NUMBER ONE.

HOT, hot glows the sunshine in laughing July.Scarce flutter the leaves in the soft summer sigh:The rooks scarcely swing on the tops of the trees,While river-reeds nod to the lime-scented breeze:A roseleaf, a-bask in the sunshiny gleam,Half sleeps in the dimples that chequer the stream;The dragon-fly hushes his day-dreamy lay,The silver trout sulks in his sedge-shaded bay—While our thoughts sweetly run in a soft singing rhyme,As we lazily loiter in strawberry time!Sweet, sweet is the scent of the newly-mown hay,Light borne by the breeze on a bright summer's day;And cool is the sound of the musical plash,As bright bubbles fall in the fountain and flash.'Tis joy then to wander in gay golden hours,And dream 'mid the hues of the bright-tinted flow'rs;When the velvety lawn is most soft to the tread,And ruddy fruit hangs in the leaf-covered bed—Then the roundest, the sweetest, the best of the prime,Will we gather together in strawberry time!Joy, joy 'tis to whisper and laugh in the shade,And pluck the ripe fruit for my hazel-eyed maid;To watch her delight as she eagerly clipsA pink British Queen with her soft pouting lips!While lovingly gazing I'm apt to compareThe warm blushing berries with lips of my fair;I'm doubtful, indeed, if the fruit of the SouthCould equal the charm of her ripe little mouth—'Tis so round and so soft, 'twould be scarcely a crimeAll my doubts to dispel in sweet strawberry time!Light, light is the laughter that carelessly rings,And sweet is the carol she tenderly sings!I murmur a story we all of us know—Her soft dainty dimples, they come and they go;Her eyelids droop down o'er those sweet little eyes,Her laughter is hushed in a tumult of sighs:Those pretty, plump fingers, red-stained to the tips,All tremble, while pouting are rosy-red lips.Then the bard whispers low, 'neath the tremulous lime,"Lips sweeter than fruit are in strawberry time!"NUMBER ONE.PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG LADY."No.1,"in a collection of one thousand five hundred and eighty-three works of art, at the Exhibition of the Royal Academy.MY favourite, you must know,In the Piccadilly Show,Is the portrait of a lassBravely done.'Mid the fifteen eighty-threeWorks of art that you may see,There is nothing can surpass—"Number One"!Very far above the lineIs this favourite of mine;You may see her smiling thereO'er the crowds.If you bring a goodlorgnette,You may see my dainty pet;Like the Jungfrau, pink and fair,'Mid the clouds.My enchanting little star,How I wonder what you are,With your rosy laughing lipsFull of fun.Have you many satellites,Do you shine so bright o' nights,That there's nothing can eclipse"Number One"?Are you constant in your loves?Do you change them with your gloves?Pray does Worth pervade your train—Or your heart?Are you fickle, are you leal,Are your sunny tresses real,Or your roses only vainWorks of art?I sincerely envy himWho the fortune had to limnYour bewitching hazel eyesWith his brush:Who could study ev'ry graceIn your winsome little face,And the subtle charm that liesIn your blush.I am sure it is a shameThat your pretty face and frame,Ruthless hangers out of viewSeek to hide:But no doubt Sir Frederick L——,And his myrmidons as well,Fancy angels such as you,Should be "skyed"!Ah! were I but twenty-two,I would hinge the knee to you,And most humbly kiss your gloveAt your throne:Thrice happy he whose sighsDraw this sweet Heart Union prizeIn the lottery of LoveFor his own!If I knew but your papa,Could I only "ask mama,"It is clear enough to meAs the sun,That all through this weary life,'Mid its pleasure, pain, and strife,All my care and love should be"Number One."AFTER BREAKFAST.THE ruddy ripe tomata,In china bowl of ice;And grouse worth a sonata,Undoubtedly are nice!A pint of sound Hocheimer,A dainty speckled trout,Suffices for the Rhymer,To break his fast no doubt!I watch the busy bees onThe leaf beneath the lime:It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!'Tis hot as in the tropics—Too hot to ride or walk—I have no store of topics,I do not care to talk!No matutinal journalHas reached me—Do I fret?'Neath leafy shade supernal,I smoke a cigarette!I care not for the Season,Trade, Politics, or Crime:It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!Pray, who would wear a tall hat?Or buttoned in frock coat,Would countless places call at,When he might moon in boat?Exploring river reaches,And doing naught at all,But plucking juicy peachesThat ripen on the wall!I put just what I please on,I take no heed of time:It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!My thoughts all run together,Regretfully I find;They're melted by the weather,To shapeless mass of mind!It's much too hot for thinking,Too sultry 'tis to chaff;For eating or for drinking,Too torrid e'en to laugh!I know this sounds like treason—I do not care one dime—It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!IN AN OLD CITY CHURCH.ONE dull, foggy day in December,When biting and bleak was the air,I once lost my way, I remember,And paused in a quaint City square.Though lacking all splendour or gladness,The flavour of good long agoClung close to the place in its sadness,And grave-yard half covered with snow;While the black, puny branches, all leafless and bare,Seemed to add to the gloom of this dull City square!The railings were rusty and rimy,The church looked so mouldy and grim;The houses seemed haunted and grimy,The windows were gruesome and dim.The iron gate scrooped on its hinges,The clock struck a querulous chime,As though it were feeling some twinges'Twas almost forgotten by Time.But I opened the door, and the picture was fair,In the fine ancient church, in this sad City square!A fair little lass, holly-laden—With eyes of cerulean blue—Is helping a sweet dark-eyed maidenTwine ivy with laurel and yew;How busy the deft taper fingers!What taste and what art they display!How lovingly each of them lingers,Adjusting a leaf or a spray!——I close the door softly, I've no business there,And drift out in the fog of the grim City square.A LITTLE LOVE-LETTER.OPRETTY pet with the tangled hair,Down by the sighing summer sea—O dimpled darling with checks so fair,Tell me, O dearest, when musing there,Will you think of me?O sweetest sweet, when the salt breeze sighs'Mid silken locks ever flowing free,While gulls glint white against sleepy skies,Will looks of those bright brown loving eyesE'er be turned to me?Ah, laughing child, when your eyes beam bright,And lips are parted in girlish glee;When the shore is glad in still summer night,With your sweet soft smile, and your laughter light,Do you smile on me?When the moon is up, and sleeps the landTo tender music in minor key;When the silver-ripples hush the strandAnd scarcely dimple the golden sand,Will you dream of me?Poor little heart! when your cheeks are wetWith tears that sadden one's heart to see,Your moist lips tremble—you can't forgetSometimes the sun through the rain shines, pet,When you weep for me!STRAY SUNBEAMS.AWAY with great-coats and umbrellas!Put all furry garments away!Let glossiest hats—all you fellas—Gleam bright in the light of to-day!The air it is balmy and vernal,We feel a new life has begun:For gone is the weather hibernal—And here is the Sun!The genial sunbeams, in-streaming,Flash bright on my pen as I write!The paper is glowing and gleaming—My eyes are quite dazed with the light!No longer I growl or I shiver,Nor each fellow-creature I shun:I dream of the joys of the River—For here is the Sun!For England, the atmosphere's splendid,We live and we breathe now again!We fancy our trouble is ended,For gone is the fog and the rain:I laugh and I sing and I chuckle,I rhyme and I dance and I pun!I knock on the pane with my knuckle—For here is the Sun!What portents of pleasure I fancyReturn with these bright sunny rays!What visions of lazing Icansee,Of languorous, sweet Summer days;Of yachting and sea-side diversions,And getting as brown as a bun:Of rambles and Alpine excursions—For here is the Sun!I think of long days at lawn-tennis,Of dreams in my bass-wood canoe,Of gondola-lounging at Venice,And skies sempiternally blue!I muse o'er the pleasures of playtime,Of laziness, laughter, and fun;Of lime-scented zephyrs and haytime—Butwhereis the Sun?[Sun retires behind clouds, rain patters on the pane, and the Lazy One goes to bed.PEARL.PEARL, O Pearl!Naught but a lissom English girl,So sweet and simple;Naught but the charm of golden curl,Of blush and dimple—Pearl, O Pearl!Sweet, ah, sweet!'Tis pleasant lolling at your feetIn summer playtime;Ah, how the moments quickly fleetIn sunny hay-time—Sweet, ah, sweet!Dream, ah, dream!The sedges sing by swirling streamA lovely brief song;The poplars chant in sunny gleamA lulling leaf-song—Dream, ah, dream!Stay, O stay!We cannot dream all through the day,Demure and doubtful:When shines the sun we must make hay,When lips are poutful—Stay, O stay!A NUTSHELL NOVEL.VOL. I.AWINNING wile,A sunny smile,A feather:A tiny talk,A pleasant walk,Together!VOL. II.A little doubt,A playful pout,Capricious:A merry miss,A stolen kiss,Delicious!!VOL. III.You ask mama,Consult papa,With pleasure:And both repent,This rash event,At leisure!!!THE PINK OF PERFECTION.With manly step and stalwart stride,The Minstrel paced the pier at Ryde!And as he shook those hoary locks,He gazed upon the pink, pink frocks!WITH frocks and their wearers to dazzle my eyes,Their glories, I scarce dare to sing 'em:I timidly gaze and I glance in surprise,At beauties in cambric and gingham!A Paris I feel in this Garden of Dress,And, had I to make a selection—The Apple of Gold, I most freely confess,I'd give to the Pink of Perfection!It must not remind you of raspberry ice,Nor cheek of a milkmaid or cotter;A lobster-like redness is not at all nice,Nor feverish glow of the blotter;It should not recall a Bardolphian nose,Nor yet a pomegranate bisection—Throughout the whole garden you'll scarce find a rose,A match for the Pink of Perfection!A strawberry crushed, almost smothered in cream,Nearly matches the colour it may be;The Jungfrau just flushed with the earliest beam,The hue of the palm of a baby:The faint ruddy tone you may see in a shell,The rose in a young girl's complexion—All or any of these, it is easy to tell,Will pass for the Pink of Perfection!This frock when it's made with most exquisite taste,And fits like a glove on the shoulder;With yoke and full pleats and a band at the waist,Will gladden the passing beholder!With lace and with buttons of mother o' pearl—You'll say, on maturest reflection,The best of all garbs for a pretty young girl,No doubt is the Pink of Perfection!Then if such a dress you meet down by the sea,And find, when you've carefully eyed it,In make and in fashion 'tis good as can be,With a neat little figure inside it;And a sweet little face peeping over a ruff,Which laughs at your lengthy inspection,I think you'll admit I have said quite enough—You've found out the Pink of Perfection!THE IMPARTIAL.A BOAT-RACE SKETCH.IN sorrow and joy she has seen the beginning—Her lightness of spirit half dashed by the "blues"—With cheers in her heart for the crew who are winning,While tears fill her eyes for those fated to lose.If you'll narrowly watch, 'mid the noise and contention,You'll note, as her Arab paws proudly the dust,A deftly-twined bouquet of speedwell and gentianBeneath her white collar half carelessly thrust!The tint of a night in the still summer weatherHer tight-fitting habit just serves to unfold,While delicate cuffs are scarce fastened togetherBy dainty-wrought fetters of turquoise and gold.Ah! climax of sweet, girlish, neutral devices—What smiles for the winners, for losers what sighs!—She has twined her fair hair with the colours of Isis,While those of the Cam glitter bright in her eyes!A TRAVELLER'S TARANTELLA.Written in "Murray's Handbook," while the band in the Piazza San Marco was playing the Tarantella, from Masaniello.ALL that the tourist can dream of or hear about,Crowds on your sight as you carelessly peer about,Quaint water streets you so carefully steer about,See the Rialto, and Square of St. Mark!Floating in gondolas, laughing and jollity,Cyprian wine of the very best quality,At Florian'scaffè—mid fun and frivolity—Venice delightful from daylight to dark!Musicians in plenty,Play "Ecco ridente,"Or "Com e gentil," in the still summer night;If you're in a hurry,Pray look in yourMurray—You'll find his description is perfectly right!Albergo Reale and English society,Bric-à-bracshops in their endless variety,Plenty of pigeons not fearful of pie-ety,Flutter and peck 'neath the bluest of skies.Dreaming in Venice? Ah, wildest of fallacies—Bronzes and sculpture, mosaics and chalices,Convents and churches, and prisons and palaces,See as you stand on the grim Bridge of Sighs!The ballads of Byron,You'll find will environThe Doges and dodges and Brides of the Sea.Don't get in a flurry,But read it inMurray—If you don't care about it, then listen to me!Thousands of thirsty mosquitoes are biting one,Silvery moonlight is ever delighting one,Music and mirth every moment inviting one—Dreary old London we quickly forget!Shylock and Portia—in short, the whole kit of 'em,Readers of Shakespeare recall ev'ry bit of 'em;Troublesome guides, you can never get quit of 'em—Pictures by Titian and old Tintoret!The sock and the buskin,With Rogers and Ruskin,Are mixed in a muddle with palace and sight!It may be a worry,But don't forgetMurray,He'll throw on your darkness some excellent light!Caffè Florian, Venezia.IN A MINOR KEY.I'M sick of the world and its trouble,I'm weary of pleasures that cloy,I see through the bright-coloured bubble,And find no enjoyment in joy.Is all that we earn worth the earning?Is all that we gain worth the prize?Is all that we learn worth the learning?Is pleasure but pain in disguise?Is sorrow e'er worth our dejection?Is fame but a flatterer's spell?Is love ever worth our affection?Le jeu vaut-il, donc, la chandelle?O, where are the eyes that enthralled us,And where are the lips that we kissed?Where the syren-like voices that called us,And where all the chances we missed?We know not what mortals call pleasure—For clouded are skies that were blue;To dross now has melted our treasure,And false are the hearts that were true.The flowers we gathered are faded,The leaves of our laurels are shed;Our spirit is broken and jaded,The hopes of our youth are all dead.We feel life is hopeless and dreary,Now night has o'ershadowed our day;Bright fruits of this earth only weary,They ripen—to fall and decay!I'm sick of the world and its trouble,For rest and seclusion I thirst;I'm tired of the gay tinted bubble,That brighteneth only to burst!A SHOWER-SONG.MY heart was light and whole aboard—As I sculled swift by HarleyfordThe rain began to patter—But when I saw in Hurley LockThat Naiad in a gingham frock,'Twas quite another matter!The banks are soft with mud and slosh,And shiny is each mackintosh,Each hat and coat well soaken:My spirits droop, and as I scanThat Beauty in a trim randan,I fear my heart is broken!She hath a graceful little head,Her lips are ripe and round and red,Her teeth are short and pearly;And on a rosy sun-kissed cheekHer dimples play at hide-and-seek,Within the lock at Hurley!I strive to make a mental note,The while she lounges in her boatBeneath the big umbrella.I wonder if she's Gwendoline,Or Gillian, or Geraldine,Or Sylvia, or Stella?Is she engaged to Stroke or Bow?I would they could assure me nowShe loves to flirt with others!Will stalwart Sculls e'er claim her hand?How gladly would I understandHer Crew are naught but brothers!Her hat with lilies is bedight,Her voice is low, her laugh is light,Her figure slight and girly.How cheerfully I'd take a trip,With such a Pilot for my ship,And sail away from Hurley!I wonder if her heart is true?I know her eyes are peerless blue,Long lashes downward sweeping;A snow-white ruff around her throat,Beneath her pouting petticoatA little foot out-peeping.O, is she wooed and is she won,Or is she very fond of fun?I make a thousand guesses!A sweet young face, so full of hope,A dainty hand on tiller-rope,And raindrops in her tresses.Three tiny rosebuds lightly restWithin the haven of her breast—Her locks are short and curly.The sun is gone! Down comes the rain!I leave my heart cleft well in twainWithin the Lock at Hurley!Hurley Lock,June.THE SOCIAL ZODIAC.JANUARY.UPON the Ice, 'tis nice to glide,A merry maiden by your side!The air is keen, the day is fine,You think the sport is most divine,When skimming o'er the frozen tide.To Miss Chinchilla you confide,How proud you are to be her guide;Then try to cut some quaint designUpon the Ice.With measured motion, rhythmic stride,You put on speed and put on side:You cut the figures Eight and Nine—And sometimes on your back recline!Such falls will sometimes come to pride,Upon the Ice.FEBRUARY.SAINT VALENTINE! The post is late!No letters come—'tis long past Eight!But on this bright auspicious dayFrivolity holds laughing sway,And sober people have to wait!The burdened postmen moan their fate,This Festival they reprobate;And often think they'd like to flaySaint Valentine!But in these views you'll find Miss KateDoes not at all participate;And Beryl, Baby, Minnie, May,With Gertie, Ethel, Lily, Fay,Right gleefully commemorate—Saint Valentine!MARCH.OWIND of March! O biting breeze!It nips the nose and nips the trees;It whirls with fury down the street,It makes us flee in quick retreat,And gives us cold and makes us sneeze!It makes us cough and choke and wheeze,With painful back and aching knees;With dire discomfort 'tis replete,O Wind of March!Our hands we're glad enough to squeeze,In cuffs and muffs and muffatees;'Tis charged with blinding, cutting sleet,It spoils our temper, chills our feet,And brings the Doctor lots of fees—O Wind of March!APRIL.AN April Day, so fresh and bright—('Twill rain, I'm sure, before thenight!)We've done with Winter blasts unkind—(Don't leave your mackintosh behind,'Twould be a fatal oversight!)In Spring-like garb we'll go bedight—('Tis sure to rain, just out of spite!And most perplexing you will find,An April Day!)The sky is blue, the clouds are light—(I trust your Gamp is water-tight!)To sing and laugh we feel inclined—(Here comes a storm of rain and wind!And hail, that's quite enough to blight,An April Day!)MAY.APRIVATE View? 'Tis plain to you,'Tis neither "private" nor a "view"!And yet for tickets people rush,To mingle in the well-dressed crush,And come and wonder who is who.The beauties, poets, actors, too,With patrons, painters—not a few,Are elements that help to flushA Private View.The pictures, you can't hope to do;You're angered by the "precious" crew,And pallid maids who flop and gush.While carping critics who cry "Tush!"And wildly wrangle, make you rueA Private View.JUNE.IN Rotten Row, 'tis nice, you know,To see the tide of Fashion flow!Though hopeless cynics carp and croon—I do not care one macaroon—But love to watch the passing show!You'll find it anything but slow,To laugh and chaff with those you know;And pleasant then to sit at noon,In Rotten Row!When Summer breezes whisper low,And countless riders come and go;Beneath the trees in leafy June,I love to sit and muse and moon—While beauties canter to and fro—In Rotten Row!JULY.ON Henley Bridge, in sweet July,A gentle breeze, a cloudless sky!Indeed it is a pleasant place,To watch the oarsmen go the pace,As gasping crowds go roaring by.And O, what dainty maids you spy,What tasteful toilets you descry,What symphonies in frills and lace,On Henley Bridge!But if you find a luncheon nigh—Amayonnaise, a toothsome pie—The chance you'll hasten to embrace!You'll soon forget about the Race,And take your Giesler cool and dry—On Henley Bridge!AUGUST.BESIDE the Sea, upon the strandThe sun is hot, the day is grand:I think you will agree with me,Upon the shore 'tis nice to be,Amid the shingle and the sand.Your hands get brown, your face is tanned,You bathe or noddle to the band;Or slowly ride a solemn "gee"Beside the Sea.You pace the pier, you idle andThe offing never leave unscanned:And study, 'neath some grateful lee,The "blue, the fresh, the ever free"!The air is pure, your lungs expand,Beside the Sea!SEPTEMBER.AFOREIGN Tour? I apprehendA hand-bag I should recommend;A roll of useful notes from Coutts,A pocketful of good cheroots,AndMurrayfor your faithful friend.Some French, on which you can depend,A chosen chum, you can't offend;Are things to make—with tourist-suits—A Foreign Tour.You'll visit "lions" without end;And all the snowy peaks ascend;Withalpenstocksand hob-nailed boots:Or ride on mules—the sullen brutes—There's lots of sport, if you intendA Foreign Tour!OCTOBER.ONCE more at Home! We've ploughed the main,We've gone bydiligenceand train;Endured the oft-repeated snub,Of insolent official cub—In Switzerland, in France, and Spain.For weeks we've struggled, all in vain,Some toilet comforts to obtain;Butnowwe hail our roomy "tub"Once more at Home.Though back we come to fog and rainAnd chills and bills, we don't complain!We've heaps of friends, a quiet "rub,"A pleasant dinner at the Club—True happiness we now regain,Once more at Home!NOVEMBER.ALONDON Fog, 'tis always hereAt this inclement time of year!When people hang themselves or drown,And Nature wears her blackest frown,While all the world is dull and drear.All form and colour disappearWithin this filthy atmosphere:'Tis sometimes yellow, sometimes brown,A London Fog!It chokes our lungs, our heads feel queer,We cannot see, can scarcely hear:So when this murky pall drops down—Though dearly loving London town—We feel we cannot quite revereA London Fog!DECEMBER.

HOT, hot glows the sunshine in laughing July.

Scarce flutter the leaves in the soft summer sigh:

The rooks scarcely swing on the tops of the trees,

While river-reeds nod to the lime-scented breeze:

A roseleaf, a-bask in the sunshiny gleam,

Half sleeps in the dimples that chequer the stream;

The dragon-fly hushes his day-dreamy lay,

The silver trout sulks in his sedge-shaded bay—

While our thoughts sweetly run in a soft singing rhyme,

As we lazily loiter in strawberry time!

Sweet, sweet is the scent of the newly-mown hay,Light borne by the breeze on a bright summer's day;And cool is the sound of the musical plash,As bright bubbles fall in the fountain and flash.'Tis joy then to wander in gay golden hours,And dream 'mid the hues of the bright-tinted flow'rs;When the velvety lawn is most soft to the tread,And ruddy fruit hangs in the leaf-covered bed—Then the roundest, the sweetest, the best of the prime,Will we gather together in strawberry time!

Sweet, sweet is the scent of the newly-mown hay,

Light borne by the breeze on a bright summer's day;

And cool is the sound of the musical plash,

As bright bubbles fall in the fountain and flash.

'Tis joy then to wander in gay golden hours,

And dream 'mid the hues of the bright-tinted flow'rs;

When the velvety lawn is most soft to the tread,

And ruddy fruit hangs in the leaf-covered bed—

Then the roundest, the sweetest, the best of the prime,

Will we gather together in strawberry time!

Joy, joy 'tis to whisper and laugh in the shade,And pluck the ripe fruit for my hazel-eyed maid;To watch her delight as she eagerly clipsA pink British Queen with her soft pouting lips!While lovingly gazing I'm apt to compareThe warm blushing berries with lips of my fair;I'm doubtful, indeed, if the fruit of the SouthCould equal the charm of her ripe little mouth—'Tis so round and so soft, 'twould be scarcely a crimeAll my doubts to dispel in sweet strawberry time!

Joy, joy 'tis to whisper and laugh in the shade,

And pluck the ripe fruit for my hazel-eyed maid;

To watch her delight as she eagerly clips

A pink British Queen with her soft pouting lips!

While lovingly gazing I'm apt to compare

The warm blushing berries with lips of my fair;

I'm doubtful, indeed, if the fruit of the South

Could equal the charm of her ripe little mouth—

'Tis so round and so soft, 'twould be scarcely a crime

All my doubts to dispel in sweet strawberry time!

Light, light is the laughter that carelessly rings,And sweet is the carol she tenderly sings!I murmur a story we all of us know—Her soft dainty dimples, they come and they go;Her eyelids droop down o'er those sweet little eyes,Her laughter is hushed in a tumult of sighs:Those pretty, plump fingers, red-stained to the tips,All tremble, while pouting are rosy-red lips.Then the bard whispers low, 'neath the tremulous lime,"Lips sweeter than fruit are in strawberry time!"

Light, light is the laughter that carelessly rings,

And sweet is the carol she tenderly sings!

I murmur a story we all of us know—

Her soft dainty dimples, they come and they go;

Her eyelids droop down o'er those sweet little eyes,

Her laughter is hushed in a tumult of sighs:

Those pretty, plump fingers, red-stained to the tips,

All tremble, while pouting are rosy-red lips.

Then the bard whispers low, 'neath the tremulous lime,

"Lips sweeter than fruit are in strawberry time!"

"No.1,"in a collection of one thousand five hundred and eighty-three works of art, at the Exhibition of the Royal Academy.

MY favourite, you must know,In the Piccadilly Show,Is the portrait of a lassBravely done.'Mid the fifteen eighty-threeWorks of art that you may see,There is nothing can surpass—"Number One"!Very far above the lineIs this favourite of mine;You may see her smiling thereO'er the crowds.If you bring a goodlorgnette,You may see my dainty pet;Like the Jungfrau, pink and fair,'Mid the clouds.My enchanting little star,How I wonder what you are,With your rosy laughing lipsFull of fun.Have you many satellites,Do you shine so bright o' nights,That there's nothing can eclipse"Number One"?Are you constant in your loves?Do you change them with your gloves?Pray does Worth pervade your train—Or your heart?Are you fickle, are you leal,Are your sunny tresses real,Or your roses only vainWorks of art?I sincerely envy himWho the fortune had to limnYour bewitching hazel eyesWith his brush:Who could study ev'ry graceIn your winsome little face,And the subtle charm that liesIn your blush.I am sure it is a shameThat your pretty face and frame,Ruthless hangers out of viewSeek to hide:But no doubt Sir Frederick L——,And his myrmidons as well,Fancy angels such as you,Should be "skyed"!Ah! were I but twenty-two,I would hinge the knee to you,And most humbly kiss your gloveAt your throne:Thrice happy he whose sighsDraw this sweet Heart Union prizeIn the lottery of LoveFor his own!If I knew but your papa,Could I only "ask mama,"It is clear enough to meAs the sun,That all through this weary life,'Mid its pleasure, pain, and strife,All my care and love should be"Number One."

MY favourite, you must know,In the Piccadilly Show,Is the portrait of a lassBravely done.'Mid the fifteen eighty-threeWorks of art that you may see,There is nothing can surpass—"Number One"!

MY favourite, you must know,

In the Piccadilly Show,

Is the portrait of a lass

Bravely done.

'Mid the fifteen eighty-three

Works of art that you may see,

There is nothing can surpass—

"Number One"!

Very far above the lineIs this favourite of mine;You may see her smiling thereO'er the crowds.If you bring a goodlorgnette,You may see my dainty pet;Like the Jungfrau, pink and fair,'Mid the clouds.

Very far above the line

Is this favourite of mine;

You may see her smiling there

O'er the crowds.

If you bring a goodlorgnette,

You may see my dainty pet;

Like the Jungfrau, pink and fair,

'Mid the clouds.

My enchanting little star,How I wonder what you are,With your rosy laughing lipsFull of fun.Have you many satellites,Do you shine so bright o' nights,That there's nothing can eclipse"Number One"?

My enchanting little star,

How I wonder what you are,

With your rosy laughing lips

Full of fun.

Have you many satellites,

Do you shine so bright o' nights,

That there's nothing can eclipse

"Number One"?

Are you constant in your loves?Do you change them with your gloves?Pray does Worth pervade your train—Or your heart?Are you fickle, are you leal,Are your sunny tresses real,Or your roses only vainWorks of art?

Are you constant in your loves?

Do you change them with your gloves?

Pray does Worth pervade your train—

Or your heart?

Are you fickle, are you leal,

Are your sunny tresses real,

Or your roses only vain

Works of art?

I sincerely envy himWho the fortune had to limnYour bewitching hazel eyesWith his brush:Who could study ev'ry graceIn your winsome little face,And the subtle charm that liesIn your blush.

I sincerely envy him

Who the fortune had to limn

Your bewitching hazel eyes

With his brush:

Who could study ev'ry grace

In your winsome little face,

And the subtle charm that lies

In your blush.

I am sure it is a shameThat your pretty face and frame,Ruthless hangers out of viewSeek to hide:But no doubt Sir Frederick L——,And his myrmidons as well,Fancy angels such as you,Should be "skyed"!

I am sure it is a shame

That your pretty face and frame,

Ruthless hangers out of view

Seek to hide:

But no doubt Sir Frederick L——,

And his myrmidons as well,

Fancy angels such as you,

Should be "skyed"!

Ah! were I but twenty-two,I would hinge the knee to you,And most humbly kiss your gloveAt your throne:Thrice happy he whose sighsDraw this sweet Heart Union prizeIn the lottery of LoveFor his own!

Ah! were I but twenty-two,

I would hinge the knee to you,

And most humbly kiss your glove

At your throne:

Thrice happy he whose sighs

Draw this sweet Heart Union prize

In the lottery of Love

For his own!

If I knew but your papa,Could I only "ask mama,"It is clear enough to meAs the sun,That all through this weary life,'Mid its pleasure, pain, and strife,All my care and love should be"Number One."

If I knew but your papa,

Could I only "ask mama,"

It is clear enough to me

As the sun,

That all through this weary life,

'Mid its pleasure, pain, and strife,

All my care and love should be

"Number One."

THE ruddy ripe tomata,In china bowl of ice;And grouse worth a sonata,Undoubtedly are nice!A pint of sound Hocheimer,A dainty speckled trout,Suffices for the Rhymer,To break his fast no doubt!I watch the busy bees onThe leaf beneath the lime:It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!'Tis hot as in the tropics—Too hot to ride or walk—I have no store of topics,I do not care to talk!No matutinal journalHas reached me—Do I fret?'Neath leafy shade supernal,I smoke a cigarette!I care not for the Season,Trade, Politics, or Crime:It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!Pray, who would wear a tall hat?Or buttoned in frock coat,Would countless places call at,When he might moon in boat?Exploring river reaches,And doing naught at all,But plucking juicy peachesThat ripen on the wall!I put just what I please on,I take no heed of time:It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!My thoughts all run together,Regretfully I find;They're melted by the weather,To shapeless mass of mind!It's much too hot for thinking,Too sultry 'tis to chaff;For eating or for drinking,Too torrid e'en to laugh!I know this sounds like treason—I do not care one dime—It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!

THE ruddy ripe tomata,

In china bowl of ice;

And grouse worth a sonata,

Undoubtedly are nice!

A pint of sound Hocheimer,

A dainty speckled trout,

Suffices for the Rhymer,

To break his fast no doubt!

I watch the busy bees on

The leaf beneath the lime:

It's much too hot for reason,

And far too warm for rhyme!

'Tis hot as in the tropics—Too hot to ride or walk—I have no store of topics,I do not care to talk!No matutinal journalHas reached me—Do I fret?'Neath leafy shade supernal,I smoke a cigarette!I care not for the Season,Trade, Politics, or Crime:It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!

'Tis hot as in the tropics—

Too hot to ride or walk—

I have no store of topics,

I do not care to talk!

No matutinal journal

Has reached me—Do I fret?

'Neath leafy shade supernal,

I smoke a cigarette!

I care not for the Season,

Trade, Politics, or Crime:

It's much too hot for reason,

And far too warm for rhyme!

Pray, who would wear a tall hat?Or buttoned in frock coat,Would countless places call at,When he might moon in boat?Exploring river reaches,And doing naught at all,But plucking juicy peachesThat ripen on the wall!I put just what I please on,I take no heed of time:It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!

Pray, who would wear a tall hat?

Or buttoned in frock coat,

Would countless places call at,

When he might moon in boat?

Exploring river reaches,

And doing naught at all,

But plucking juicy peaches

That ripen on the wall!

I put just what I please on,

I take no heed of time:

It's much too hot for reason,

And far too warm for rhyme!

My thoughts all run together,Regretfully I find;They're melted by the weather,To shapeless mass of mind!It's much too hot for thinking,Too sultry 'tis to chaff;For eating or for drinking,Too torrid e'en to laugh!I know this sounds like treason—I do not care one dime—It's much too hot for reason,And far too warm for rhyme!

My thoughts all run together,

Regretfully I find;

They're melted by the weather,

To shapeless mass of mind!

It's much too hot for thinking,

Too sultry 'tis to chaff;

For eating or for drinking,

Too torrid e'en to laugh!

I know this sounds like treason—

I do not care one dime—

It's much too hot for reason,

And far too warm for rhyme!

ONE dull, foggy day in December,When biting and bleak was the air,I once lost my way, I remember,And paused in a quaint City square.Though lacking all splendour or gladness,The flavour of good long agoClung close to the place in its sadness,And grave-yard half covered with snow;While the black, puny branches, all leafless and bare,Seemed to add to the gloom of this dull City square!The railings were rusty and rimy,The church looked so mouldy and grim;The houses seemed haunted and grimy,The windows were gruesome and dim.The iron gate scrooped on its hinges,The clock struck a querulous chime,As though it were feeling some twinges'Twas almost forgotten by Time.But I opened the door, and the picture was fair,In the fine ancient church, in this sad City square!A fair little lass, holly-laden—With eyes of cerulean blue—Is helping a sweet dark-eyed maidenTwine ivy with laurel and yew;How busy the deft taper fingers!What taste and what art they display!How lovingly each of them lingers,Adjusting a leaf or a spray!——I close the door softly, I've no business there,And drift out in the fog of the grim City square.

ONE dull, foggy day in December,

When biting and bleak was the air,

I once lost my way, I remember,

And paused in a quaint City square.

Though lacking all splendour or gladness,

The flavour of good long ago

Clung close to the place in its sadness,

And grave-yard half covered with snow;

While the black, puny branches, all leafless and bare,

Seemed to add to the gloom of this dull City square!

The railings were rusty and rimy,The church looked so mouldy and grim;The houses seemed haunted and grimy,The windows were gruesome and dim.The iron gate scrooped on its hinges,The clock struck a querulous chime,As though it were feeling some twinges'Twas almost forgotten by Time.But I opened the door, and the picture was fair,In the fine ancient church, in this sad City square!

The railings were rusty and rimy,

The church looked so mouldy and grim;

The houses seemed haunted and grimy,

The windows were gruesome and dim.

The iron gate scrooped on its hinges,

The clock struck a querulous chime,

As though it were feeling some twinges

'Twas almost forgotten by Time.

But I opened the door, and the picture was fair,

In the fine ancient church, in this sad City square!

A fair little lass, holly-laden—With eyes of cerulean blue—Is helping a sweet dark-eyed maidenTwine ivy with laurel and yew;How busy the deft taper fingers!What taste and what art they display!How lovingly each of them lingers,Adjusting a leaf or a spray!——I close the door softly, I've no business there,And drift out in the fog of the grim City square.

A fair little lass, holly-laden—

With eyes of cerulean blue—

Is helping a sweet dark-eyed maiden

Twine ivy with laurel and yew;

How busy the deft taper fingers!

What taste and what art they display!

How lovingly each of them lingers,

Adjusting a leaf or a spray!——

I close the door softly, I've no business there,

And drift out in the fog of the grim City square.

OPRETTY pet with the tangled hair,Down by the sighing summer sea—O dimpled darling with checks so fair,Tell me, O dearest, when musing there,Will you think of me?O sweetest sweet, when the salt breeze sighs'Mid silken locks ever flowing free,While gulls glint white against sleepy skies,Will looks of those bright brown loving eyesE'er be turned to me?Ah, laughing child, when your eyes beam bright,And lips are parted in girlish glee;When the shore is glad in still summer night,With your sweet soft smile, and your laughter light,Do you smile on me?When the moon is up, and sleeps the landTo tender music in minor key;When the silver-ripples hush the strandAnd scarcely dimple the golden sand,Will you dream of me?Poor little heart! when your cheeks are wetWith tears that sadden one's heart to see,Your moist lips tremble—you can't forgetSometimes the sun through the rain shines, pet,When you weep for me!

OPRETTY pet with the tangled hair,Down by the sighing summer sea—O dimpled darling with checks so fair,Tell me, O dearest, when musing there,Will you think of me?

OPRETTY pet with the tangled hair,

Down by the sighing summer sea—

O dimpled darling with checks so fair,

Tell me, O dearest, when musing there,

Will you think of me?

O sweetest sweet, when the salt breeze sighs'Mid silken locks ever flowing free,While gulls glint white against sleepy skies,Will looks of those bright brown loving eyesE'er be turned to me?

O sweetest sweet, when the salt breeze sighs

'Mid silken locks ever flowing free,

While gulls glint white against sleepy skies,

Will looks of those bright brown loving eyes

E'er be turned to me?

Ah, laughing child, when your eyes beam bright,And lips are parted in girlish glee;When the shore is glad in still summer night,With your sweet soft smile, and your laughter light,Do you smile on me?

Ah, laughing child, when your eyes beam bright,

And lips are parted in girlish glee;

When the shore is glad in still summer night,

With your sweet soft smile, and your laughter light,

Do you smile on me?

When the moon is up, and sleeps the landTo tender music in minor key;When the silver-ripples hush the strandAnd scarcely dimple the golden sand,Will you dream of me?

When the moon is up, and sleeps the land

To tender music in minor key;

When the silver-ripples hush the strand

And scarcely dimple the golden sand,

Will you dream of me?

Poor little heart! when your cheeks are wetWith tears that sadden one's heart to see,Your moist lips tremble—you can't forgetSometimes the sun through the rain shines, pet,When you weep for me!

Poor little heart! when your cheeks are wet

With tears that sadden one's heart to see,

Your moist lips tremble—you can't forget

Sometimes the sun through the rain shines, pet,

When you weep for me!

AWAY with great-coats and umbrellas!Put all furry garments away!Let glossiest hats—all you fellas—Gleam bright in the light of to-day!The air it is balmy and vernal,We feel a new life has begun:For gone is the weather hibernal—And here is the Sun!The genial sunbeams, in-streaming,Flash bright on my pen as I write!The paper is glowing and gleaming—My eyes are quite dazed with the light!No longer I growl or I shiver,Nor each fellow-creature I shun:I dream of the joys of the River—For here is the Sun!For England, the atmosphere's splendid,We live and we breathe now again!We fancy our trouble is ended,For gone is the fog and the rain:I laugh and I sing and I chuckle,I rhyme and I dance and I pun!I knock on the pane with my knuckle—For here is the Sun!What portents of pleasure I fancyReturn with these bright sunny rays!What visions of lazing Icansee,Of languorous, sweet Summer days;Of yachting and sea-side diversions,And getting as brown as a bun:Of rambles and Alpine excursions—For here is the Sun!I think of long days at lawn-tennis,Of dreams in my bass-wood canoe,Of gondola-lounging at Venice,And skies sempiternally blue!I muse o'er the pleasures of playtime,Of laziness, laughter, and fun;Of lime-scented zephyrs and haytime—Butwhereis the Sun?

AWAY with great-coats and umbrellas!

Put all furry garments away!

Let glossiest hats—all you fellas—

Gleam bright in the light of to-day!

The air it is balmy and vernal,

We feel a new life has begun:

For gone is the weather hibernal—

And here is the Sun!

The genial sunbeams, in-streaming,Flash bright on my pen as I write!The paper is glowing and gleaming—My eyes are quite dazed with the light!No longer I growl or I shiver,Nor each fellow-creature I shun:I dream of the joys of the River—For here is the Sun!

The genial sunbeams, in-streaming,

Flash bright on my pen as I write!

The paper is glowing and gleaming—

My eyes are quite dazed with the light!

No longer I growl or I shiver,

Nor each fellow-creature I shun:

I dream of the joys of the River—

For here is the Sun!

For England, the atmosphere's splendid,We live and we breathe now again!We fancy our trouble is ended,For gone is the fog and the rain:I laugh and I sing and I chuckle,I rhyme and I dance and I pun!I knock on the pane with my knuckle—For here is the Sun!

For England, the atmosphere's splendid,

We live and we breathe now again!

We fancy our trouble is ended,

For gone is the fog and the rain:

I laugh and I sing and I chuckle,

I rhyme and I dance and I pun!

I knock on the pane with my knuckle—

For here is the Sun!

What portents of pleasure I fancyReturn with these bright sunny rays!What visions of lazing Icansee,Of languorous, sweet Summer days;Of yachting and sea-side diversions,And getting as brown as a bun:Of rambles and Alpine excursions—For here is the Sun!

What portents of pleasure I fancy

Return with these bright sunny rays!

What visions of lazing Icansee,

Of languorous, sweet Summer days;

Of yachting and sea-side diversions,

And getting as brown as a bun:

Of rambles and Alpine excursions—

For here is the Sun!

I think of long days at lawn-tennis,Of dreams in my bass-wood canoe,Of gondola-lounging at Venice,And skies sempiternally blue!I muse o'er the pleasures of playtime,Of laziness, laughter, and fun;Of lime-scented zephyrs and haytime—Butwhereis the Sun?

I think of long days at lawn-tennis,

Of dreams in my bass-wood canoe,

Of gondola-lounging at Venice,

And skies sempiternally blue!

I muse o'er the pleasures of playtime,

Of laziness, laughter, and fun;

Of lime-scented zephyrs and haytime—

Butwhereis the Sun?

[Sun retires behind clouds, rain patters on the pane, and the Lazy One goes to bed.

PEARL, O Pearl!Naught but a lissom English girl,So sweet and simple;Naught but the charm of golden curl,Of blush and dimple—Pearl, O Pearl!Sweet, ah, sweet!'Tis pleasant lolling at your feetIn summer playtime;Ah, how the moments quickly fleetIn sunny hay-time—Sweet, ah, sweet!Dream, ah, dream!The sedges sing by swirling streamA lovely brief song;The poplars chant in sunny gleamA lulling leaf-song—Dream, ah, dream!Stay, O stay!We cannot dream all through the day,Demure and doubtful:When shines the sun we must make hay,When lips are poutful—Stay, O stay!

PEARL, O Pearl!Naught but a lissom English girl,So sweet and simple;Naught but the charm of golden curl,Of blush and dimple—Pearl, O Pearl!

PEARL, O Pearl!

Naught but a lissom English girl,

So sweet and simple;

Naught but the charm of golden curl,

Of blush and dimple—

Pearl, O Pearl!

Sweet, ah, sweet!'Tis pleasant lolling at your feetIn summer playtime;Ah, how the moments quickly fleetIn sunny hay-time—Sweet, ah, sweet!

Sweet, ah, sweet!

'Tis pleasant lolling at your feet

In summer playtime;

Ah, how the moments quickly fleet

In sunny hay-time—

Sweet, ah, sweet!

Dream, ah, dream!The sedges sing by swirling streamA lovely brief song;The poplars chant in sunny gleamA lulling leaf-song—Dream, ah, dream!

Dream, ah, dream!

The sedges sing by swirling stream

A lovely brief song;

The poplars chant in sunny gleam

A lulling leaf-song—

Dream, ah, dream!

Stay, O stay!We cannot dream all through the day,Demure and doubtful:When shines the sun we must make hay,When lips are poutful—Stay, O stay!

Stay, O stay!

We cannot dream all through the day,

Demure and doubtful:

When shines the sun we must make hay,

When lips are poutful—

Stay, O stay!

VOL. I.

AWINNING wile,A sunny smile,A feather:A tiny talk,A pleasant walk,Together!

AWINNING wile,

A sunny smile,

A feather:

A tiny talk,

A pleasant walk,

Together!

VOL. II.

A little doubt,A playful pout,Capricious:A merry miss,A stolen kiss,Delicious!!

A little doubt,

A playful pout,

Capricious:

A merry miss,

A stolen kiss,

Delicious!!

VOL. III.

You ask mama,Consult papa,With pleasure:And both repent,This rash event,At leisure!!!

You ask mama,

Consult papa,

With pleasure:

And both repent,

This rash event,

At leisure!!!

With manly step and stalwart stride,The Minstrel paced the pier at Ryde!And as he shook those hoary locks,He gazed upon the pink, pink frocks!

With manly step and stalwart stride,

The Minstrel paced the pier at Ryde!

And as he shook those hoary locks,

He gazed upon the pink, pink frocks!

WITH frocks and their wearers to dazzle my eyes,Their glories, I scarce dare to sing 'em:I timidly gaze and I glance in surprise,At beauties in cambric and gingham!A Paris I feel in this Garden of Dress,And, had I to make a selection—The Apple of Gold, I most freely confess,I'd give to the Pink of Perfection!It must not remind you of raspberry ice,Nor cheek of a milkmaid or cotter;A lobster-like redness is not at all nice,Nor feverish glow of the blotter;It should not recall a Bardolphian nose,Nor yet a pomegranate bisection—Throughout the whole garden you'll scarce find a rose,A match for the Pink of Perfection!A strawberry crushed, almost smothered in cream,Nearly matches the colour it may be;The Jungfrau just flushed with the earliest beam,The hue of the palm of a baby:The faint ruddy tone you may see in a shell,The rose in a young girl's complexion—All or any of these, it is easy to tell,Will pass for the Pink of Perfection!This frock when it's made with most exquisite taste,And fits like a glove on the shoulder;With yoke and full pleats and a band at the waist,Will gladden the passing beholder!With lace and with buttons of mother o' pearl—You'll say, on maturest reflection,The best of all garbs for a pretty young girl,No doubt is the Pink of Perfection!Then if such a dress you meet down by the sea,And find, when you've carefully eyed it,In make and in fashion 'tis good as can be,With a neat little figure inside it;And a sweet little face peeping over a ruff,Which laughs at your lengthy inspection,I think you'll admit I have said quite enough—You've found out the Pink of Perfection!

WITH frocks and their wearers to dazzle my eyes,

Their glories, I scarce dare to sing 'em:

I timidly gaze and I glance in surprise,

At beauties in cambric and gingham!

A Paris I feel in this Garden of Dress,

And, had I to make a selection—

The Apple of Gold, I most freely confess,

I'd give to the Pink of Perfection!

It must not remind you of raspberry ice,Nor cheek of a milkmaid or cotter;A lobster-like redness is not at all nice,Nor feverish glow of the blotter;It should not recall a Bardolphian nose,Nor yet a pomegranate bisection—Throughout the whole garden you'll scarce find a rose,A match for the Pink of Perfection!

It must not remind you of raspberry ice,

Nor cheek of a milkmaid or cotter;

A lobster-like redness is not at all nice,

Nor feverish glow of the blotter;

It should not recall a Bardolphian nose,

Nor yet a pomegranate bisection—

Throughout the whole garden you'll scarce find a rose,

A match for the Pink of Perfection!

A strawberry crushed, almost smothered in cream,Nearly matches the colour it may be;The Jungfrau just flushed with the earliest beam,The hue of the palm of a baby:The faint ruddy tone you may see in a shell,The rose in a young girl's complexion—All or any of these, it is easy to tell,Will pass for the Pink of Perfection!

A strawberry crushed, almost smothered in cream,

Nearly matches the colour it may be;

The Jungfrau just flushed with the earliest beam,

The hue of the palm of a baby:

The faint ruddy tone you may see in a shell,

The rose in a young girl's complexion—

All or any of these, it is easy to tell,

Will pass for the Pink of Perfection!

This frock when it's made with most exquisite taste,And fits like a glove on the shoulder;With yoke and full pleats and a band at the waist,Will gladden the passing beholder!With lace and with buttons of mother o' pearl—You'll say, on maturest reflection,The best of all garbs for a pretty young girl,No doubt is the Pink of Perfection!

This frock when it's made with most exquisite taste,

And fits like a glove on the shoulder;

With yoke and full pleats and a band at the waist,

Will gladden the passing beholder!

With lace and with buttons of mother o' pearl—

You'll say, on maturest reflection,

The best of all garbs for a pretty young girl,

No doubt is the Pink of Perfection!

Then if such a dress you meet down by the sea,And find, when you've carefully eyed it,In make and in fashion 'tis good as can be,With a neat little figure inside it;And a sweet little face peeping over a ruff,Which laughs at your lengthy inspection,I think you'll admit I have said quite enough—You've found out the Pink of Perfection!

Then if such a dress you meet down by the sea,

And find, when you've carefully eyed it,

In make and in fashion 'tis good as can be,

With a neat little figure inside it;

And a sweet little face peeping over a ruff,

Which laughs at your lengthy inspection,

I think you'll admit I have said quite enough—

You've found out the Pink of Perfection!

IN sorrow and joy she has seen the beginning—Her lightness of spirit half dashed by the "blues"—With cheers in her heart for the crew who are winning,While tears fill her eyes for those fated to lose.If you'll narrowly watch, 'mid the noise and contention,You'll note, as her Arab paws proudly the dust,A deftly-twined bouquet of speedwell and gentianBeneath her white collar half carelessly thrust!The tint of a night in the still summer weatherHer tight-fitting habit just serves to unfold,While delicate cuffs are scarce fastened togetherBy dainty-wrought fetters of turquoise and gold.Ah! climax of sweet, girlish, neutral devices—What smiles for the winners, for losers what sighs!—She has twined her fair hair with the colours of Isis,While those of the Cam glitter bright in her eyes!

IN sorrow and joy she has seen the beginning—

Her lightness of spirit half dashed by the "blues"—

With cheers in her heart for the crew who are winning,

While tears fill her eyes for those fated to lose.

If you'll narrowly watch, 'mid the noise and contention,You'll note, as her Arab paws proudly the dust,A deftly-twined bouquet of speedwell and gentianBeneath her white collar half carelessly thrust!

If you'll narrowly watch, 'mid the noise and contention,

You'll note, as her Arab paws proudly the dust,

A deftly-twined bouquet of speedwell and gentian

Beneath her white collar half carelessly thrust!

The tint of a night in the still summer weatherHer tight-fitting habit just serves to unfold,While delicate cuffs are scarce fastened togetherBy dainty-wrought fetters of turquoise and gold.

The tint of a night in the still summer weather

Her tight-fitting habit just serves to unfold,

While delicate cuffs are scarce fastened together

By dainty-wrought fetters of turquoise and gold.

Ah! climax of sweet, girlish, neutral devices—What smiles for the winners, for losers what sighs!—She has twined her fair hair with the colours of Isis,While those of the Cam glitter bright in her eyes!

Ah! climax of sweet, girlish, neutral devices—

What smiles for the winners, for losers what sighs!—

She has twined her fair hair with the colours of Isis,

While those of the Cam glitter bright in her eyes!

Written in "Murray's Handbook," while the band in the Piazza San Marco was playing the Tarantella, from Masaniello.

ALL that the tourist can dream of or hear about,Crowds on your sight as you carelessly peer about,Quaint water streets you so carefully steer about,See the Rialto, and Square of St. Mark!Floating in gondolas, laughing and jollity,Cyprian wine of the very best quality,At Florian'scaffè—mid fun and frivolity—Venice delightful from daylight to dark!Musicians in plenty,Play "Ecco ridente,"Or "Com e gentil," in the still summer night;If you're in a hurry,Pray look in yourMurray—You'll find his description is perfectly right!Albergo Reale and English society,Bric-à-bracshops in their endless variety,Plenty of pigeons not fearful of pie-ety,Flutter and peck 'neath the bluest of skies.Dreaming in Venice? Ah, wildest of fallacies—Bronzes and sculpture, mosaics and chalices,Convents and churches, and prisons and palaces,See as you stand on the grim Bridge of Sighs!The ballads of Byron,You'll find will environThe Doges and dodges and Brides of the Sea.Don't get in a flurry,But read it inMurray—If you don't care about it, then listen to me!Thousands of thirsty mosquitoes are biting one,Silvery moonlight is ever delighting one,Music and mirth every moment inviting one—Dreary old London we quickly forget!Shylock and Portia—in short, the whole kit of 'em,Readers of Shakespeare recall ev'ry bit of 'em;Troublesome guides, you can never get quit of 'em—Pictures by Titian and old Tintoret!The sock and the buskin,With Rogers and Ruskin,Are mixed in a muddle with palace and sight!It may be a worry,But don't forgetMurray,He'll throw on your darkness some excellent light!

ALL that the tourist can dream of or hear about,

Crowds on your sight as you carelessly peer about,

Quaint water streets you so carefully steer about,

See the Rialto, and Square of St. Mark!

Floating in gondolas, laughing and jollity,

Cyprian wine of the very best quality,

At Florian'scaffè—mid fun and frivolity—

Venice delightful from daylight to dark!

Musicians in plenty,

Play "Ecco ridente,"

Or "Com e gentil," in the still summer night;

If you're in a hurry,

Pray look in yourMurray—

You'll find his description is perfectly right!

Albergo Reale and English society,Bric-à-bracshops in their endless variety,Plenty of pigeons not fearful of pie-ety,Flutter and peck 'neath the bluest of skies.Dreaming in Venice? Ah, wildest of fallacies—Bronzes and sculpture, mosaics and chalices,Convents and churches, and prisons and palaces,See as you stand on the grim Bridge of Sighs!The ballads of Byron,You'll find will environThe Doges and dodges and Brides of the Sea.Don't get in a flurry,But read it inMurray—If you don't care about it, then listen to me!

Albergo Reale and English society,

Bric-à-bracshops in their endless variety,

Plenty of pigeons not fearful of pie-ety,

Flutter and peck 'neath the bluest of skies.

Dreaming in Venice? Ah, wildest of fallacies—

Bronzes and sculpture, mosaics and chalices,

Convents and churches, and prisons and palaces,

See as you stand on the grim Bridge of Sighs!

The ballads of Byron,

You'll find will environ

The Doges and dodges and Brides of the Sea.

Don't get in a flurry,

But read it inMurray—

If you don't care about it, then listen to me!

Thousands of thirsty mosquitoes are biting one,Silvery moonlight is ever delighting one,Music and mirth every moment inviting one—Dreary old London we quickly forget!Shylock and Portia—in short, the whole kit of 'em,Readers of Shakespeare recall ev'ry bit of 'em;Troublesome guides, you can never get quit of 'em—Pictures by Titian and old Tintoret!The sock and the buskin,With Rogers and Ruskin,Are mixed in a muddle with palace and sight!It may be a worry,But don't forgetMurray,He'll throw on your darkness some excellent light!

Thousands of thirsty mosquitoes are biting one,

Silvery moonlight is ever delighting one,

Music and mirth every moment inviting one—

Dreary old London we quickly forget!

Shylock and Portia—in short, the whole kit of 'em,

Readers of Shakespeare recall ev'ry bit of 'em;

Troublesome guides, you can never get quit of 'em—

Pictures by Titian and old Tintoret!

The sock and the buskin,

With Rogers and Ruskin,

Are mixed in a muddle with palace and sight!

It may be a worry,

But don't forgetMurray,

He'll throw on your darkness some excellent light!

Caffè Florian, Venezia.

I'M sick of the world and its trouble,I'm weary of pleasures that cloy,I see through the bright-coloured bubble,And find no enjoyment in joy.Is all that we earn worth the earning?Is all that we gain worth the prize?Is all that we learn worth the learning?Is pleasure but pain in disguise?Is sorrow e'er worth our dejection?Is fame but a flatterer's spell?Is love ever worth our affection?Le jeu vaut-il, donc, la chandelle?O, where are the eyes that enthralled us,And where are the lips that we kissed?Where the syren-like voices that called us,And where all the chances we missed?We know not what mortals call pleasure—For clouded are skies that were blue;To dross now has melted our treasure,And false are the hearts that were true.The flowers we gathered are faded,The leaves of our laurels are shed;Our spirit is broken and jaded,The hopes of our youth are all dead.We feel life is hopeless and dreary,Now night has o'ershadowed our day;Bright fruits of this earth only weary,They ripen—to fall and decay!I'm sick of the world and its trouble,For rest and seclusion I thirst;I'm tired of the gay tinted bubble,That brighteneth only to burst!

I'M sick of the world and its trouble,I'm weary of pleasures that cloy,I see through the bright-coloured bubble,And find no enjoyment in joy.

I'M sick of the world and its trouble,

I'm weary of pleasures that cloy,

I see through the bright-coloured bubble,

And find no enjoyment in joy.

Is all that we earn worth the earning?Is all that we gain worth the prize?Is all that we learn worth the learning?Is pleasure but pain in disguise?

Is all that we earn worth the earning?

Is all that we gain worth the prize?

Is all that we learn worth the learning?

Is pleasure but pain in disguise?

Is sorrow e'er worth our dejection?Is fame but a flatterer's spell?Is love ever worth our affection?Le jeu vaut-il, donc, la chandelle?

Is sorrow e'er worth our dejection?

Is fame but a flatterer's spell?

Is love ever worth our affection?

Le jeu vaut-il, donc, la chandelle?

O, where are the eyes that enthralled us,And where are the lips that we kissed?Where the syren-like voices that called us,And where all the chances we missed?

O, where are the eyes that enthralled us,

And where are the lips that we kissed?

Where the syren-like voices that called us,

And where all the chances we missed?

We know not what mortals call pleasure—For clouded are skies that were blue;To dross now has melted our treasure,And false are the hearts that were true.

We know not what mortals call pleasure—

For clouded are skies that were blue;

To dross now has melted our treasure,

And false are the hearts that were true.

The flowers we gathered are faded,The leaves of our laurels are shed;Our spirit is broken and jaded,The hopes of our youth are all dead.

The flowers we gathered are faded,

The leaves of our laurels are shed;

Our spirit is broken and jaded,

The hopes of our youth are all dead.

We feel life is hopeless and dreary,Now night has o'ershadowed our day;Bright fruits of this earth only weary,They ripen—to fall and decay!

We feel life is hopeless and dreary,

Now night has o'ershadowed our day;

Bright fruits of this earth only weary,

They ripen—to fall and decay!

I'm sick of the world and its trouble,For rest and seclusion I thirst;I'm tired of the gay tinted bubble,That brighteneth only to burst!

I'm sick of the world and its trouble,

For rest and seclusion I thirst;

I'm tired of the gay tinted bubble,

That brighteneth only to burst!

MY heart was light and whole aboard—As I sculled swift by HarleyfordThe rain began to patter—But when I saw in Hurley LockThat Naiad in a gingham frock,'Twas quite another matter!The banks are soft with mud and slosh,And shiny is each mackintosh,Each hat and coat well soaken:My spirits droop, and as I scanThat Beauty in a trim randan,I fear my heart is broken!She hath a graceful little head,Her lips are ripe and round and red,Her teeth are short and pearly;And on a rosy sun-kissed cheekHer dimples play at hide-and-seek,Within the lock at Hurley!I strive to make a mental note,The while she lounges in her boatBeneath the big umbrella.I wonder if she's Gwendoline,Or Gillian, or Geraldine,Or Sylvia, or Stella?Is she engaged to Stroke or Bow?I would they could assure me nowShe loves to flirt with others!Will stalwart Sculls e'er claim her hand?How gladly would I understandHer Crew are naught but brothers!Her hat with lilies is bedight,Her voice is low, her laugh is light,Her figure slight and girly.How cheerfully I'd take a trip,With such a Pilot for my ship,And sail away from Hurley!I wonder if her heart is true?I know her eyes are peerless blue,Long lashes downward sweeping;A snow-white ruff around her throat,Beneath her pouting petticoatA little foot out-peeping.O, is she wooed and is she won,Or is she very fond of fun?I make a thousand guesses!A sweet young face, so full of hope,A dainty hand on tiller-rope,And raindrops in her tresses.Three tiny rosebuds lightly restWithin the haven of her breast—Her locks are short and curly.The sun is gone! Down comes the rain!I leave my heart cleft well in twainWithin the Lock at Hurley!

MY heart was light and whole aboard—

As I sculled swift by Harleyford

The rain began to patter—

But when I saw in Hurley Lock

That Naiad in a gingham frock,

'Twas quite another matter!

The banks are soft with mud and slosh,

And shiny is each mackintosh,

Each hat and coat well soaken:

My spirits droop, and as I scan

That Beauty in a trim randan,

I fear my heart is broken!

She hath a graceful little head,

Her lips are ripe and round and red,

Her teeth are short and pearly;

And on a rosy sun-kissed cheek

Her dimples play at hide-and-seek,

Within the lock at Hurley!

I strive to make a mental note,The while she lounges in her boatBeneath the big umbrella.I wonder if she's Gwendoline,Or Gillian, or Geraldine,Or Sylvia, or Stella?Is she engaged to Stroke or Bow?I would they could assure me nowShe loves to flirt with others!Will stalwart Sculls e'er claim her hand?How gladly would I understandHer Crew are naught but brothers!Her hat with lilies is bedight,Her voice is low, her laugh is light,Her figure slight and girly.How cheerfully I'd take a trip,With such a Pilot for my ship,And sail away from Hurley!

I strive to make a mental note,

The while she lounges in her boat

Beneath the big umbrella.

I wonder if she's Gwendoline,

Or Gillian, or Geraldine,

Or Sylvia, or Stella?

Is she engaged to Stroke or Bow?

I would they could assure me now

She loves to flirt with others!

Will stalwart Sculls e'er claim her hand?

How gladly would I understand

Her Crew are naught but brothers!

Her hat with lilies is bedight,

Her voice is low, her laugh is light,

Her figure slight and girly.

How cheerfully I'd take a trip,

With such a Pilot for my ship,

And sail away from Hurley!

I wonder if her heart is true?I know her eyes are peerless blue,Long lashes downward sweeping;A snow-white ruff around her throat,Beneath her pouting petticoatA little foot out-peeping.O, is she wooed and is she won,Or is she very fond of fun?I make a thousand guesses!A sweet young face, so full of hope,A dainty hand on tiller-rope,And raindrops in her tresses.Three tiny rosebuds lightly restWithin the haven of her breast—Her locks are short and curly.The sun is gone! Down comes the rain!I leave my heart cleft well in twainWithin the Lock at Hurley!

I wonder if her heart is true?

I know her eyes are peerless blue,

Long lashes downward sweeping;

A snow-white ruff around her throat,

Beneath her pouting petticoat

A little foot out-peeping.

O, is she wooed and is she won,

Or is she very fond of fun?

I make a thousand guesses!

A sweet young face, so full of hope,

A dainty hand on tiller-rope,

And raindrops in her tresses.

Three tiny rosebuds lightly rest

Within the haven of her breast—

Her locks are short and curly.

The sun is gone! Down comes the rain!

I leave my heart cleft well in twain

Within the Lock at Hurley!

Hurley Lock,June.

UPON the Ice, 'tis nice to glide,A merry maiden by your side!The air is keen, the day is fine,You think the sport is most divine,When skimming o'er the frozen tide.To Miss Chinchilla you confide,How proud you are to be her guide;Then try to cut some quaint designUpon the Ice.With measured motion, rhythmic stride,You put on speed and put on side:You cut the figures Eight and Nine—And sometimes on your back recline!Such falls will sometimes come to pride,Upon the Ice.

UPON the Ice, 'tis nice to glide,A merry maiden by your side!The air is keen, the day is fine,You think the sport is most divine,When skimming o'er the frozen tide.

UPON the Ice, 'tis nice to glide,

A merry maiden by your side!

The air is keen, the day is fine,

You think the sport is most divine,

When skimming o'er the frozen tide.

To Miss Chinchilla you confide,How proud you are to be her guide;Then try to cut some quaint designUpon the Ice.

To Miss Chinchilla you confide,

How proud you are to be her guide;

Then try to cut some quaint design

Upon the Ice.

With measured motion, rhythmic stride,You put on speed and put on side:You cut the figures Eight and Nine—And sometimes on your back recline!Such falls will sometimes come to pride,Upon the Ice.

With measured motion, rhythmic stride,

You put on speed and put on side:

You cut the figures Eight and Nine—

And sometimes on your back recline!

Such falls will sometimes come to pride,

Upon the Ice.

SAINT VALENTINE! The post is late!No letters come—'tis long past Eight!But on this bright auspicious dayFrivolity holds laughing sway,And sober people have to wait!The burdened postmen moan their fate,This Festival they reprobate;And often think they'd like to flaySaint Valentine!But in these views you'll find Miss KateDoes not at all participate;And Beryl, Baby, Minnie, May,With Gertie, Ethel, Lily, Fay,Right gleefully commemorate—Saint Valentine!

SAINT VALENTINE! The post is late!No letters come—'tis long past Eight!But on this bright auspicious dayFrivolity holds laughing sway,And sober people have to wait!

SAINT VALENTINE! The post is late!

No letters come—'tis long past Eight!

But on this bright auspicious day

Frivolity holds laughing sway,

And sober people have to wait!

The burdened postmen moan their fate,This Festival they reprobate;And often think they'd like to flaySaint Valentine!

The burdened postmen moan their fate,

This Festival they reprobate;

And often think they'd like to flay

Saint Valentine!

But in these views you'll find Miss KateDoes not at all participate;And Beryl, Baby, Minnie, May,With Gertie, Ethel, Lily, Fay,Right gleefully commemorate—Saint Valentine!

But in these views you'll find Miss Kate

Does not at all participate;

And Beryl, Baby, Minnie, May,

With Gertie, Ethel, Lily, Fay,

Right gleefully commemorate—

Saint Valentine!

OWIND of March! O biting breeze!It nips the nose and nips the trees;It whirls with fury down the street,It makes us flee in quick retreat,And gives us cold and makes us sneeze!It makes us cough and choke and wheeze,With painful back and aching knees;With dire discomfort 'tis replete,O Wind of March!Our hands we're glad enough to squeeze,In cuffs and muffs and muffatees;'Tis charged with blinding, cutting sleet,It spoils our temper, chills our feet,And brings the Doctor lots of fees—O Wind of March!

OWIND of March! O biting breeze!It nips the nose and nips the trees;It whirls with fury down the street,It makes us flee in quick retreat,And gives us cold and makes us sneeze!

OWIND of March! O biting breeze!

It nips the nose and nips the trees;

It whirls with fury down the street,

It makes us flee in quick retreat,

And gives us cold and makes us sneeze!

It makes us cough and choke and wheeze,With painful back and aching knees;With dire discomfort 'tis replete,O Wind of March!

It makes us cough and choke and wheeze,

With painful back and aching knees;

With dire discomfort 'tis replete,

O Wind of March!

Our hands we're glad enough to squeeze,In cuffs and muffs and muffatees;'Tis charged with blinding, cutting sleet,It spoils our temper, chills our feet,And brings the Doctor lots of fees—O Wind of March!

Our hands we're glad enough to squeeze,

In cuffs and muffs and muffatees;

'Tis charged with blinding, cutting sleet,

It spoils our temper, chills our feet,

And brings the Doctor lots of fees—

O Wind of March!

AN April Day, so fresh and bright—('Twill rain, I'm sure, before thenight!)We've done with Winter blasts unkind—(Don't leave your mackintosh behind,'Twould be a fatal oversight!)In Spring-like garb we'll go bedight—('Tis sure to rain, just out of spite!And most perplexing you will find,An April Day!)The sky is blue, the clouds are light—(I trust your Gamp is water-tight!)To sing and laugh we feel inclined—(Here comes a storm of rain and wind!And hail, that's quite enough to blight,An April Day!)

AN April Day, so fresh and bright—('Twill rain, I'm sure, before thenight!)We've done with Winter blasts unkind—(Don't leave your mackintosh behind,'Twould be a fatal oversight!)

AN April Day, so fresh and bright—

('Twill rain, I'm sure, before thenight!)

We've done with Winter blasts unkind—

(Don't leave your mackintosh behind,

'Twould be a fatal oversight!)

In Spring-like garb we'll go bedight—('Tis sure to rain, just out of spite!And most perplexing you will find,An April Day!)

In Spring-like garb we'll go bedight—

('Tis sure to rain, just out of spite!

And most perplexing you will find,

An April Day!)

The sky is blue, the clouds are light—(I trust your Gamp is water-tight!)To sing and laugh we feel inclined—(Here comes a storm of rain and wind!And hail, that's quite enough to blight,An April Day!)

The sky is blue, the clouds are light—

(I trust your Gamp is water-tight!)

To sing and laugh we feel inclined—

(Here comes a storm of rain and wind!

And hail, that's quite enough to blight,

An April Day!)

APRIVATE View? 'Tis plain to you,'Tis neither "private" nor a "view"!And yet for tickets people rush,To mingle in the well-dressed crush,And come and wonder who is who.The beauties, poets, actors, too,With patrons, painters—not a few,Are elements that help to flushA Private View.The pictures, you can't hope to do;You're angered by the "precious" crew,And pallid maids who flop and gush.While carping critics who cry "Tush!"And wildly wrangle, make you rueA Private View.

APRIVATE View? 'Tis plain to you,'Tis neither "private" nor a "view"!And yet for tickets people rush,To mingle in the well-dressed crush,And come and wonder who is who.

APRIVATE View? 'Tis plain to you,

'Tis neither "private" nor a "view"!

And yet for tickets people rush,

To mingle in the well-dressed crush,

And come and wonder who is who.

The beauties, poets, actors, too,With patrons, painters—not a few,Are elements that help to flushA Private View.

The beauties, poets, actors, too,

With patrons, painters—not a few,

Are elements that help to flush

A Private View.

The pictures, you can't hope to do;You're angered by the "precious" crew,And pallid maids who flop and gush.While carping critics who cry "Tush!"And wildly wrangle, make you rueA Private View.

The pictures, you can't hope to do;

You're angered by the "precious" crew,

And pallid maids who flop and gush.

While carping critics who cry "Tush!"

And wildly wrangle, make you rue

A Private View.

IN Rotten Row, 'tis nice, you know,To see the tide of Fashion flow!Though hopeless cynics carp and croon—I do not care one macaroon—But love to watch the passing show!You'll find it anything but slow,To laugh and chaff with those you know;And pleasant then to sit at noon,In Rotten Row!When Summer breezes whisper low,And countless riders come and go;Beneath the trees in leafy June,I love to sit and muse and moon—While beauties canter to and fro—In Rotten Row!

IN Rotten Row, 'tis nice, you know,To see the tide of Fashion flow!Though hopeless cynics carp and croon—I do not care one macaroon—But love to watch the passing show!

IN Rotten Row, 'tis nice, you know,

To see the tide of Fashion flow!

Though hopeless cynics carp and croon—

I do not care one macaroon—

But love to watch the passing show!

You'll find it anything but slow,To laugh and chaff with those you know;And pleasant then to sit at noon,In Rotten Row!

You'll find it anything but slow,

To laugh and chaff with those you know;

And pleasant then to sit at noon,

In Rotten Row!

When Summer breezes whisper low,And countless riders come and go;Beneath the trees in leafy June,I love to sit and muse and moon—While beauties canter to and fro—In Rotten Row!

When Summer breezes whisper low,

And countless riders come and go;

Beneath the trees in leafy June,

I love to sit and muse and moon—

While beauties canter to and fro—

In Rotten Row!

ON Henley Bridge, in sweet July,A gentle breeze, a cloudless sky!Indeed it is a pleasant place,To watch the oarsmen go the pace,As gasping crowds go roaring by.And O, what dainty maids you spy,What tasteful toilets you descry,What symphonies in frills and lace,On Henley Bridge!But if you find a luncheon nigh—Amayonnaise, a toothsome pie—The chance you'll hasten to embrace!You'll soon forget about the Race,And take your Giesler cool and dry—On Henley Bridge!

ON Henley Bridge, in sweet July,A gentle breeze, a cloudless sky!Indeed it is a pleasant place,To watch the oarsmen go the pace,As gasping crowds go roaring by.

ON Henley Bridge, in sweet July,

A gentle breeze, a cloudless sky!

Indeed it is a pleasant place,

To watch the oarsmen go the pace,

As gasping crowds go roaring by.

And O, what dainty maids you spy,What tasteful toilets you descry,What symphonies in frills and lace,On Henley Bridge!

And O, what dainty maids you spy,

What tasteful toilets you descry,

What symphonies in frills and lace,

On Henley Bridge!

But if you find a luncheon nigh—Amayonnaise, a toothsome pie—The chance you'll hasten to embrace!You'll soon forget about the Race,And take your Giesler cool and dry—On Henley Bridge!

But if you find a luncheon nigh—

Amayonnaise, a toothsome pie—

The chance you'll hasten to embrace!

You'll soon forget about the Race,

And take your Giesler cool and dry—

On Henley Bridge!

BESIDE the Sea, upon the strandThe sun is hot, the day is grand:I think you will agree with me,Upon the shore 'tis nice to be,Amid the shingle and the sand.Your hands get brown, your face is tanned,You bathe or noddle to the band;Or slowly ride a solemn "gee"Beside the Sea.You pace the pier, you idle andThe offing never leave unscanned:And study, 'neath some grateful lee,The "blue, the fresh, the ever free"!The air is pure, your lungs expand,Beside the Sea!

BESIDE the Sea, upon the strandThe sun is hot, the day is grand:I think you will agree with me,Upon the shore 'tis nice to be,Amid the shingle and the sand.

BESIDE the Sea, upon the strand

The sun is hot, the day is grand:

I think you will agree with me,

Upon the shore 'tis nice to be,

Amid the shingle and the sand.

Your hands get brown, your face is tanned,You bathe or noddle to the band;Or slowly ride a solemn "gee"Beside the Sea.

Your hands get brown, your face is tanned,

You bathe or noddle to the band;

Or slowly ride a solemn "gee"

Beside the Sea.

You pace the pier, you idle andThe offing never leave unscanned:And study, 'neath some grateful lee,The "blue, the fresh, the ever free"!The air is pure, your lungs expand,Beside the Sea!

You pace the pier, you idle and

The offing never leave unscanned:

And study, 'neath some grateful lee,

The "blue, the fresh, the ever free"!

The air is pure, your lungs expand,

Beside the Sea!

AFOREIGN Tour? I apprehendA hand-bag I should recommend;A roll of useful notes from Coutts,A pocketful of good cheroots,AndMurrayfor your faithful friend.Some French, on which you can depend,A chosen chum, you can't offend;Are things to make—with tourist-suits—A Foreign Tour.You'll visit "lions" without end;And all the snowy peaks ascend;Withalpenstocksand hob-nailed boots:Or ride on mules—the sullen brutes—There's lots of sport, if you intendA Foreign Tour!

AFOREIGN Tour? I apprehendA hand-bag I should recommend;A roll of useful notes from Coutts,A pocketful of good cheroots,AndMurrayfor your faithful friend.

AFOREIGN Tour? I apprehend

A hand-bag I should recommend;

A roll of useful notes from Coutts,

A pocketful of good cheroots,

AndMurrayfor your faithful friend.

Some French, on which you can depend,A chosen chum, you can't offend;Are things to make—with tourist-suits—A Foreign Tour.

Some French, on which you can depend,

A chosen chum, you can't offend;

Are things to make—with tourist-suits—

A Foreign Tour.

You'll visit "lions" without end;And all the snowy peaks ascend;Withalpenstocksand hob-nailed boots:Or ride on mules—the sullen brutes—There's lots of sport, if you intendA Foreign Tour!

You'll visit "lions" without end;

And all the snowy peaks ascend;

Withalpenstocksand hob-nailed boots:

Or ride on mules—the sullen brutes—

There's lots of sport, if you intend

A Foreign Tour!

ONCE more at Home! We've ploughed the main,We've gone bydiligenceand train;Endured the oft-repeated snub,Of insolent official cub—In Switzerland, in France, and Spain.For weeks we've struggled, all in vain,Some toilet comforts to obtain;Butnowwe hail our roomy "tub"Once more at Home.Though back we come to fog and rainAnd chills and bills, we don't complain!We've heaps of friends, a quiet "rub,"A pleasant dinner at the Club—True happiness we now regain,Once more at Home!

ONCE more at Home! We've ploughed the main,We've gone bydiligenceand train;Endured the oft-repeated snub,Of insolent official cub—In Switzerland, in France, and Spain.

ONCE more at Home! We've ploughed the main,

We've gone bydiligenceand train;

Endured the oft-repeated snub,

Of insolent official cub—

In Switzerland, in France, and Spain.

For weeks we've struggled, all in vain,Some toilet comforts to obtain;Butnowwe hail our roomy "tub"Once more at Home.

For weeks we've struggled, all in vain,

Some toilet comforts to obtain;

Butnowwe hail our roomy "tub"

Once more at Home.

Though back we come to fog and rainAnd chills and bills, we don't complain!We've heaps of friends, a quiet "rub,"A pleasant dinner at the Club—True happiness we now regain,Once more at Home!

Though back we come to fog and rain

And chills and bills, we don't complain!

We've heaps of friends, a quiet "rub,"

A pleasant dinner at the Club—

True happiness we now regain,

Once more at Home!

ALONDON Fog, 'tis always hereAt this inclement time of year!When people hang themselves or drown,And Nature wears her blackest frown,While all the world is dull and drear.All form and colour disappearWithin this filthy atmosphere:'Tis sometimes yellow, sometimes brown,A London Fog!It chokes our lungs, our heads feel queer,We cannot see, can scarcely hear:So when this murky pall drops down—Though dearly loving London town—We feel we cannot quite revereA London Fog!

ALONDON Fog, 'tis always hereAt this inclement time of year!When people hang themselves or drown,And Nature wears her blackest frown,While all the world is dull and drear.

ALONDON Fog, 'tis always here

At this inclement time of year!

When people hang themselves or drown,

And Nature wears her blackest frown,

While all the world is dull and drear.

All form and colour disappearWithin this filthy atmosphere:'Tis sometimes yellow, sometimes brown,A London Fog!

All form and colour disappear

Within this filthy atmosphere:

'Tis sometimes yellow, sometimes brown,

A London Fog!

It chokes our lungs, our heads feel queer,We cannot see, can scarcely hear:So when this murky pall drops down—Though dearly loving London town—We feel we cannot quite revereA London Fog!

It chokes our lungs, our heads feel queer,

We cannot see, can scarcely hear:

So when this murky pall drops down—

Though dearly loving London town—

We feel we cannot quite revere

A London Fog!

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