The Project Gutenberg eBook ofCarols of CockayneThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Carols of CockayneAuthor: Henry S. LeighIllustrator: Alfred ConcanenRelease date: August 11, 2015 [eBook #49682]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Widger from page images generouslyprovided by the Internet Archive*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAROLS OF COCKAYNE ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Carols of CockayneAuthor: Henry S. LeighIllustrator: Alfred ConcanenRelease date: August 11, 2015 [eBook #49682]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Widger from page images generouslyprovided by the Internet Archive
Title: Carols of Cockayne
Author: Henry S. LeighIllustrator: Alfred Concanen
Author: Henry S. Leigh
Illustrator: Alfred Concanen
Release date: August 11, 2015 [eBook #49682]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Widger from page images generouslyprovided by the Internet Archive
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAROLS OF COCKAYNE ***
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CONTENTS
PREFACE.
CAROLS OF COCKAYNE.
THE TWINS.
UN PAS QUI COÛTE.
THE GIFT OF THE GAB.
BEHIND THE SCENES.
"WITH MUSICAL SOCIETY."
THINGS THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.
THE OLYMPIC BALL.
THE TWO AGES.
STANZAS TO AN INTOXICATED FLY.
CHIVALRY FOR THE CRADLE.
CLUMSY SERVANT.
A NURSERY LEGEND.
AN ALLEGORY.
OVER THE WATER.
AN UNAPPRECIATED CRICHTON.
ONLY SEVEN.
SEE-SAW.
A WILD HUNT.
A VERY COMMON CHILD.
CROOKED ANSWERS.
A BEGGING LETTER.
A COCKNEY'S EVENING SONG.
ROMANTIC RECOLLECTIONS.
THE MAD GRANDPAPA.
SHABBY-GENTEEL.
CUPID'S MAMMA.
THE CRUSADER'S FAREWELL.
LAYS OF MANY LANDS.
THE SEASONS.
BROKEN VOWS.
WHERE—AND OH! WHERE?
A FIT OF THE BLUES.
ROTTEN ROW.
A LAST RESOURCE.
WEATHERBOUND IN THE SUBURBS.
MIDAS.
TO A TIMID LEECH.
ANACREONTIC,
THE HOUSE ON THE TOP OF A HILL.
MEN I DISLIKE.
NOT QUITE FAIR.
WISDOM AND WATER.
'TWAS EVER THUS.
MY SONG.
BOW BELLS.
THE PLOT OF A ROMANCE.
THE SUBJECTS OF SONG.
AN OLD CYNIC
THE NIGHTINGALE.
TO MY BRAIN.
WANTED, A SINGER.
ANTICIPATIONS.
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.
THE OLD WAG.
ETIQUETTE.
A PLAIN ANSWER
IN A HUNDRED YEARS.
EVENING.
MY POLITICS.
THE MISERIES OF GENIUS.
A DAY FOR WISHING.
THE DILIGENCE DRIVER.
THE BALLAD OF THE BARYTONE,
SONGS OF THE SICK ROOM.
THE COMPACT,
THE VISION OF THE ALDERMAN.
EVENING DRESS.
WINE.
MY ULTIMATUM.
ALL ALONE,
"OH NIGHTS AND SUPPERS," ETC.
THE WEATHER.
"ON CORPULENCE."
THE MOONLIGHT SONATA.
OCCASIONAL VERSES.
CHATEAUX D'ESPAGNE.
TO A CERTAIN SOMEBODY.
THE LORD MAYOR'S APOTHEOSIS.
THE END OF AN OLD YEAR,
The following trifles have already made their appearance in various periodicals. The limit of their pretension is obvious from their individual brevity and collective title; with few exceptions, they were intended simply as drawing-room songs. Without aspiring to the high level of the days when Praed, Bayly, Hood, Fitzgerald, Theodore Hook, and the two Smiths wrote for music, may I flatter myself that these Carols are at least equal in point of taste (if not in point of humour) to certain light and lively ballads that are at present popular through the medium of the music-halls?
Some readers will probably think the name of this book suspiciously similar to that of Mr Frederick Locker's charmingLondon Lyrics. Let me anticipate a charge of plagiarism by observing that Mr. Locker himself was kind enough to send me the suggestion for my present title.
To those gentlemen who have given me permission to republish various verses in this collection, I am sincerely obliged.
5020
9021
N form and feature, face and limb,
I grew so like my brother
That folks got taking me for him
And each for one another.
It puzzled all our kith and kin,
It reach'd an awful pitch;
For one of us was born a twin
And not a soul knew which.
One day (to make the matter worse),
Before our names were fix'd,
As we were being wash'd by nurse,
We got completely mix'd.
And thus, you see, by Fate's decree,
(Or rather nurse's whim),
My brother John got christen'dme,
And I got christen'dhim.
This fatal likeness even dogg'd
My footsteps when at school,
And I was always getting flogg'd—
For John turn'd out a fool.
I put this question hopelessly
To every one I knew,—
What would you do, if you were me.
To prove that you wereyou?
Our close resemblance turn'd the tide
Of my domestic life;
For somehow my Intended bride
Became my brother's wife.
In short, year after year the same
Absurd mistakes went on;
And when I died—the neighbours came
And buried brother John!
(Published with music by Messrs Cramer.)
I'VE a genius or a talent—I perceive it pretty clearly
In pursuing an ambition or in climbing up a tree—
For never quite attaining, but attaining very nearly
To my aspiration's altitude, whatever it may be.
Tis a faculty that haunts me with an obstinate persistence,
For I felt it in my boyhood, and I feel it in my prime,—
All the efforts and endeavours I have made in my existence
Have invariably ended "but a step from the sublime."
As a boy I made a tender of my tenderest affection,
In a lovely little sonnet to the fairest of the fair:
(Though nothing but a youngster, I've preserved the recollection
Of her tyranny, her beauty, and the way she did her hair.)
She was married, I remember, to a person in the City,—
I consider'd him remarkably obtrusive at the time;
So I quitted my enslaver with a lofty look of pity,
For I felt my situation "but a step from the sublime."
Being confident that Cupid was a little gay deceiver,
I forgot my disappointment in a struggle after Fame;
I had caught the rage of writing as a child may catch a fever,
So I took to making verses as a way to make a name.
When I publish'd a collection of my efforts as a writer—
With a minimum of reason and a maximum of rhyme—
I am proud to say that nobody could well have been politer
Than the critics, for they, call'd it "but a step from the
sublime."
I was laudably ambitious to extend my reputation,
And I plann'd a pretty novel on a pretty novel plan;
I would make it independent both of sin and of "sensation,"
And my villain should be pictured as a persecuted man.
For your Bulwers and your Braddons and your Collinses
may grovel
In an atmosphere of horror and a wilderness of crime;
Twas for me to controvert them, and I did so in a novel
Which was commonly consider'd "but a step from the
sublime."
I have master'd metaphysics—I have mounted on the pinions
Both of Painting and of Music—and I rather think I know
Ev'ry nook and ev'ry corner of Apollo's whole dominions,
From the top of Mount Parnassus down to Paternoster Row.
I have had my little failures, I have had my great successes—
And Parnassus, I assure you, is a weary hill to climb;
But the lowest and the meanest of my enemies confesses
That he very often thinks me "but a step from the sublime."
9025
OU have read how Demosthenes walk'd
on the beach,
With his mouth full of pebbles, rehears-
ing a speech—
Till the shell-fish and sea-gulls pro-
nounced him a bore,
And the sea met his gravest remarks
with a roar.
In fact, if you ever learnt Greek, you 'll confess
That it's hardly the right kind of tongue to impress
An intelligent lobster or well-inform'd crab,
With the deepest respect for the Gift of the Gab.
Still Eloquence gives men a wonderful power,
And it often strikes me, after sitting an hour
At a lecture on something I don't understand,
That the Gift of the Gab is decidedly grand.
Indeed, I am frequently heard to declare,
If the Queen of the Fairies would answer my prayer,
I should instantly drop on my knees to Queen Mab,
Crying, Grant me, oh grant me, the Gift of the Gab.
If you 'd hear the true summit of Eloquence reach'd
Go to church when a charity-sermon is preach'd;
Where, with hands in his pockets and tears in his eyes,
Ev'ry soft-hearted sinner contributes and cries.
I think, if you look in the plate, you'll opine
That the sermon you heard was uncommonly fine,
And that ev'ry Oxonian and ev'ry Cantab
Ought to cultivate early the Gift of the Gab.
But it's after a dinner at Freemasons' Hall
That the orator's talent shines brightest of all;
When his eye becomes glazed and his voice becomes thick,
And he's had so much hock he can only say hie!
So the company leave him to slumber and snore
Till he's put in a hat and convey'd to the door;
And he finds, upon reaching his home in a cab,
That his wife rather shines in the Gift of the Gab.
Then there's Gab in the senate and Gab at the bar,
But I fear their description would lead me too far;
And (last but not least) there is Gab on the stage.
Which I couldn't exhaust if I sang for an age.
But, if there are matters that puzzle you still,
You may take up an Enfield and go through a drill,
Which will teach you much more than a hurried confab
With regard to that art call'd the Gift of the Gab.
LONG, long ago I had an aunt
Who took me to the play:
An act of kindness that I shan't
Forget for many a day.
I was a youngster at the time,
Just verging on my teens,
And fancied that it must be "prime"
To gobehind the scenes.
I ventured to express the same
In quite a candid way,
And shock'd my aunt—a sober dame,
Though partial to the play.
'Twas just the moment when Macbeth
(Whose voice resembled Kean's)
Had finished planning Duncan's death,
And rushedbehind the scenes.
I recollect that evening yet,
And how my aunt was grieved;
And, oh! I never shall forget
The lecture I received.
It threw a light upon the class
Of knowledge that one gleans
By being privileged to pass
His timebehind the scenes.
The Heroine I worshipp'd then
Was fifty, I should think;
My Lord the commonest of men,'
My Lover fond of drink.
The Fairies I believed so fair
Were not by any means
The kind of people one would care
To meetbehind the scenes.
I cannot boast that I enjoy
The stage-illusion still;
I'm growing far too old a boy
To laugh or cry at will.
But I can cast a critic's eye
On mimic kings and queens,
And nothing ever makes me sigh
To getbehind the scenes.
Ah! shallow boastings—false regrets!
The world is but a stage
Where Man, poor player, struts and frets
From infancy to age;
And then leaps blindly, in a breath,
The space that intervenes
Between our stage-career and Death,
Who lurksbehind the scenes!
9031
LOOK'D for lodgings, long ago,
Away from London's fogs and
fusses;
A rustic Paradise, you know,
Within a walk of trains or 'busses.
I made my choice, and settled down
In such a lovely situation!—
About a dozen miles from town,
And very near a railway-station.
Within my pastoral retreat
No creditor, no care intruded;
My happiness was quite complete
(The "comforts of a home" included).
I found the landlord most polite,
His wife, if possible, politer;—
Their two accomplish'd daughters quite
Electrified the present writer.
A nicer girl than Fanny Lisle
To sing a die-away duet with.
(Say something in the Verdi style,)
Upon my life I never met with.
And yet I waver'd in my choice;
For I believe I'm right in saying
That nothing equall'd Fanny's voice,
Unless it was Maria's playing.
If music be the food of Love,
That was the house for Cupid's diet;
Those two melodious girls, by Jove,
Were never for an instant quiet.
I own that Fanny's voice was sweet,
I own Maria's touch was pearly;
But music's not at all a treat
For those who get it late and early.
The charms that soothe a savage breast
Have got avice versâfashion
Of putting folks who have the best
Of tempers in an awful passion:
And, when it reach'd a certain stage,
I must confess I couldn't stand it.
I positively swore with rage
And stamp'd and scowl'd like any bandit.
I paid my rent on quarter-day;
Pack'd up my luggage in a hurry,
And, quick as lightning, fled away
To other lodgings down in Surrey.
I'm fairly warn'd—and not in vain;
For one resolve that I have made is—
Not to be domiciled again
With any musical young ladies.
IN the twilight of November's
Afternoons I like to sit,
Finding fancies in the embers
Long before my lamp is lit;
Calling Memory up and linking
Bygone day to distant scene;
Then, with feet on fender, thinking
Of the things that might have been.
Cradles, wedding-rings, and hatchments
Glow alternate in the fire.
Early loves and late attachments
Blaze a second—and expire.
With a moderate persistence
One may soon contrive to glean
Matters for a mock existence
From the things that might have been.
Handsome, amiable, and clever—
With a fortune and a wife;—
So I make my start whenever
I would build the fancy life.
After all my bright ideal,
What a gulf there is between
Things that are, alas! too real,
And the things that might have been.
Often thus, alone and moody,
Do I act my little play—
Like a ghostly Punch and Judy,
Where the dolls are grave and gay—.
Till my lamplight comes and flashes
On the phantoms I have seen,
Leaving nothing but the ashes
Of the things that might have been.