A LOVER'SLULLABY.

The leaves scarce rustled in the trees,And faintly blew the summer breeze;A damsel drifted slowly down,Aboard her ship to Henley town;And as the white sail passed along,A punted Poet sang this song!IN your canoe, love, when you are going,With white sail flowing, and merry song;In your canoe, love, with ripples gleamingAnd sunshine beaming, you drift along!While you are dreaming, or idly singing,Your sweet voice ringing, when skies are blue:In summer days, love, on water-ways, love,You like to laze, love,—in your canoe!In your canoe, love, I'd be a tripper,If you were skipper and I were mate;In your canoe, love, where sedges shiverAnd willows quiver, we'd navigate!Upon the River, you'd ne'er be lonely,For, if you only had room for two,I'd pass my leisure with greatest pleasureWith you, my treasure,—in your canoe!In your canoe, love, when breezes sigh light,In tender twilight, we'd drift away;In your canoe, love, light as a feather,Were we together—whatshouldI say?In sunny weather, were Fates propitious,A tale delicious I'd tell to you!In quiet spots, love, forget-me-nots, love,We'd gather lots, love,—in your canoe!Bolney Backwater,July.A LOVER'SLULLABY.MIRROR your sweet eyes in mine, love,See how they glitter and shine!Quick fly such moments divine, love,Link your lithe fingers in mine!Lay your soft cheek against mine, love,Pillow your head on my breast;While your brown locks I entwine, love,Pout your red lips when they're prest!Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love;Sorrow and sighing resign:Life is too short to repine, love,Link your fair future in mine!THE TAM O' SHANTER CAP.Upon the Spa at Scarborough, the Minstrel was a panter—He asked a Wilful Maiden why she wore a Tam o' Shanter?She gazed upon his furrowed face, half doubting if he chaffed her,Then, noting well his solemn mien, she answered thus, with laughter—LET others wear, upon the Spa,The "Rubens" hat or bonnet;The "Gainsborough," the Tuscan straw,Withmargueritesupon it—The "Pamela," of quaint design,The "Zulu," or the "Planter"—But as for me, I much inclineTo wear my Tam o' Shanter!Let others sport the fluffy hat,The "Sailor Boy," or "Granny;"The "Bargee," or some other thatIs anything but canny.If petticoats be short or long,Or fuller be or scanter,Or if you think it right or wrong—I'll wear my Tam o'Shanter!I'll wear it if it's hot or cold,Let weather what it may be!Will this Child do "what she is told"?Or is shequitea baby?I do not care for my Mama,Or Cousin Charlie's banter;Despite the chaff of dear Papa,I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter!You ask me if I'll tell you whyI cannot do without it?Because it keeps me cool and dry—You seem inclined to doubt it?The reason why? There, pray don't tease!I'll tell you that instanter.The reason is—Because I pleaseTo wear my Tam o' Shanter!A STREET SKETCH.UPON the Kerb, a maiden neat—Her hazel eyes are passing sweet—There stands and waits in dire distress:The muddy road is pitiless,And 'busses thunder down the street!A snowy skirt, all frill and pleat;Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feetPeep out, beneath her kilted dress,Upon the Kerb!She'll first advance and then retreat,Half frightened by a hansom fleet.She looks around, I must confess,With marvellous coquettishness!—Then droops her eyes and looks discreet,Upon the Kerb!A TINY TRIP.THE BILL OF LADING.SHE was cargo and crew,She was boatswain and skipper,She was passenger too,Of theNutshellcanoe;And the eyes were so blueOf this sweet tiny tripper!She was cargo and crew,She was boatswain and skipper!THE PILOT.How I bawled, "Ship, ahoy!"Hard by Medmenham Ferry!And she answered with joy,She would like a convoy,And would love to employA bold pilot so merry:How I bawled, "Ship, ahoy!"Hard by Medmenham Ferry!THE VOYAGE.'Neath the trees gold and red,In that bright autumn weather,When our white sails were spread,O'er the waters we sped—What was it she said?When we drifted together!'Neath the trees gold and red,In that bright autumn weather!THE HAVEN.Ah! the moments flew fast,But our trip too soon ended!When we reached land at last,And our craft was made fast,It was six or half-past—And Mama looked offended!Ah! the moments flew fast,But our trip too soon ended!A STUDY.MADE IN "BRADSHAW" AT CARNFORTH JUNCTION.MISS DIMPLECHEEK,Your winsome face,Your figure full of girlish grace,Is quite unique!Your pretty, poutful, childlike charm,All criticism must disarm,Miss Dimplecheek!Miss Dimplecheek,Ah! well-a-day,I watch your pretty roses playAt hide and seek!While York to Lancaster gives place,And sweeter grows your pretty face—Miss Dimplecheek!Miss Dimplecheek,I wonder ifYou ever revel in a tiff,Or pout in piqueOr droop those pretty eyelids down,Or shake your shoulders, stamp, or frown,Miss Dimplecheek?Miss Dimplecheek,I gaze, and then—The most cantankerous of menGrows mild and meek.Your faults? Perchance youmayhave some—But to your faults I'm blind and dumb—Miss Dimplecheek.Miss Dimplecheek,If I but knewWho was the proud papa of youI'd quickly speak:And get an introduction, soEventually I might knowMiss Dimplecheek.Miss Dimplecheek,I leave you here,For I am off to Windermere,To stay a week:I p'r'aps may ne'er see you again—But—there's the bell, and here's my train—Miss Dimplecheek!DOCTOR BRIGHTON."One of the best physicians our city ever knew is kind, cheerful, merry, Doctor Brighton."—The Newcomes.Scene.—King's Road, Brighton.The Colonel.Beryl(His Niece).The Colonel.THOUGH long it is since Titmarsh wrote;His good advice we still remember,When bad catarrh and rugged throatAre rife in town in grey November!So, if your temper's short or bad,Or of engagements you are full, man;Or if you're feeling bored or sad,Make haste and get aboard the PullmanAnd throw all physic to the dogs—If life's sad burden you would lighten—Run quick away from London fogsAnd call in cheerful Doctor Brighton!Beryl.Good Doctor Brighton, a mighty magician is,See him at once, howe'er bad you may be!Take his advice—there no better physician is—Naught is his physic but Sunshine and Sea!Come down at once then! Leave London in hazy time,Leave it enshrouded in yellow and brown!Come here and revel in exquisite lazy time,Flee from the turmoil and taint of the town!Blue is the sky and the sunshine is glorious,Charged is the air with delicious ozone:Gay is the cliff and most gentle is Boreas,Come down at once and recover your "tone!"The Colonel.Though many years have passed away,And countless cares to not afewcome,The place is bright as in the dayOf Ethel, Clive, and Colonel Newcome:The East Street shops are just as gay,The turtle still as good at Mutton's;The buns at Streeter's—so they say—As well-beloved by tiny gluttons!You still can gallop o'er the Down,Or swim at Brill's just like a Triton.A smile will supersede your frownWhen you consult kind Doctor Brighton!Beryl.Here is Mama looking anxious and serious:List to the patter of smartly shod feet!Dainty young damsels, whose faces ne'er weary us,Tailor-made dresses delightfully neat!Angular ladies in gloomy æsthetic coats,Maudle and dawdle the afternoon through;Graceful girlettes in the shortest of petticoats,Flutter their frills as they walk two-and-two.Fur-coated beauties in carriages roll about,Jaded M.P.'s try to trot away cares,Dandies and poets and loungers here stroll about,Dignified dowagers bask in Bath-chairs!The Colonel.Though cynics swear all pleasures fade,And cry,O tempora mutantur!The bonny laughing Light Brigade,Still on the King's Road gaily canter!And yet upon the Lawns and Pier,Do lots of pleasant folk commingle:While still the old, old song we hear—The lullaby of surf on shingle!Then let's remain to laugh and laze,Where light and air enjoyment heighten—Too short the hours, too few the days,We pass with merry Doctor Brighton!LIZZIE.PAINTED BY LESLIE.O,WHO can paint the picture of my pet?As 'mid the grey-green hay she childlike kneels,Who shows a dainty slipper, then conceals'Neath tangled grass its celadon rosette.A soft white robe, a broidered chemisetteScarce veils her rounded bosom, as it stealsA subtle charm it only half reveals—As sweet and modest as the violet!A gipsy hat casts shadows, pearly grey,Across the golden sunshine of her smile.Her glance e'en cynics dare not disobey,Her dimples even iron hearts beguile—A dainty despot on a throne of hay,Who conquers all by magic girlish wile!A MARLOW MADRIGAL.O,BISHAM BANKS are fresh and fair,And Quarry Woods are green,And pure and sparkling is the air,Enchanting is the scene!I love the music of the weir,As swift the stream runs down,For, O, the water's deep and clearThat flows by Marlow town!When London's getting hot and dry,And half the Season's done,To Marlow you should quickly fly,And bask there in the sun.There pleasant quarters you may find—The "Angler" or the "Crown"Will suit you well, if you're inclinedTo stay in Marlow town.I paddle up to Harleyford,And sometimes I inclineTo cushions take with lunch aboard,And play with rod and line.For in a punt I love to laze,And let my face get brown;And dream away the sunny daysBy dear old Marlow town!I go to luncheon at the Lawn,I muse, I sketch, I rhyme;I headers take at early dawn,I list to All Saints' chime.And in the River, flashing bright,Dull Care I strive to drown—And get a famous appetiteAt pleasant Marlow town!So when, no longer, London lifeYou feel you can endure;Just quit its noise, its whirl, its strife,And try the "Marlow-cure"!You'll smooth the wrinkles on your browAnd scare away each frown—Feel young again once more, I vow,At quaint old Marlow town!Here Shelley dreamed and thought and wrote,And wandered o'er the leas;And sung and drifted in his boatBeneath the Bisham trees.So letmesing, although I'm noGreat poet of renown—Of hours that much too quickly go,At good old Marlow town!IN ROTTEN ROW.AWAY with all sorrow, away with all gloom,Now may is in blossom, and lilac in bloom;The golden laburnum in gardens is gay,The windows are bright with their floral display;The air is delightful, and warm is the sun,The chesnuts are snowy, the Derby is won.Piccadilly is pleasant from daylight to dark,And Bond Street is crowded, and gay is the Park—So now is the time when you all ought to go,And sit on a Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!For only a penny I sit in the shade,And gaze with delight on the gay cavalcade!While countless romances I read if I please,In the people I see from my Chair 'neath the trees.'Tis better by far than an Opera-stall,A crowded At-home or a smart fancy ball;Or gazing at pictures, or playing at pool,Or playing the banjo, or playing the fool—When soft summer breezes from Kensington blow,'Tis pleasant to sit on a Chair in the Row!What studies of man and of woman and horseHere pass up and down on the tan-trodden course!The Earl and the Duke and the Doctor are there,The author, the actor, the great millionaire;The first-season beauties whose roses are red,The third-season beauties whose roses have fled!M.P.'s, upon cobs, chatting pleasantly there,And pets, upon ponies, with long sunny hair—I note them all down, as they pass to and fro,And muse in my Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!What countless fair pictures around may be seen,How colours flash bright on their background of green!A bouquet of figure, of fashion, of face,And dainty devices in linen and lace!The triumphs of Worth and of Madame EliseYou see as you wonder and moon 'neath the trees.What sweet scraps of scandal afloat in the air,And gossip you hear sitting silently there!—But folks are going lunchwards; I'll join them, and soI ponder no more in my Chair in the Row!A PORTRAIT.IN sunny girlhood's vernal lifeShe caused no small sensation;But now the modest English wifeTo others leaves flirtation.She's young still, lovely, debonair,Although sometimes her featuresAre clouded by a thought of careFor those two tiny creatures.Each tiny, toddling, mottled miteAsserts with voice emphatic,In lisping accents, "Mite is right"—Their rule is autocratic:The song becomes, that charmed mankind,Their musical narcotic,And baby lips, than Love, she'll find,Are even more despotic!Soft lullaby, when singing there,And castles ever building—Their destiny she'll carve in air,Bright with maternal gilding:Young Guy, a clever advocate—So eloquent and able!A powdered wig upon his pate,A coronet for Mabel!SYMPHONIES IN FUR.COMPOSED DURING THE FROST.In these rough rhymes I string togetherPortraits of each pretty face—Which, in this rough and rimy weather,Surely can't be out of place.LADY SEALSKIN.ADAINTY young damsel is Pearl,Beclad in the softest of sealskin:I'm told her papa is an Earl;—Just watch her most gracefully twirl,A lovely and lissom young girl,Whose jersey is tight as an eelskin;A dainty young damsel is Pearl,Beclad in the softest of sealskin.MISS OTTER.You never, I'm certain, saw suchA lithe little learner in otter!She's ready to fall at a touch;Behold how she's anxious to clutchHer ebony-stick with acrutchBy which she's enabled to totter.You never, I'm certain, saw suchA lithe little learner in otter.PRINCESS ERMINE.Pray, who is the pretty Princess,Who is robed in the royalest ermine?And exquisite velveteen dress,With bangles that ring more or less;I'm sure you're unable to guess,And 'tis hardly for me to determine!Pray, who is this pretty Princess,Who is robed in the royalest ermine?MISS SILVER-GREY RABBIT.Here comes that big baby called Bee,Who is clad in the coat of a bunny!A romping young rebel is she—Her skirts only reach to her knee,Her life's full of mischief and glee,And a "spill" she thinks screamingly funny.Here comes that big baby called Bee,Who is clad in the coat of a bunny!THE HON. MABEL SABLE.O, had I ten thousand a yearI'd marry Miss Mabel in sable!A dainty, divine little dear,She's out of my reach though she's near—I'd woo her to-day without fear,And wed her at once, were I able!O, had I ten thousand a yearI'd marry Miss Mabel in sable!MISS BEARSKIN.And this is our sweet little Flo,A bonny young beauty in bearskin!How glibly she'll glide to and fro,And sweet sunny glances bestow,While a lovely carnational glowJust flushes her exquisite fair skin.And this is our sweet little Flo,A bonny young beauty in bearskin!DRIFTING DOWN.DRIFTING down in the grey-green twilight,O, the scent of the new-mown hay!The oars drip in the mystic shy light,O, the charm of the dying day!While fading flecks of bright opalescenceBut faintly dapple a saffron sky,The stream flows on with superb quiescence,The breeze is hushed to the softest sigh.Drifting down in the sweet still weather,O, the fragrance of fair July!Love, my Love, when we drift together,O, how fleetly the moments fly!Drifting down on the dear old River,O, the music that interweaves!The ripples run and the sedges shiver,O, the song of the lazy leaves!And far-off sounds—for the night so clear is—Awake the echoes of bygone times;The muffled roar of the distant weir isCheered by the clang of the Marlow chimes.Drifting down in the cloudless weather,O, how short is the summer day!Love, my Love, when we drift together,O, how quickly we drift away!Drifting down as the night advances,O, the calm of the starlit skies!Eyelids droop o'er the half-shy glances,O, the light in those blue-grey eyes!A winsome maiden is sweetly singingA dreamy song in a minor key;Her clear low voice and its tones are bringingA mingled melody back to me.Drifting down in the clear calm weather,O, how sweet is the maiden's song!Love, my Love, when we drift together,O, how quickly we drift along!TOUJOURS TENNIS.BY A WILFUL LAWNTENNISONIENNE.OBRING me, O bring me, my stout mackintosh,I care not a feather for slime or for slosh!The sky it is leaden, the lawn sopping wet,And sodden the balls are, and slack is the net!I've done it before and I'll do it again,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the rain!I'll don my sou'-wester, then what do I careIf weather be foul or if weather be fair?I'll put on my furs, and I'll shorten my clothes,I'll wear my galoshes and thick woollen hose:I care not a pin for the storm or the flood,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the mud!I laugh as the hailstones come pattering down,I'm spattered all over from sole unto crown!In thunder and lightning I'll play all the same—Iwon'tbe debarred from my favourite game!Though weak-hearted lasses may quiver and quail,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the hail!In summer 'tis pleasant, but you ought to know'Tis capital fun in the winter also:When nets are all frozen and balls can't rebound,When chilly the air is and snow's on the ground!Though lazy folks shiver, and say 'tis "no go,"I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the snow!What pleasure can equal, what exercise viesThis winter Lawn-Tennis, with snow in your eyes?You trip and you tumble, you glance and you glide,You totter and stumble, you slip and you slide!With two ancient racquets strapped fast to my feet,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the sleet!In autumn, as well as in summer or spring,In praise of Lawn-Tennis I heartily sing!Though good at each season, and better each time,I'm certain in winter the game's in its prime!You doubt it? No matter! Whate'er may befall,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of you all!TARPAULINE.A SKETCH AT RYDE.APRETTY picture is it not,Beneath the awning of the yacht?A beauty of Sixteen,She wears a trim tarpaulin hat,So now you know the reason thatI call her Tarpauline.A taut serge dress of Navy blue,A boatswain's silver whistle, too,She wears when she's afloat;An open collar, and I wot,A veritable sailor's knotAround her pretty throat.She has a glance that pleads and kills;And 'mid her shy and snowy frillsA little foot appears;She has the softest sunny locks,The compass she knows how to box,And, when it's needful—ears!The smartest little sailor-girl,Who'll steer or "bear a hand" or furl,And I am told she oftQuite longs to reef her petticoats,And gleefully to "girl the boats,"Or glibly go aloft!But now how lazily she lies!And droops those tender trustful eyesUnutterably sweet!While snugly 'neath the bulwark curled,Forgetting all about the world,TheWorldis at her feet!With tiny, dimpled, sunburnt hand,She pats the solemn NewfoundlandWho crouches at her side.She's thinking—not of me nor you,When smiling as she listens toThe lapping of the tide.O, were I pressed, aboard that ship,How joyfully I'd take a trip,For change of air and scene!I'd soon pack up a carpet-bag,And gladly sail beneath the flag,Of bonny Tarpauline!THE KITTEN.ASWEET, short-skirted, pouting pet,A winsome, laughing, glad, girlette;She's ten-and-thoughtless, and as yet,By falsity unsmitten!A merry young misogynist,Few boyish games can she resist—The Kitten!She hates a doll and girlish toys,She's fond of whips, and dogs, and boys,For, truth to tell, she finds no joysIn crewel-work or tatting:But see how smiling is her face,Indeed, a pretty gleeful Grace—When batting!She bowls with marvellous success,And keeps her wicket, I confess—Despite her graceful girlish dress—As well as any Briton!She's saucy, silly, and self-willed,The smartest longstop ever frilled—The Kitten!She's erudite in "wides" and "byes,"And I will venture to surmise,She'll vanquish any boy her sizeAt games of single-wicket!And yet, no doubt, she's good as gold,For I'll go bail she's only bold—At cricket!But like her namesake, clad in fur,No mischief comes amiss to her;To me it seems it should occur,To leave her faults unwritten.She'll make a score, I'm sure of that,And loves to carry out her bat—The Kitten!Tunbridge Wells,August.IN THE TEMPLE.The danger that lurks in Chrysanthemum Shows,You'll see in this letter from Milly to Rose!DEAR ROSE,I never shall forget—That is, I always shall remember—The very brightest day, my pet,We had throughout this dull November!I went last Monday, you must know,With Tina, Mrs. S., and Clarry,To see the Temple flower-show,And, best of all, to lunch with Harry!We saw the gardens—'twould be sportTo make the Benchers play lawn-tennis—And chambers in a dingy courtWhere Fanny Bolton nursed Pendennis:The rooms where Goldsmith lived and died,The sycamore where Johnson prated;The house where Pip did once reside,The Fountain where sweet Ruth Pinch waited.We grasped a massive balustrade—The date, they said, was Sixteen Thirty—The way was dark, and I'm afraidWe found the staircase rather dirty.Those grim old stairs to Harry's Den—We clomb them gaily, nothing daunted—They still by Warrington and Pen,And other pleasant ghosts are haunted!Ah, what a spot, my dearest Rose,To muse upon this queer old Den is!To catalogue its curiosI'm sure unable quite my pen is!But from its panes we gaze uponThe misty midday sun a-quiver;The red-sailed barges drifting on,The sparkle of the dear old River!Then mingling sweetly one perceives—'Mid laughter light and girlish gabble—The sighing of the autumn leaves,And singing of the Fountain's babble!How quick my thoughts drift back againTo those bright happy days at Hurley—A pleasure strongly dashed with pain—(O, Harry's locks are brown and curly!)But, Rose, the luncheon! It was grand—The oak you know, my love, was sported—And all the speeches, understand,Were much too good to be reported.There's Clarry and big Charlie Clough—It is a case! I think they'll marry—I wonder who is good enoughFor handsome, grey-eyed, laughing Harry?It soon grew dark, but I could seeThat clearly no one did desire light;For Tina and young Freddy B.Were spooning by the fitful firelight.We stayed till late, for Mrs. S.The most enduring chaperone is.And Harry sang! I must confessHis voice the richest baritone is.Ah, how the moments quickly flitIn song and talk and playful banter!The motto on the sundial writIsPereunt et imputantur.I'm rather sad! Ah, what's the use?I know you'll think I'm very silly;Although I am a little goose,I always am, your loving Milly.AN UNFINISHED SKETCH.A SYMPHONY IN WHITE.Too fair for prose, too sweet for rhyme,A laughing lass beneath the lime!

The leaves scarce rustled in the trees,And faintly blew the summer breeze;A damsel drifted slowly down,Aboard her ship to Henley town;And as the white sail passed along,A punted Poet sang this song!

The leaves scarce rustled in the trees,

And faintly blew the summer breeze;

A damsel drifted slowly down,

Aboard her ship to Henley town;

And as the white sail passed along,

A punted Poet sang this song!

IN your canoe, love, when you are going,With white sail flowing, and merry song;In your canoe, love, with ripples gleamingAnd sunshine beaming, you drift along!While you are dreaming, or idly singing,Your sweet voice ringing, when skies are blue:In summer days, love, on water-ways, love,You like to laze, love,—in your canoe!In your canoe, love, I'd be a tripper,If you were skipper and I were mate;In your canoe, love, where sedges shiverAnd willows quiver, we'd navigate!Upon the River, you'd ne'er be lonely,For, if you only had room for two,I'd pass my leisure with greatest pleasureWith you, my treasure,—in your canoe!In your canoe, love, when breezes sigh light,In tender twilight, we'd drift away;In your canoe, love, light as a feather,Were we together—whatshouldI say?In sunny weather, were Fates propitious,A tale delicious I'd tell to you!In quiet spots, love, forget-me-nots, love,We'd gather lots, love,—in your canoe!

IN your canoe, love, when you are going,

With white sail flowing, and merry song;

In your canoe, love, with ripples gleaming

And sunshine beaming, you drift along!

While you are dreaming, or idly singing,

Your sweet voice ringing, when skies are blue:

In summer days, love, on water-ways, love,

You like to laze, love,—in your canoe!

In your canoe, love, I'd be a tripper,If you were skipper and I were mate;In your canoe, love, where sedges shiverAnd willows quiver, we'd navigate!Upon the River, you'd ne'er be lonely,For, if you only had room for two,I'd pass my leisure with greatest pleasureWith you, my treasure,—in your canoe!

In your canoe, love, I'd be a tripper,

If you were skipper and I were mate;

In your canoe, love, where sedges shiver

And willows quiver, we'd navigate!

Upon the River, you'd ne'er be lonely,

For, if you only had room for two,

I'd pass my leisure with greatest pleasure

With you, my treasure,—in your canoe!

In your canoe, love, when breezes sigh light,In tender twilight, we'd drift away;In your canoe, love, light as a feather,Were we together—whatshouldI say?In sunny weather, were Fates propitious,A tale delicious I'd tell to you!In quiet spots, love, forget-me-nots, love,We'd gather lots, love,—in your canoe!

In your canoe, love, when breezes sigh light,

In tender twilight, we'd drift away;

In your canoe, love, light as a feather,

Were we together—whatshouldI say?

In sunny weather, were Fates propitious,

A tale delicious I'd tell to you!

In quiet spots, love, forget-me-nots, love,

We'd gather lots, love,—in your canoe!

Bolney Backwater,July.

MIRROR your sweet eyes in mine, love,See how they glitter and shine!Quick fly such moments divine, love,Link your lithe fingers in mine!Lay your soft cheek against mine, love,Pillow your head on my breast;While your brown locks I entwine, love,Pout your red lips when they're prest!Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love;Sorrow and sighing resign:Life is too short to repine, love,Link your fair future in mine!

MIRROR your sweet eyes in mine, love,See how they glitter and shine!Quick fly such moments divine, love,Link your lithe fingers in mine!

MIRROR your sweet eyes in mine, love,

See how they glitter and shine!

Quick fly such moments divine, love,

Link your lithe fingers in mine!

Lay your soft cheek against mine, love,Pillow your head on my breast;While your brown locks I entwine, love,Pout your red lips when they're prest!

Lay your soft cheek against mine, love,

Pillow your head on my breast;

While your brown locks I entwine, love,

Pout your red lips when they're prest!

Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love;Sorrow and sighing resign:Life is too short to repine, love,Link your fair future in mine!

Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love;

Sorrow and sighing resign:

Life is too short to repine, love,

Link your fair future in mine!

Upon the Spa at Scarborough, the Minstrel was a panter—He asked a Wilful Maiden why she wore a Tam o' Shanter?She gazed upon his furrowed face, half doubting if he chaffed her,Then, noting well his solemn mien, she answered thus, with laughter—

Upon the Spa at Scarborough, the Minstrel was a panter—

He asked a Wilful Maiden why she wore a Tam o' Shanter?

She gazed upon his furrowed face, half doubting if he chaffed her,

Then, noting well his solemn mien, she answered thus, with laughter—

LET others wear, upon the Spa,The "Rubens" hat or bonnet;The "Gainsborough," the Tuscan straw,Withmargueritesupon it—The "Pamela," of quaint design,The "Zulu," or the "Planter"—But as for me, I much inclineTo wear my Tam o' Shanter!Let others sport the fluffy hat,The "Sailor Boy," or "Granny;"The "Bargee," or some other thatIs anything but canny.If petticoats be short or long,Or fuller be or scanter,Or if you think it right or wrong—I'll wear my Tam o'Shanter!I'll wear it if it's hot or cold,Let weather what it may be!Will this Child do "what she is told"?Or is shequitea baby?I do not care for my Mama,Or Cousin Charlie's banter;Despite the chaff of dear Papa,I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter!You ask me if I'll tell you whyI cannot do without it?Because it keeps me cool and dry—You seem inclined to doubt it?The reason why? There, pray don't tease!I'll tell you that instanter.The reason is—Because I pleaseTo wear my Tam o' Shanter!

LET others wear, upon the Spa,

The "Rubens" hat or bonnet;

The "Gainsborough," the Tuscan straw,

Withmargueritesupon it—

The "Pamela," of quaint design,

The "Zulu," or the "Planter"—

But as for me, I much incline

To wear my Tam o' Shanter!

Let others sport the fluffy hat,The "Sailor Boy," or "Granny;"The "Bargee," or some other thatIs anything but canny.If petticoats be short or long,Or fuller be or scanter,Or if you think it right or wrong—I'll wear my Tam o'Shanter!

Let others sport the fluffy hat,

The "Sailor Boy," or "Granny;"

The "Bargee," or some other that

Is anything but canny.

If petticoats be short or long,

Or fuller be or scanter,

Or if you think it right or wrong—

I'll wear my Tam o'Shanter!

I'll wear it if it's hot or cold,Let weather what it may be!Will this Child do "what she is told"?Or is shequitea baby?I do not care for my Mama,Or Cousin Charlie's banter;Despite the chaff of dear Papa,I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter!

I'll wear it if it's hot or cold,

Let weather what it may be!

Will this Child do "what she is told"?

Or is shequitea baby?

I do not care for my Mama,

Or Cousin Charlie's banter;

Despite the chaff of dear Papa,

I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter!

You ask me if I'll tell you whyI cannot do without it?Because it keeps me cool and dry—You seem inclined to doubt it?The reason why? There, pray don't tease!I'll tell you that instanter.The reason is—Because I pleaseTo wear my Tam o' Shanter!

You ask me if I'll tell you why

I cannot do without it?

Because it keeps me cool and dry—

You seem inclined to doubt it?

The reason why? There, pray don't tease!

I'll tell you that instanter.

The reason is—Because I please

To wear my Tam o' Shanter!

UPON the Kerb, a maiden neat—Her hazel eyes are passing sweet—There stands and waits in dire distress:The muddy road is pitiless,And 'busses thunder down the street!A snowy skirt, all frill and pleat;Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feetPeep out, beneath her kilted dress,Upon the Kerb!She'll first advance and then retreat,Half frightened by a hansom fleet.She looks around, I must confess,With marvellous coquettishness!—Then droops her eyes and looks discreet,Upon the Kerb!

UPON the Kerb, a maiden neat—Her hazel eyes are passing sweet—There stands and waits in dire distress:The muddy road is pitiless,And 'busses thunder down the street!

UPON the Kerb, a maiden neat—

Her hazel eyes are passing sweet—

There stands and waits in dire distress:

The muddy road is pitiless,

And 'busses thunder down the street!

A snowy skirt, all frill and pleat;Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feetPeep out, beneath her kilted dress,Upon the Kerb!

A snowy skirt, all frill and pleat;

Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feet

Peep out, beneath her kilted dress,

Upon the Kerb!

She'll first advance and then retreat,Half frightened by a hansom fleet.She looks around, I must confess,With marvellous coquettishness!—Then droops her eyes and looks discreet,Upon the Kerb!

She'll first advance and then retreat,

Half frightened by a hansom fleet.

She looks around, I must confess,

With marvellous coquettishness!—

Then droops her eyes and looks discreet,

Upon the Kerb!

THE BILL OF LADING.

SHE was cargo and crew,She was boatswain and skipper,She was passenger too,Of theNutshellcanoe;And the eyes were so blueOf this sweet tiny tripper!She was cargo and crew,She was boatswain and skipper!

SHE was cargo and crew,

She was boatswain and skipper,

She was passenger too,

Of theNutshellcanoe;

And the eyes were so blue

Of this sweet tiny tripper!

She was cargo and crew,

She was boatswain and skipper!

THE PILOT.

How I bawled, "Ship, ahoy!"Hard by Medmenham Ferry!And she answered with joy,She would like a convoy,And would love to employA bold pilot so merry:How I bawled, "Ship, ahoy!"Hard by Medmenham Ferry!

How I bawled, "Ship, ahoy!"

Hard by Medmenham Ferry!

And she answered with joy,

She would like a convoy,

And would love to employ

A bold pilot so merry:

How I bawled, "Ship, ahoy!"

Hard by Medmenham Ferry!

THE VOYAGE.

'Neath the trees gold and red,In that bright autumn weather,When our white sails were spread,O'er the waters we sped—What was it she said?When we drifted together!'Neath the trees gold and red,In that bright autumn weather!

'Neath the trees gold and red,

In that bright autumn weather,

When our white sails were spread,

O'er the waters we sped—

What was it she said?

When we drifted together!

'Neath the trees gold and red,

In that bright autumn weather!

THE HAVEN.

Ah! the moments flew fast,But our trip too soon ended!When we reached land at last,And our craft was made fast,It was six or half-past—And Mama looked offended!Ah! the moments flew fast,But our trip too soon ended!

Ah! the moments flew fast,

But our trip too soon ended!

When we reached land at last,

And our craft was made fast,

It was six or half-past—

And Mama looked offended!

Ah! the moments flew fast,

But our trip too soon ended!

MISS DIMPLECHEEK,Your winsome face,Your figure full of girlish grace,Is quite unique!Your pretty, poutful, childlike charm,All criticism must disarm,Miss Dimplecheek!Miss Dimplecheek,Ah! well-a-day,I watch your pretty roses playAt hide and seek!While York to Lancaster gives place,And sweeter grows your pretty face—Miss Dimplecheek!Miss Dimplecheek,I wonder ifYou ever revel in a tiff,Or pout in piqueOr droop those pretty eyelids down,Or shake your shoulders, stamp, or frown,Miss Dimplecheek?Miss Dimplecheek,I gaze, and then—The most cantankerous of menGrows mild and meek.Your faults? Perchance youmayhave some—But to your faults I'm blind and dumb—Miss Dimplecheek.Miss Dimplecheek,If I but knewWho was the proud papa of youI'd quickly speak:And get an introduction, soEventually I might knowMiss Dimplecheek.Miss Dimplecheek,I leave you here,For I am off to Windermere,To stay a week:I p'r'aps may ne'er see you again—But—there's the bell, and here's my train—Miss Dimplecheek!

MISS DIMPLECHEEK,Your winsome face,Your figure full of girlish grace,Is quite unique!Your pretty, poutful, childlike charm,All criticism must disarm,Miss Dimplecheek!

MISS DIMPLECHEEK,

Your winsome face,

Your figure full of girlish grace,

Is quite unique!

Your pretty, poutful, childlike charm,

All criticism must disarm,

Miss Dimplecheek!

Miss Dimplecheek,Ah! well-a-day,I watch your pretty roses playAt hide and seek!While York to Lancaster gives place,And sweeter grows your pretty face—Miss Dimplecheek!

Miss Dimplecheek,

Ah! well-a-day,

I watch your pretty roses play

At hide and seek!

While York to Lancaster gives place,

And sweeter grows your pretty face—

Miss Dimplecheek!

Miss Dimplecheek,I wonder ifYou ever revel in a tiff,Or pout in piqueOr droop those pretty eyelids down,Or shake your shoulders, stamp, or frown,Miss Dimplecheek?

Miss Dimplecheek,

I wonder if

You ever revel in a tiff,

Or pout in pique

Or droop those pretty eyelids down,

Or shake your shoulders, stamp, or frown,

Miss Dimplecheek?

Miss Dimplecheek,I gaze, and then—The most cantankerous of menGrows mild and meek.Your faults? Perchance youmayhave some—But to your faults I'm blind and dumb—Miss Dimplecheek.

Miss Dimplecheek,

I gaze, and then—

The most cantankerous of men

Grows mild and meek.

Your faults? Perchance youmayhave some—

But to your faults I'm blind and dumb—

Miss Dimplecheek.

Miss Dimplecheek,If I but knewWho was the proud papa of youI'd quickly speak:And get an introduction, soEventually I might knowMiss Dimplecheek.

Miss Dimplecheek,

If I but knew

Who was the proud papa of you

I'd quickly speak:

And get an introduction, so

Eventually I might know

Miss Dimplecheek.

Miss Dimplecheek,I leave you here,For I am off to Windermere,To stay a week:I p'r'aps may ne'er see you again—But—there's the bell, and here's my train—Miss Dimplecheek!

Miss Dimplecheek,

I leave you here,

For I am off to Windermere,

To stay a week:

I p'r'aps may ne'er see you again—

But—there's the bell, and here's my train—

Miss Dimplecheek!

"One of the best physicians our city ever knew is kind, cheerful, merry, Doctor Brighton."—The Newcomes.

Scene.—King's Road, Brighton.

The Colonel.Beryl(His Niece).

The Colonel.

THOUGH long it is since Titmarsh wrote;His good advice we still remember,When bad catarrh and rugged throatAre rife in town in grey November!So, if your temper's short or bad,Or of engagements you are full, man;Or if you're feeling bored or sad,Make haste and get aboard the PullmanAnd throw all physic to the dogs—If life's sad burden you would lighten—Run quick away from London fogsAnd call in cheerful Doctor Brighton!

THOUGH long it is since Titmarsh wrote;

His good advice we still remember,

When bad catarrh and rugged throat

Are rife in town in grey November!

So, if your temper's short or bad,

Or of engagements you are full, man;

Or if you're feeling bored or sad,

Make haste and get aboard the Pullman

And throw all physic to the dogs—

If life's sad burden you would lighten—

Run quick away from London fogs

And call in cheerful Doctor Brighton!

Beryl.

Good Doctor Brighton, a mighty magician is,See him at once, howe'er bad you may be!Take his advice—there no better physician is—Naught is his physic but Sunshine and Sea!Come down at once then! Leave London in hazy time,Leave it enshrouded in yellow and brown!Come here and revel in exquisite lazy time,Flee from the turmoil and taint of the town!Blue is the sky and the sunshine is glorious,Charged is the air with delicious ozone:Gay is the cliff and most gentle is Boreas,Come down at once and recover your "tone!"

Good Doctor Brighton, a mighty magician is,

See him at once, howe'er bad you may be!

Take his advice—there no better physician is—

Naught is his physic but Sunshine and Sea!

Come down at once then! Leave London in hazy time,

Leave it enshrouded in yellow and brown!

Come here and revel in exquisite lazy time,

Flee from the turmoil and taint of the town!

Blue is the sky and the sunshine is glorious,

Charged is the air with delicious ozone:

Gay is the cliff and most gentle is Boreas,

Come down at once and recover your "tone!"

The Colonel.

Though many years have passed away,And countless cares to not afewcome,The place is bright as in the dayOf Ethel, Clive, and Colonel Newcome:The East Street shops are just as gay,The turtle still as good at Mutton's;The buns at Streeter's—so they say—As well-beloved by tiny gluttons!You still can gallop o'er the Down,Or swim at Brill's just like a Triton.A smile will supersede your frownWhen you consult kind Doctor Brighton!

Though many years have passed away,

And countless cares to not afewcome,

The place is bright as in the day

Of Ethel, Clive, and Colonel Newcome:

The East Street shops are just as gay,

The turtle still as good at Mutton's;

The buns at Streeter's—so they say—

As well-beloved by tiny gluttons!

You still can gallop o'er the Down,

Or swim at Brill's just like a Triton.

A smile will supersede your frown

When you consult kind Doctor Brighton!

Beryl.

Here is Mama looking anxious and serious:List to the patter of smartly shod feet!Dainty young damsels, whose faces ne'er weary us,Tailor-made dresses delightfully neat!Angular ladies in gloomy æsthetic coats,Maudle and dawdle the afternoon through;Graceful girlettes in the shortest of petticoats,Flutter their frills as they walk two-and-two.Fur-coated beauties in carriages roll about,Jaded M.P.'s try to trot away cares,Dandies and poets and loungers here stroll about,Dignified dowagers bask in Bath-chairs!

Here is Mama looking anxious and serious:

List to the patter of smartly shod feet!

Dainty young damsels, whose faces ne'er weary us,

Tailor-made dresses delightfully neat!

Angular ladies in gloomy æsthetic coats,

Maudle and dawdle the afternoon through;

Graceful girlettes in the shortest of petticoats,

Flutter their frills as they walk two-and-two.

Fur-coated beauties in carriages roll about,

Jaded M.P.'s try to trot away cares,

Dandies and poets and loungers here stroll about,

Dignified dowagers bask in Bath-chairs!

The Colonel.

Though cynics swear all pleasures fade,And cry,O tempora mutantur!The bonny laughing Light Brigade,Still on the King's Road gaily canter!And yet upon the Lawns and Pier,Do lots of pleasant folk commingle:While still the old, old song we hear—The lullaby of surf on shingle!Then let's remain to laugh and laze,Where light and air enjoyment heighten—Too short the hours, too few the days,We pass with merry Doctor Brighton!

Though cynics swear all pleasures fade,

And cry,O tempora mutantur!

The bonny laughing Light Brigade,

Still on the King's Road gaily canter!

And yet upon the Lawns and Pier,

Do lots of pleasant folk commingle:

While still the old, old song we hear—

The lullaby of surf on shingle!

Then let's remain to laugh and laze,

Where light and air enjoyment heighten—

Too short the hours, too few the days,

We pass with merry Doctor Brighton!

O,WHO can paint the picture of my pet?As 'mid the grey-green hay she childlike kneels,Who shows a dainty slipper, then conceals'Neath tangled grass its celadon rosette.A soft white robe, a broidered chemisetteScarce veils her rounded bosom, as it stealsA subtle charm it only half reveals—As sweet and modest as the violet!A gipsy hat casts shadows, pearly grey,Across the golden sunshine of her smile.Her glance e'en cynics dare not disobey,Her dimples even iron hearts beguile—A dainty despot on a throne of hay,Who conquers all by magic girlish wile!

O,WHO can paint the picture of my pet?

As 'mid the grey-green hay she childlike kneels,

Who shows a dainty slipper, then conceals

'Neath tangled grass its celadon rosette.

A soft white robe, a broidered chemisette

Scarce veils her rounded bosom, as it steals

A subtle charm it only half reveals—

As sweet and modest as the violet!

A gipsy hat casts shadows, pearly grey,Across the golden sunshine of her smile.Her glance e'en cynics dare not disobey,Her dimples even iron hearts beguile—A dainty despot on a throne of hay,Who conquers all by magic girlish wile!

A gipsy hat casts shadows, pearly grey,

Across the golden sunshine of her smile.

Her glance e'en cynics dare not disobey,

Her dimples even iron hearts beguile—

A dainty despot on a throne of hay,

Who conquers all by magic girlish wile!

O,BISHAM BANKS are fresh and fair,And Quarry Woods are green,And pure and sparkling is the air,Enchanting is the scene!I love the music of the weir,As swift the stream runs down,For, O, the water's deep and clearThat flows by Marlow town!When London's getting hot and dry,And half the Season's done,To Marlow you should quickly fly,And bask there in the sun.There pleasant quarters you may find—The "Angler" or the "Crown"Will suit you well, if you're inclinedTo stay in Marlow town.I paddle up to Harleyford,And sometimes I inclineTo cushions take with lunch aboard,And play with rod and line.For in a punt I love to laze,And let my face get brown;And dream away the sunny daysBy dear old Marlow town!I go to luncheon at the Lawn,I muse, I sketch, I rhyme;I headers take at early dawn,I list to All Saints' chime.And in the River, flashing bright,Dull Care I strive to drown—And get a famous appetiteAt pleasant Marlow town!So when, no longer, London lifeYou feel you can endure;Just quit its noise, its whirl, its strife,And try the "Marlow-cure"!You'll smooth the wrinkles on your browAnd scare away each frown—Feel young again once more, I vow,At quaint old Marlow town!Here Shelley dreamed and thought and wrote,And wandered o'er the leas;And sung and drifted in his boatBeneath the Bisham trees.So letmesing, although I'm noGreat poet of renown—Of hours that much too quickly go,At good old Marlow town!

O,BISHAM BANKS are fresh and fair,

And Quarry Woods are green,

And pure and sparkling is the air,

Enchanting is the scene!

I love the music of the weir,

As swift the stream runs down,

For, O, the water's deep and clear

That flows by Marlow town!

When London's getting hot and dry,And half the Season's done,To Marlow you should quickly fly,And bask there in the sun.There pleasant quarters you may find—The "Angler" or the "Crown"Will suit you well, if you're inclinedTo stay in Marlow town.

When London's getting hot and dry,

And half the Season's done,

To Marlow you should quickly fly,

And bask there in the sun.

There pleasant quarters you may find—

The "Angler" or the "Crown"

Will suit you well, if you're inclined

To stay in Marlow town.

I paddle up to Harleyford,And sometimes I inclineTo cushions take with lunch aboard,And play with rod and line.For in a punt I love to laze,And let my face get brown;And dream away the sunny daysBy dear old Marlow town!

I paddle up to Harleyford,

And sometimes I incline

To cushions take with lunch aboard,

And play with rod and line.

For in a punt I love to laze,

And let my face get brown;

And dream away the sunny days

By dear old Marlow town!

I go to luncheon at the Lawn,I muse, I sketch, I rhyme;I headers take at early dawn,I list to All Saints' chime.And in the River, flashing bright,Dull Care I strive to drown—And get a famous appetiteAt pleasant Marlow town!

I go to luncheon at the Lawn,

I muse, I sketch, I rhyme;

I headers take at early dawn,

I list to All Saints' chime.

And in the River, flashing bright,

Dull Care I strive to drown—

And get a famous appetite

At pleasant Marlow town!

So when, no longer, London lifeYou feel you can endure;Just quit its noise, its whirl, its strife,And try the "Marlow-cure"!You'll smooth the wrinkles on your browAnd scare away each frown—Feel young again once more, I vow,At quaint old Marlow town!

So when, no longer, London life

You feel you can endure;

Just quit its noise, its whirl, its strife,

And try the "Marlow-cure"!

You'll smooth the wrinkles on your brow

And scare away each frown—

Feel young again once more, I vow,

At quaint old Marlow town!

Here Shelley dreamed and thought and wrote,And wandered o'er the leas;And sung and drifted in his boatBeneath the Bisham trees.So letmesing, although I'm noGreat poet of renown—Of hours that much too quickly go,At good old Marlow town!

Here Shelley dreamed and thought and wrote,

And wandered o'er the leas;

And sung and drifted in his boat

Beneath the Bisham trees.

So letmesing, although I'm no

Great poet of renown—

Of hours that much too quickly go,

At good old Marlow town!

AWAY with all sorrow, away with all gloom,Now may is in blossom, and lilac in bloom;The golden laburnum in gardens is gay,The windows are bright with their floral display;The air is delightful, and warm is the sun,The chesnuts are snowy, the Derby is won.Piccadilly is pleasant from daylight to dark,And Bond Street is crowded, and gay is the Park—So now is the time when you all ought to go,And sit on a Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!For only a penny I sit in the shade,And gaze with delight on the gay cavalcade!While countless romances I read if I please,In the people I see from my Chair 'neath the trees.'Tis better by far than an Opera-stall,A crowded At-home or a smart fancy ball;Or gazing at pictures, or playing at pool,Or playing the banjo, or playing the fool—When soft summer breezes from Kensington blow,'Tis pleasant to sit on a Chair in the Row!What studies of man and of woman and horseHere pass up and down on the tan-trodden course!The Earl and the Duke and the Doctor are there,The author, the actor, the great millionaire;The first-season beauties whose roses are red,The third-season beauties whose roses have fled!M.P.'s, upon cobs, chatting pleasantly there,And pets, upon ponies, with long sunny hair—I note them all down, as they pass to and fro,And muse in my Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!What countless fair pictures around may be seen,How colours flash bright on their background of green!A bouquet of figure, of fashion, of face,And dainty devices in linen and lace!The triumphs of Worth and of Madame EliseYou see as you wonder and moon 'neath the trees.What sweet scraps of scandal afloat in the air,And gossip you hear sitting silently there!—But folks are going lunchwards; I'll join them, and soI ponder no more in my Chair in the Row!

AWAY with all sorrow, away with all gloom,

Now may is in blossom, and lilac in bloom;

The golden laburnum in gardens is gay,

The windows are bright with their floral display;

The air is delightful, and warm is the sun,

The chesnuts are snowy, the Derby is won.

Piccadilly is pleasant from daylight to dark,

And Bond Street is crowded, and gay is the Park—

So now is the time when you all ought to go,

And sit on a Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!

For only a penny I sit in the shade,And gaze with delight on the gay cavalcade!While countless romances I read if I please,In the people I see from my Chair 'neath the trees.'Tis better by far than an Opera-stall,A crowded At-home or a smart fancy ball;Or gazing at pictures, or playing at pool,Or playing the banjo, or playing the fool—When soft summer breezes from Kensington blow,'Tis pleasant to sit on a Chair in the Row!

For only a penny I sit in the shade,

And gaze with delight on the gay cavalcade!

While countless romances I read if I please,

In the people I see from my Chair 'neath the trees.

'Tis better by far than an Opera-stall,

A crowded At-home or a smart fancy ball;

Or gazing at pictures, or playing at pool,

Or playing the banjo, or playing the fool—

When soft summer breezes from Kensington blow,

'Tis pleasant to sit on a Chair in the Row!

What studies of man and of woman and horseHere pass up and down on the tan-trodden course!The Earl and the Duke and the Doctor are there,The author, the actor, the great millionaire;The first-season beauties whose roses are red,The third-season beauties whose roses have fled!M.P.'s, upon cobs, chatting pleasantly there,And pets, upon ponies, with long sunny hair—I note them all down, as they pass to and fro,And muse in my Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!

What studies of man and of woman and horse

Here pass up and down on the tan-trodden course!

The Earl and the Duke and the Doctor are there,

The author, the actor, the great millionaire;

The first-season beauties whose roses are red,

The third-season beauties whose roses have fled!

M.P.'s, upon cobs, chatting pleasantly there,

And pets, upon ponies, with long sunny hair—

I note them all down, as they pass to and fro,

And muse in my Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!

What countless fair pictures around may be seen,How colours flash bright on their background of green!A bouquet of figure, of fashion, of face,And dainty devices in linen and lace!The triumphs of Worth and of Madame EliseYou see as you wonder and moon 'neath the trees.What sweet scraps of scandal afloat in the air,And gossip you hear sitting silently there!—But folks are going lunchwards; I'll join them, and soI ponder no more in my Chair in the Row!

What countless fair pictures around may be seen,

How colours flash bright on their background of green!

A bouquet of figure, of fashion, of face,

And dainty devices in linen and lace!

The triumphs of Worth and of Madame Elise

You see as you wonder and moon 'neath the trees.

What sweet scraps of scandal afloat in the air,

And gossip you hear sitting silently there!—

But folks are going lunchwards; I'll join them, and so

I ponder no more in my Chair in the Row!

IN sunny girlhood's vernal lifeShe caused no small sensation;But now the modest English wifeTo others leaves flirtation.She's young still, lovely, debonair,Although sometimes her featuresAre clouded by a thought of careFor those two tiny creatures.Each tiny, toddling, mottled miteAsserts with voice emphatic,In lisping accents, "Mite is right"—Their rule is autocratic:The song becomes, that charmed mankind,Their musical narcotic,And baby lips, than Love, she'll find,Are even more despotic!Soft lullaby, when singing there,And castles ever building—Their destiny she'll carve in air,Bright with maternal gilding:Young Guy, a clever advocate—So eloquent and able!A powdered wig upon his pate,A coronet for Mabel!

IN sunny girlhood's vernal life

She caused no small sensation;

But now the modest English wife

To others leaves flirtation.

She's young still, lovely, debonair,

Although sometimes her features

Are clouded by a thought of care

For those two tiny creatures.

Each tiny, toddling, mottled miteAsserts with voice emphatic,In lisping accents, "Mite is right"—Their rule is autocratic:The song becomes, that charmed mankind,Their musical narcotic,And baby lips, than Love, she'll find,Are even more despotic!

Each tiny, toddling, mottled mite

Asserts with voice emphatic,

In lisping accents, "Mite is right"—

Their rule is autocratic:

The song becomes, that charmed mankind,

Their musical narcotic,

And baby lips, than Love, she'll find,

Are even more despotic!

Soft lullaby, when singing there,And castles ever building—Their destiny she'll carve in air,Bright with maternal gilding:Young Guy, a clever advocate—So eloquent and able!A powdered wig upon his pate,A coronet for Mabel!

Soft lullaby, when singing there,

And castles ever building—

Their destiny she'll carve in air,

Bright with maternal gilding:

Young Guy, a clever advocate—

So eloquent and able!

A powdered wig upon his pate,

A coronet for Mabel!

In these rough rhymes I string togetherPortraits of each pretty face—Which, in this rough and rimy weather,Surely can't be out of place.

In these rough rhymes I string together

Portraits of each pretty face—

Which, in this rough and rimy weather,

Surely can't be out of place.

LADY SEALSKIN.

ADAINTY young damsel is Pearl,Beclad in the softest of sealskin:I'm told her papa is an Earl;—Just watch her most gracefully twirl,A lovely and lissom young girl,Whose jersey is tight as an eelskin;A dainty young damsel is Pearl,Beclad in the softest of sealskin.

ADAINTY young damsel is Pearl,

Beclad in the softest of sealskin:

I'm told her papa is an Earl;—

Just watch her most gracefully twirl,

A lovely and lissom young girl,

Whose jersey is tight as an eelskin;

A dainty young damsel is Pearl,

Beclad in the softest of sealskin.

MISS OTTER.

You never, I'm certain, saw suchA lithe little learner in otter!She's ready to fall at a touch;Behold how she's anxious to clutchHer ebony-stick with acrutchBy which she's enabled to totter.You never, I'm certain, saw suchA lithe little learner in otter.

You never, I'm certain, saw such

A lithe little learner in otter!

She's ready to fall at a touch;

Behold how she's anxious to clutch

Her ebony-stick with acrutch

By which she's enabled to totter.

You never, I'm certain, saw such

A lithe little learner in otter.

PRINCESS ERMINE.

Pray, who is the pretty Princess,Who is robed in the royalest ermine?And exquisite velveteen dress,With bangles that ring more or less;I'm sure you're unable to guess,And 'tis hardly for me to determine!Pray, who is this pretty Princess,Who is robed in the royalest ermine?

Pray, who is the pretty Princess,

Who is robed in the royalest ermine?

And exquisite velveteen dress,

With bangles that ring more or less;

I'm sure you're unable to guess,

And 'tis hardly for me to determine!

Pray, who is this pretty Princess,

Who is robed in the royalest ermine?

MISS SILVER-GREY RABBIT.

Here comes that big baby called Bee,Who is clad in the coat of a bunny!A romping young rebel is she—Her skirts only reach to her knee,Her life's full of mischief and glee,And a "spill" she thinks screamingly funny.Here comes that big baby called Bee,Who is clad in the coat of a bunny!

Here comes that big baby called Bee,

Who is clad in the coat of a bunny!

A romping young rebel is she—

Her skirts only reach to her knee,

Her life's full of mischief and glee,

And a "spill" she thinks screamingly funny.

Here comes that big baby called Bee,

Who is clad in the coat of a bunny!

THE HON. MABEL SABLE.

O, had I ten thousand a yearI'd marry Miss Mabel in sable!A dainty, divine little dear,She's out of my reach though she's near—I'd woo her to-day without fear,And wed her at once, were I able!O, had I ten thousand a yearI'd marry Miss Mabel in sable!

O, had I ten thousand a year

I'd marry Miss Mabel in sable!

A dainty, divine little dear,

She's out of my reach though she's near—

I'd woo her to-day without fear,

And wed her at once, were I able!

O, had I ten thousand a year

I'd marry Miss Mabel in sable!

MISS BEARSKIN.

And this is our sweet little Flo,A bonny young beauty in bearskin!How glibly she'll glide to and fro,And sweet sunny glances bestow,While a lovely carnational glowJust flushes her exquisite fair skin.And this is our sweet little Flo,A bonny young beauty in bearskin!

And this is our sweet little Flo,

A bonny young beauty in bearskin!

How glibly she'll glide to and fro,

And sweet sunny glances bestow,

While a lovely carnational glow

Just flushes her exquisite fair skin.

And this is our sweet little Flo,

A bonny young beauty in bearskin!

DRIFTING down in the grey-green twilight,O, the scent of the new-mown hay!The oars drip in the mystic shy light,O, the charm of the dying day!While fading flecks of bright opalescenceBut faintly dapple a saffron sky,The stream flows on with superb quiescence,The breeze is hushed to the softest sigh.Drifting down in the sweet still weather,O, the fragrance of fair July!Love, my Love, when we drift together,O, how fleetly the moments fly!Drifting down on the dear old River,O, the music that interweaves!The ripples run and the sedges shiver,O, the song of the lazy leaves!And far-off sounds—for the night so clear is—Awake the echoes of bygone times;The muffled roar of the distant weir isCheered by the clang of the Marlow chimes.Drifting down in the cloudless weather,O, how short is the summer day!Love, my Love, when we drift together,O, how quickly we drift away!Drifting down as the night advances,O, the calm of the starlit skies!Eyelids droop o'er the half-shy glances,O, the light in those blue-grey eyes!A winsome maiden is sweetly singingA dreamy song in a minor key;Her clear low voice and its tones are bringingA mingled melody back to me.Drifting down in the clear calm weather,O, how sweet is the maiden's song!Love, my Love, when we drift together,O, how quickly we drift along!

DRIFTING down in the grey-green twilight,

O, the scent of the new-mown hay!

The oars drip in the mystic shy light,

O, the charm of the dying day!

While fading flecks of bright opalescence

But faintly dapple a saffron sky,

The stream flows on with superb quiescence,

The breeze is hushed to the softest sigh.

Drifting down in the sweet still weather,

O, the fragrance of fair July!

Love, my Love, when we drift together,

O, how fleetly the moments fly!

Drifting down on the dear old River,O, the music that interweaves!The ripples run and the sedges shiver,O, the song of the lazy leaves!And far-off sounds—for the night so clear is—Awake the echoes of bygone times;The muffled roar of the distant weir isCheered by the clang of the Marlow chimes.Drifting down in the cloudless weather,O, how short is the summer day!Love, my Love, when we drift together,O, how quickly we drift away!

Drifting down on the dear old River,

O, the music that interweaves!

The ripples run and the sedges shiver,

O, the song of the lazy leaves!

And far-off sounds—for the night so clear is—

Awake the echoes of bygone times;

The muffled roar of the distant weir is

Cheered by the clang of the Marlow chimes.

Drifting down in the cloudless weather,

O, how short is the summer day!

Love, my Love, when we drift together,

O, how quickly we drift away!

Drifting down as the night advances,O, the calm of the starlit skies!Eyelids droop o'er the half-shy glances,O, the light in those blue-grey eyes!A winsome maiden is sweetly singingA dreamy song in a minor key;Her clear low voice and its tones are bringingA mingled melody back to me.Drifting down in the clear calm weather,O, how sweet is the maiden's song!Love, my Love, when we drift together,O, how quickly we drift along!

Drifting down as the night advances,

O, the calm of the starlit skies!

Eyelids droop o'er the half-shy glances,

O, the light in those blue-grey eyes!

A winsome maiden is sweetly singing

A dreamy song in a minor key;

Her clear low voice and its tones are bringing

A mingled melody back to me.

Drifting down in the clear calm weather,

O, how sweet is the maiden's song!

Love, my Love, when we drift together,

O, how quickly we drift along!

OBRING me, O bring me, my stout mackintosh,I care not a feather for slime or for slosh!The sky it is leaden, the lawn sopping wet,And sodden the balls are, and slack is the net!I've done it before and I'll do it again,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the rain!I'll don my sou'-wester, then what do I careIf weather be foul or if weather be fair?I'll put on my furs, and I'll shorten my clothes,I'll wear my galoshes and thick woollen hose:I care not a pin for the storm or the flood,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the mud!I laugh as the hailstones come pattering down,I'm spattered all over from sole unto crown!In thunder and lightning I'll play all the same—Iwon'tbe debarred from my favourite game!Though weak-hearted lasses may quiver and quail,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the hail!In summer 'tis pleasant, but you ought to know'Tis capital fun in the winter also:When nets are all frozen and balls can't rebound,When chilly the air is and snow's on the ground!Though lazy folks shiver, and say 'tis "no go,"I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the snow!What pleasure can equal, what exercise viesThis winter Lawn-Tennis, with snow in your eyes?You trip and you tumble, you glance and you glide,You totter and stumble, you slip and you slide!With two ancient racquets strapped fast to my feet,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the sleet!In autumn, as well as in summer or spring,In praise of Lawn-Tennis I heartily sing!Though good at each season, and better each time,I'm certain in winter the game's in its prime!You doubt it? No matter! Whate'er may befall,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of you all!

OBRING me, O bring me, my stout mackintosh,

I care not a feather for slime or for slosh!

The sky it is leaden, the lawn sopping wet,

And sodden the balls are, and slack is the net!

I've done it before and I'll do it again,

I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the rain!

I'll don my sou'-wester, then what do I careIf weather be foul or if weather be fair?I'll put on my furs, and I'll shorten my clothes,I'll wear my galoshes and thick woollen hose:I care not a pin for the storm or the flood,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the mud!

I'll don my sou'-wester, then what do I care

If weather be foul or if weather be fair?

I'll put on my furs, and I'll shorten my clothes,

I'll wear my galoshes and thick woollen hose:

I care not a pin for the storm or the flood,

I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the mud!

I laugh as the hailstones come pattering down,I'm spattered all over from sole unto crown!In thunder and lightning I'll play all the same—Iwon'tbe debarred from my favourite game!Though weak-hearted lasses may quiver and quail,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the hail!

I laugh as the hailstones come pattering down,

I'm spattered all over from sole unto crown!

In thunder and lightning I'll play all the same—

Iwon'tbe debarred from my favourite game!

Though weak-hearted lasses may quiver and quail,

I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the hail!

In summer 'tis pleasant, but you ought to know'Tis capital fun in the winter also:When nets are all frozen and balls can't rebound,When chilly the air is and snow's on the ground!Though lazy folks shiver, and say 'tis "no go,"I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the snow!

In summer 'tis pleasant, but you ought to know

'Tis capital fun in the winter also:

When nets are all frozen and balls can't rebound,

When chilly the air is and snow's on the ground!

Though lazy folks shiver, and say 'tis "no go,"

I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the snow!

What pleasure can equal, what exercise viesThis winter Lawn-Tennis, with snow in your eyes?You trip and you tumble, you glance and you glide,You totter and stumble, you slip and you slide!With two ancient racquets strapped fast to my feet,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the sleet!

What pleasure can equal, what exercise vies

This winter Lawn-Tennis, with snow in your eyes?

You trip and you tumble, you glance and you glide,

You totter and stumble, you slip and you slide!

With two ancient racquets strapped fast to my feet,

I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the sleet!

In autumn, as well as in summer or spring,In praise of Lawn-Tennis I heartily sing!Though good at each season, and better each time,I'm certain in winter the game's in its prime!You doubt it? No matter! Whate'er may befall,I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of you all!

In autumn, as well as in summer or spring,

In praise of Lawn-Tennis I heartily sing!

Though good at each season, and better each time,

I'm certain in winter the game's in its prime!

You doubt it? No matter! Whate'er may befall,

I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of you all!

APRETTY picture is it not,Beneath the awning of the yacht?A beauty of Sixteen,She wears a trim tarpaulin hat,So now you know the reason thatI call her Tarpauline.A taut serge dress of Navy blue,A boatswain's silver whistle, too,She wears when she's afloat;An open collar, and I wot,A veritable sailor's knotAround her pretty throat.She has a glance that pleads and kills;And 'mid her shy and snowy frillsA little foot appears;She has the softest sunny locks,The compass she knows how to box,And, when it's needful—ears!The smartest little sailor-girl,Who'll steer or "bear a hand" or furl,And I am told she oftQuite longs to reef her petticoats,And gleefully to "girl the boats,"Or glibly go aloft!But now how lazily she lies!And droops those tender trustful eyesUnutterably sweet!While snugly 'neath the bulwark curled,Forgetting all about the world,TheWorldis at her feet!With tiny, dimpled, sunburnt hand,She pats the solemn NewfoundlandWho crouches at her side.She's thinking—not of me nor you,When smiling as she listens toThe lapping of the tide.O, were I pressed, aboard that ship,How joyfully I'd take a trip,For change of air and scene!I'd soon pack up a carpet-bag,And gladly sail beneath the flag,Of bonny Tarpauline!

APRETTY picture is it not,Beneath the awning of the yacht?A beauty of Sixteen,She wears a trim tarpaulin hat,So now you know the reason thatI call her Tarpauline.

APRETTY picture is it not,

Beneath the awning of the yacht?

A beauty of Sixteen,

She wears a trim tarpaulin hat,

So now you know the reason that

I call her Tarpauline.

A taut serge dress of Navy blue,A boatswain's silver whistle, too,She wears when she's afloat;An open collar, and I wot,A veritable sailor's knotAround her pretty throat.

A taut serge dress of Navy blue,

A boatswain's silver whistle, too,

She wears when she's afloat;

An open collar, and I wot,

A veritable sailor's knot

Around her pretty throat.

She has a glance that pleads and kills;And 'mid her shy and snowy frillsA little foot appears;She has the softest sunny locks,The compass she knows how to box,And, when it's needful—ears!

She has a glance that pleads and kills;

And 'mid her shy and snowy frills

A little foot appears;

She has the softest sunny locks,

The compass she knows how to box,

And, when it's needful—ears!

The smartest little sailor-girl,Who'll steer or "bear a hand" or furl,And I am told she oftQuite longs to reef her petticoats,And gleefully to "girl the boats,"Or glibly go aloft!

The smartest little sailor-girl,

Who'll steer or "bear a hand" or furl,

And I am told she oft

Quite longs to reef her petticoats,

And gleefully to "girl the boats,"

Or glibly go aloft!

But now how lazily she lies!And droops those tender trustful eyesUnutterably sweet!While snugly 'neath the bulwark curled,Forgetting all about the world,TheWorldis at her feet!

But now how lazily she lies!

And droops those tender trustful eyes

Unutterably sweet!

While snugly 'neath the bulwark curled,

Forgetting all about the world,

TheWorldis at her feet!

With tiny, dimpled, sunburnt hand,She pats the solemn NewfoundlandWho crouches at her side.She's thinking—not of me nor you,When smiling as she listens toThe lapping of the tide.

With tiny, dimpled, sunburnt hand,

She pats the solemn Newfoundland

Who crouches at her side.

She's thinking—not of me nor you,

When smiling as she listens to

The lapping of the tide.

O, were I pressed, aboard that ship,How joyfully I'd take a trip,For change of air and scene!I'd soon pack up a carpet-bag,And gladly sail beneath the flag,Of bonny Tarpauline!

O, were I pressed, aboard that ship,

How joyfully I'd take a trip,

For change of air and scene!

I'd soon pack up a carpet-bag,

And gladly sail beneath the flag,

Of bonny Tarpauline!

ASWEET, short-skirted, pouting pet,A winsome, laughing, glad, girlette;She's ten-and-thoughtless, and as yet,By falsity unsmitten!A merry young misogynist,Few boyish games can she resist—The Kitten!She hates a doll and girlish toys,She's fond of whips, and dogs, and boys,For, truth to tell, she finds no joysIn crewel-work or tatting:But see how smiling is her face,Indeed, a pretty gleeful Grace—When batting!She bowls with marvellous success,And keeps her wicket, I confess—Despite her graceful girlish dress—As well as any Briton!She's saucy, silly, and self-willed,The smartest longstop ever frilled—The Kitten!She's erudite in "wides" and "byes,"And I will venture to surmise,She'll vanquish any boy her sizeAt games of single-wicket!And yet, no doubt, she's good as gold,For I'll go bail she's only bold—At cricket!But like her namesake, clad in fur,No mischief comes amiss to her;To me it seems it should occur,To leave her faults unwritten.She'll make a score, I'm sure of that,And loves to carry out her bat—The Kitten!

ASWEET, short-skirted, pouting pet,

A winsome, laughing, glad, girlette;

She's ten-and-thoughtless, and as yet,

By falsity unsmitten!

A merry young misogynist,

Few boyish games can she resist—

The Kitten!

She hates a doll and girlish toys,She's fond of whips, and dogs, and boys,For, truth to tell, she finds no joysIn crewel-work or tatting:But see how smiling is her face,Indeed, a pretty gleeful Grace—When batting!

She hates a doll and girlish toys,

She's fond of whips, and dogs, and boys,

For, truth to tell, she finds no joys

In crewel-work or tatting:

But see how smiling is her face,

Indeed, a pretty gleeful Grace—

When batting!

She bowls with marvellous success,And keeps her wicket, I confess—Despite her graceful girlish dress—As well as any Briton!She's saucy, silly, and self-willed,The smartest longstop ever frilled—The Kitten!

She bowls with marvellous success,

And keeps her wicket, I confess—

Despite her graceful girlish dress—

As well as any Briton!

She's saucy, silly, and self-willed,

The smartest longstop ever frilled—

The Kitten!

She's erudite in "wides" and "byes,"And I will venture to surmise,She'll vanquish any boy her sizeAt games of single-wicket!And yet, no doubt, she's good as gold,For I'll go bail she's only bold—At cricket!

She's erudite in "wides" and "byes,"

And I will venture to surmise,

She'll vanquish any boy her size

At games of single-wicket!

And yet, no doubt, she's good as gold,

For I'll go bail she's only bold—

At cricket!

But like her namesake, clad in fur,No mischief comes amiss to her;To me it seems it should occur,To leave her faults unwritten.She'll make a score, I'm sure of that,And loves to carry out her bat—The Kitten!

But like her namesake, clad in fur,

No mischief comes amiss to her;

To me it seems it should occur,

To leave her faults unwritten.

She'll make a score, I'm sure of that,

And loves to carry out her bat—

The Kitten!

Tunbridge Wells,August.

The danger that lurks in Chrysanthemum Shows,You'll see in this letter from Milly to Rose!

The danger that lurks in Chrysanthemum Shows,

You'll see in this letter from Milly to Rose!

DEAR ROSE,I never shall forget—That is, I always shall remember—The very brightest day, my pet,We had throughout this dull November!I went last Monday, you must know,With Tina, Mrs. S., and Clarry,To see the Temple flower-show,And, best of all, to lunch with Harry!We saw the gardens—'twould be sportTo make the Benchers play lawn-tennis—And chambers in a dingy courtWhere Fanny Bolton nursed Pendennis:The rooms where Goldsmith lived and died,The sycamore where Johnson prated;The house where Pip did once reside,The Fountain where sweet Ruth Pinch waited.We grasped a massive balustrade—The date, they said, was Sixteen Thirty—The way was dark, and I'm afraidWe found the staircase rather dirty.Those grim old stairs to Harry's Den—We clomb them gaily, nothing daunted—They still by Warrington and Pen,And other pleasant ghosts are haunted!Ah, what a spot, my dearest Rose,To muse upon this queer old Den is!To catalogue its curiosI'm sure unable quite my pen is!But from its panes we gaze uponThe misty midday sun a-quiver;The red-sailed barges drifting on,The sparkle of the dear old River!Then mingling sweetly one perceives—'Mid laughter light and girlish gabble—The sighing of the autumn leaves,And singing of the Fountain's babble!How quick my thoughts drift back againTo those bright happy days at Hurley—A pleasure strongly dashed with pain—(O, Harry's locks are brown and curly!)But, Rose, the luncheon! It was grand—The oak you know, my love, was sported—And all the speeches, understand,Were much too good to be reported.There's Clarry and big Charlie Clough—It is a case! I think they'll marry—I wonder who is good enoughFor handsome, grey-eyed, laughing Harry?It soon grew dark, but I could seeThat clearly no one did desire light;For Tina and young Freddy B.Were spooning by the fitful firelight.We stayed till late, for Mrs. S.The most enduring chaperone is.And Harry sang! I must confessHis voice the richest baritone is.Ah, how the moments quickly flitIn song and talk and playful banter!The motto on the sundial writIsPereunt et imputantur.I'm rather sad! Ah, what's the use?I know you'll think I'm very silly;Although I am a little goose,I always am, your loving Milly.

DEAR ROSE,

I never shall forget—

That is, I always shall remember—

The very brightest day, my pet,

We had throughout this dull November!

I went last Monday, you must know,

With Tina, Mrs. S., and Clarry,

To see the Temple flower-show,

And, best of all, to lunch with Harry!

We saw the gardens—'twould be sportTo make the Benchers play lawn-tennis—And chambers in a dingy courtWhere Fanny Bolton nursed Pendennis:The rooms where Goldsmith lived and died,The sycamore where Johnson prated;The house where Pip did once reside,The Fountain where sweet Ruth Pinch waited.

We saw the gardens—'twould be sport

To make the Benchers play lawn-tennis—

And chambers in a dingy court

Where Fanny Bolton nursed Pendennis:

The rooms where Goldsmith lived and died,

The sycamore where Johnson prated;

The house where Pip did once reside,

The Fountain where sweet Ruth Pinch waited.

We grasped a massive balustrade—The date, they said, was Sixteen Thirty—The way was dark, and I'm afraidWe found the staircase rather dirty.Those grim old stairs to Harry's Den—We clomb them gaily, nothing daunted—They still by Warrington and Pen,And other pleasant ghosts are haunted!

We grasped a massive balustrade—

The date, they said, was Sixteen Thirty—

The way was dark, and I'm afraid

We found the staircase rather dirty.

Those grim old stairs to Harry's Den—

We clomb them gaily, nothing daunted—

They still by Warrington and Pen,

And other pleasant ghosts are haunted!

Ah, what a spot, my dearest Rose,To muse upon this queer old Den is!To catalogue its curiosI'm sure unable quite my pen is!But from its panes we gaze uponThe misty midday sun a-quiver;The red-sailed barges drifting on,The sparkle of the dear old River!

Ah, what a spot, my dearest Rose,

To muse upon this queer old Den is!

To catalogue its curios

I'm sure unable quite my pen is!

But from its panes we gaze upon

The misty midday sun a-quiver;

The red-sailed barges drifting on,

The sparkle of the dear old River!

Then mingling sweetly one perceives—'Mid laughter light and girlish gabble—The sighing of the autumn leaves,And singing of the Fountain's babble!How quick my thoughts drift back againTo those bright happy days at Hurley—A pleasure strongly dashed with pain—(O, Harry's locks are brown and curly!)

Then mingling sweetly one perceives—

'Mid laughter light and girlish gabble—

The sighing of the autumn leaves,

And singing of the Fountain's babble!

How quick my thoughts drift back again

To those bright happy days at Hurley—

A pleasure strongly dashed with pain—

(O, Harry's locks are brown and curly!)

But, Rose, the luncheon! It was grand—The oak you know, my love, was sported—And all the speeches, understand,Were much too good to be reported.There's Clarry and big Charlie Clough—It is a case! I think they'll marry—I wonder who is good enoughFor handsome, grey-eyed, laughing Harry?

But, Rose, the luncheon! It was grand—

The oak you know, my love, was sported—

And all the speeches, understand,

Were much too good to be reported.

There's Clarry and big Charlie Clough—

It is a case! I think they'll marry—

I wonder who is good enough

For handsome, grey-eyed, laughing Harry?

It soon grew dark, but I could seeThat clearly no one did desire light;For Tina and young Freddy B.Were spooning by the fitful firelight.We stayed till late, for Mrs. S.The most enduring chaperone is.And Harry sang! I must confessHis voice the richest baritone is.

It soon grew dark, but I could see

That clearly no one did desire light;

For Tina and young Freddy B.

Were spooning by the fitful firelight.

We stayed till late, for Mrs. S.

The most enduring chaperone is.

And Harry sang! I must confess

His voice the richest baritone is.

Ah, how the moments quickly flitIn song and talk and playful banter!The motto on the sundial writIsPereunt et imputantur.I'm rather sad! Ah, what's the use?I know you'll think I'm very silly;Although I am a little goose,I always am, your loving Milly.

Ah, how the moments quickly flit

In song and talk and playful banter!

The motto on the sundial writ

IsPereunt et imputantur.

I'm rather sad! Ah, what's the use?

I know you'll think I'm very silly;

Although I am a little goose,

I always am, your loving Milly.

Too fair for prose, too sweet for rhyme,A laughing lass beneath the lime!

Too fair for prose, too sweet for rhyme,

A laughing lass beneath the lime!

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