashion's follies sworn,Would you their breasts with love's sweet pains were torn?Rondeau and Ballade to the Devil drive;Use honest English when for them you strive,Since never to their hearts would thus arrive—Malàpropos.

G. H. (In "The Lute.")

(Chant Royal.)

[Being the Plaint of Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, Salesman of Fancy Notions, held in durance of his Landlady for a failure to connect on Saturday night.]

I would that all men my hard case might know;How grievously I suffer for no sin:I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo!I, of my landlady am lockéd in,For being short on this sad Saturday,Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay;She has turned and is departed with my key;Wherefore, not even as other boarders free,I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stonesWhen for ten days they expiate a spree):Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

I would that all men my hard case might know;How grievously I suffer for no sin:I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo!I, of my landlady am lockéd in,

For being short on this sad Saturday,Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay;She has turned and is departed with my key;Wherefore, not even as other boarders free,I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stonesWhen for ten days they expiate a spree):Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

One night and one day have I wept my woe;Nor wot I when the morrow doth begin,If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co.,To pray them to advance the requisite tinFor ransom of their salesman, that he mayGo forth as other boarders go alway——As those I hear now flocking from their tea,Led by the daughter of my landladyPiano-ward. This day for all my moans,Dry bread and water have been servéd me.Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and soThe heart of the young he-boardér doth win,Playing "The Maiden's Prayer,"adagio—That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the banco skinThe innocent rustic. For my part, I pray:That Badarjewska maid may wait for ayeEre sits she with a lover, as did weOnce sit together, Amabel! Can it beThat all that arduous wooing not atonesFor Saturday shortness of trade dollars three?Beholdthe deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

Yea! she forgets the arm was wont to goAround her waist. She wears a buckle whose pinGalleth the crook of the young man's elbów;Iforget not, for I that youth have been.Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay.Yet once, I mind me, Smith was forced to stayClose in his room. Not calm, as I, was he;But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily.Small ease he gat of playing on the bones,Or hammering on his stove-pipe, that I see.Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

Thou, for whose fear the figurative crowI eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin!Thee will I show up-yea, up will I shewThy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thin.Ay! here I dare thee, ready for the fray!Thou dostnot"keep a first-class house," I say!It does not with the advertisements agree.Thou lodgest a Briton with a puggaree,And thou hast harboured Jacobses and Cohns,Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee!Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

Envoy.

Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye:She hath stolen my trousers, that I may not fleePrivily by the window. Hence these groans,There is no fleeing in arobe de nuit.Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

H. C. Bunner.

THE WALTER SCOTT PRESS, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.

Transcriber's Notes:Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were corrected.Greek typo corrected on p.35.

Transcriber's Notes:

Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were corrected.

Greek typo corrected on p.35.

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