ON BOARD THE "GLADYS."

ONE sunny day in glorious JulyI lazed upon the verdant tennis lawn!And smoking there an idle cigaretteI watched a maid who gazed upon the game,Clad in a simple snowy cambric frock,And all the budding beauty of Sixteen!And as she held her racquet banjo-wise,While dreamily she trifled with its strings,I sketched the merry maiden as she stood,And sang a lazy lay beneath the lime.An impudent down-tilted sailor hat—Begirt with sheeny ribbon lily white—That throws in shade a pair of pure grey eyes—Dark-lashed, delightful, luminous, and sweet—But lets the sunshine kiss her ripe red lips,And mocking the carnation of her cheek,It plays about her pretty rounded chin,And glints amid her straying sunny curls.A white, white dress that artlessly reveals—So exquisite its fashion and its fit—The pouting beauty of her fair young form;In all its dainty, dimpled girliness!From 'neath a silken girdle at her waistThe countless gathers radiate and fall,And give a hint of undulating grace,That closely clinging cambric strives to mock.Such is her choice costume so fresh and crisp;So recently assumed, it scarce has gainedThe pretty pucker and the nameless charm,It borrows from the wearer's changeful curves;While warm white lights start forth in bold relief,Contrasting with the shadows pearly grey,About her slender figure, pliant pleatsNow slyly smile and play at hide-and-seek:And, in transparent shadow, come and go,Shy hints of lace and subtlebroderie!Observe—the filmy ruff about her throat,The pretty ruffles at her slender wrists,The shapely beauty of her small brown hands,That harp upon the rigid racquet strings.Note well the smart coquettish tennis shoon,The shimmer of her silken, sable hose,The while her tiny feet beat faultless time,And flash and glitter 'neath her petticoat!And then——Ah, me! a cloud is o'er the sun,The breeze is cold, and life has lost its charm;The song has ceased—the maid has gone and leftThe Sketch unfinished, and the Sketcher sad!ON BOARD THE "GLADYS."LOUNGING at ease in the laziest attitude,Fresh briny breezes are blowing so free;Never once thinking of longi—or lati—tude,Whilst our swift schooner skims over the sea.Smart little sailor-girls, laughing deliciously,Soften the skipper with maidenly wiles;Climb where they oughtn't to, pouting capriciously,Vanquish the boatswain with sunniest smiles.If a squall blows—as it will most unluckily—Dear little damsels, the best of A. B.'s,Face the salt spray, reef their petticoats pluckily,Laugh at wet jackets and sing in the breeze!Note them, ye maidens so silly and finical,See the brown hands of each nautical dear;Hear them discourse on a bobstay or binnacle,Watch their delight when permitted to steer!Dinners on deck are divinely delectable—Under the awning, well screened from the sun—Some folks would dineà la Russeand respectable;Giveusthe laughing, the quaffing, and fun!Dreaming when heats of the noontide so hazilyShimmer around our becalmed little craft;Smoking and mooning, so languidly lazily,Whilst some one reads 'neath the awning abaft.Dreaming in soft summer night so mysterious,Watching the waves as they dash from the bows;Prattle becoming first sober, then serious,Laughter soon softened to tremulous vows.Drifting from chaff into "something particular,"Though you intended but simply to "spoon:"Starlight is good for confession auricular,Lunatics thrive in the light of the moon!Down in the cabin at night, you most willinglyCluster to hear, round the small pianette,Sweet voices warble low, tender and thrillingly,Syren-like songs that you fain would forget.Far from the boredom of vapid society,Leaving all care and all worry at home,Swift speed the days in an endless variety,While the trimGladysflies over the foam!CIGARETTE RINGS.HOW it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night:I'm too sleepy to read, and too lazy to write;So I'll watch the blue rings, as they eddy and twirl,And in gossamer wreathings coquettishly curl.In the stillness of night and the sparseness of chimesThere's a fleetness in fancy, a frolic in rhymes:There's a world of romance that persistently clingsTo the azurine curving of Cigarette Rings!What a picture comes back from the past-away times!—They are lounging once more 'neath the sweet-scented limes:See, how closely he watches the Queen of Coquettes,As her white hands roll deftly those small cigarettes!He believes in her smiles and puts faith in her sighs,While he's dazzled by light from her fathomless eyes:Ah! the dearest of voices delightfully singsThrough the weird intertwining of Cigarette Rings!How sweet was her song in the bright summer-time,When winds whispered low, 'neath the tremulous lime!How sweet too that bunch of forget-me-nots blue—The love he thought lasting, the words he thought true!...Ah! the words of a woman concerning such thingsAre weak and unstable as Cigarette Rings!AT CHARING CROSS.ABUSY scene, I must confess,The Continental Mail Express!The babbling of boys and porters,The shouting of the luggage-sorters.Indeed a vast and varied sight,Beneath the pale electric light;The roll of trucks, the noise, the hustle,The bawling "By yer leave!" and bustle.While anxious tourists blame and blessThe Continental Mail Express!Though wanting minutes ten to Eight,Still people hurry through the gate:Now London's dull, the Season over,They flit from Charing Cross to Dover;They take their tickets, pay their fare,They're booked right through to everywhere!To lead a life of hopeless worry,WithBradshaw,Baedeker, andMurray.And yet they hail with eagernessThe Continental Mail Express!I think of toil by rail and boat,And cackle at thetable d'hôte;Of coin of somewhat doubtful mintage,And wine of very gruesome vintage;Of passes steep that try the lungs,And chattering in unknown tongues.Of Rhenish hills, Italian fountains,Of forests dark, and snowy mountains—To start, I'd give all I possess,By Continental Mail Express!'Tis Eight o'clock, save minutes two—Here comes a stout, fur-capped Mossoo;He's in a fluster at the wicketBecause he cannot find his ticket;And over there may be espiedA pretty little two days' bride.How bored she'll be with six weeks' spooning,How wearied with the honeymooning.Yetlotsgo, leaving no address,By Continental Mail Express!Eight-five! The luggage is complete,The last arrival in his seat;The porters' labours almost ended,The latest evening paper vended.We wish departing friends "Good-night!"A whistle blows, the Guard says "Right!"We watch the red-light's coruscation,Then slowly, sadly, leave the station.All London's gone, say more or less,By Continental Mail Express!THE MUSIC OF LEAVES.THE chesnuts droop low by the river,And shady are Ankerwycke trees;The dragon-flies flash and they quiverTo somnolent humming of bees!But here is a spot of the past time—I'm many a mile from the Weir—I'll rest and think over the last timeI ventured to meditate here.O, chesnuts are shady, and golden are sheaves,And sweet is the exquisite music of leaves!I pause in this quaint little harbour,Quite out of the swirl of the stream;With leaves overhead like an arbour,I smoke, and I ponder, and dream.The bank, with its rough broken edges,Exists as in days now remote;There's still the faint savour of sedgesAnd lilies fresh crushed by the boat.O, breezes are soft, and the dreamer receivesThe rarest refrain from the music of leaves!A brown-eyed and trustful young maidenThen steered this identical skiff,Her lap with forget-me-nots laden.I now am forgotten; but if?—No matter! I see the sweet gloryOf love in those fathomless eyes;I tell her an often-told story—They sparkle with light and surprise!O, rivers are rapid, and Syrens were thieves,Their music was naught to the music of leaves!Ah, Love, do you ever rememberThe stream and its musical flow?The story I told in September,The song of the leaves long ago?Our love was a beautiful brief song,As sweet as your voice and your eyes;But frail as a lyrical leaf-song,Inspired by the short summer sighs!O, summer is short, and the sculler still grieves,His sorrow is echoed in music of leaves!CASUAL CAROLS.IN A BELLAGIO BALCONY.The Lazy Minstrel hastes to own hePrefers the "o" long in "Balcōny!"I'LL dream and moon, O will I not?My views just now are somewhat hazy;I fancy I am very hot,I'm certain I am very lazy!I cannot read, I dare not think,I'm idle as alazzarone;So in the sunshine I will blink—In this Balcōny.Mama o'erTauchnitztakes a nap,Papa is readingGalignani,And Loo is conningMurray'smap,And humming airs fromPuritani.There's Tom-boy Ten in shortened skirts—Which just reveal her frilledcalzoni—And Sweet-and-Twenty, Queen of Flirts,In this Balcōny!I've nothing in the world to do,I like thedolce far niente;I love the eyes of peerless blue,And nameless grace of Sweet-and-Twenty!I've lunched with dainty VioletOff nectarines and friedagoni;And now I'll smoke a cigarette,In this Balcōny.I do not think I care to talk,I am not up to much exertion;I'm not inclined to ride or walk,I loathe the very word excursion!Now shall I heated effort make,And climb the hill to Serbelloni?I'd rather gaze upon the lake—From this Balcōny.Or rather gaze on Violet,This sunny day in sweet September:Her eyes I never can forget,Her voice I always shall remember!P'r'aps lazy lovers oft are slow—I whisperedcon espressione—And what Imeantto say I know,In this Balcōny!Alas! thatMurraydropped by Loo,Mama awakens in a minute!Papa has read his paper through,And finds, of course, there's nothing in it!And Tom-boy Ten is full of fun,She's off somewhere to ride a pony,And Vi has gone! So fades the sun—From this Balcōny!A RIVERAIN RHYME.BESIDE the river in the rain—The sopping sky is leaden grey—I watch the drops run down the pane!Assuming the Tapleyan vein—I sit and drone a dismal lay—Beside the river in the rain!With pluvial patter for refrain;I've smoked the very blackest clay;I watch the drops run down the pane.I've gazed upon big fishes slain,That on the walls make brave display,Beside the river in the rain.It will not clear, 'tis very plain,The rain will last throughout the day—I watch the drops run down the pane.I almost feel my boundless brainAt last shows signs of giving way;Beside the river in the rain.O, never will I stop again—No more will I attempt to stay,Beside the river in the rain,To watch the drops run down the pane!THE LITTLE REBEL.PRINCESS of pretty pets,Tomboy in trouserettes;Eyes are like violets—Gleefully glancing!Skin, like an otter sleek,Nose, like a baby-Greek,Sweet little dimple-cheek—Merrily dancing!Lark-like her song it trills,Over the dale and hills,Hark how her laughter thrills!Joyously joking.Yet, should she feel inclined,I fancy you will find,She, like all womankind,Oft is provoking!Often she stands on chairs,Sometimes she unawaresSlyly creeps up the stairs,Secretly hiding:Then will this merry maid—She is of nought afraid—Come down the balustrade,Saucily sliding!Books she abominates,But see her go on skates,And over five-barred gatesFearlessly scramble!Climbing up apple-trees,Barking her supple knees,Flouting mama's decrees—Out for a ramble.Now she is good as gold,Then she is pert and bold,Minds not what she is told,Carelessly tripping.She is an April miss,Bounding to grief from bliss,Often she has a kiss—Sometimes a whipping!Naughty but best of girls,Through life she gaily twirls,Shaking her sunny curls—Careless and joyful.Ev'ry one on her dotes,Carolling merry notes,Pet in short petticoats—Truly tomboyful!CANOEBIAL BLISS.My Pegasus won't bear a bridle,A bit, or a saddle, or shoe:I'm doing my best to be idle,And sing from my bass-wood canoe!O,SUMMER is sweet, and its sky is so blue—The days are so long, and my heart is so light,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!Where am I? No matter! It's nothing to you—The breeze is so pleasant, the sun is so bright—O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!I glory in thinking there's nothing to do.I moon and I ponder from morn until night,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!My face and my hands are of tropical hue.In spotless white flannel my limbs are bedight.O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!But O, it is pleasant to dream the day through,Half-hidden by rushes, and well out of sight,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!I crush the white lilies, 'tis almost "too too;"I dream to the song of the dragon-flies' flight—O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!Somewhere on the Thames, I can't give you a clue,Be able to find me, you possibly might,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!And if you are pleasant, and I'm in the cue,Through azurine smoke you may hear me recite—O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!ROSIE.DRAWN BY LEECH.DOWN on the sands there strolls a merry maid,Aglow with ruddy health and gladsome glee;She breasts the breezes of the summer sea,And lets each zephyr trifle with each braid;Laughs gaily as her petticoats evadeHer girlish grasp and wildly flutter free,As, bending to some boisterous decree,The neatest foot and ankle are displayed.Her youthful rounded figure you may traceHalf pouting, as rude Boreas unfurlsA wealth of snowy frillery and lace,A glory of soft golden rippled curls.Comes, blushing with a rare unconscious grace,The bonniest of England's bonny girls!SKINDLE'S IN OCTOBER.OCTOBER is the time of year;For no regattas interfere,The river then is fairly clearOf steaming "spindles,"You then have space to moor your punt,You then can get a room in frontOf Skindle's.When Taplow Woods are russet-red,When half the poplar-leaves are shed,When silence reigns at Maidenhead,And autumn dwindles,'Tis good to lounge upon that lawn,Though beauties of last June are goneFrom Skindle's.We toiled in June all down to Bray,And yarns we spun for Mab and May;O, who would think such girls as theyWould turn out swindles?Butnowwe toil and spin for jack,And in the evening we get backTo Skindle's.And after dinner—passing praise—'Tis sweet to meditate and laze,To watch the ruddy logs ablaze;And as one kindlesThe big post-prandial cigar,My friend, be thankful that we areAt Skindle's.IN MY EASY CHAIR.'TIS simply detestable weather!At home I'm determined to stay;A fortune I've spent in shoe-leather,And ruined three hats ev'ry day!Umbrellas I've borrowed and broken,And angered their owners no doubt:These things I consider a token,'Tis not the least use to go out!But let the weather be foul or fair,I'll sit and smile in my Easy Chair!The morning's uncertain and hazy—I can't be quite sure of the time—I'm feeling exhausted and lazy,Not equal to reason or rhyme!While streets still are muddy and sloppy,While bitter the easterly breeze,I'll maunder and nod like a poppy,And take forty winks at mine ease!My dreams are pleasant, soIdon't care.I'll sit and snooze in my Easy Chair!There's nothing of note in the papers,There's nothing to do or to say:We suffer extremely from "vapours"—The fog and the damp of each day.Though cities be frozen or flooded,'Tis useless to fume or to fret;Though friends are bespattered and mudded—I'll smoke a serene cigarette!And all the burdens I have to bear,I'll smoke away in my Easy Chair!Within it is snug and quiescent,Without it persistently pours;My chair is well-cushioned and pleasant,Though life's full of angles and bores!My room is deliciously torrid,By frost or by rain I'm unvext;The world is decidedly horrid—So call me the month after next!The world may roll and may tear its hair,I'll roll and laugh in my Easy Chair!BLANKTON WEIR.'TIS a queer old pile of timbers, all gnarled and rough and green,Both moss-o'ergrown and weed-covered, and jaggèd too, I ween!'Tis battered and 'tis spattered, all worn and knocked about,Beclamped with rusty rivets, and bepatched with timbers stout;A tottering, trembling structure, enshrining memories dear,This weather-beaten barrier, this quaint old Blankton Weir.While leaning on those withered rails, what feelings oft come back,As I watch the white foam sparkling and note the current's track;What crowds of fleeting fancies come dancing through my brain!And the good old days of Blankton, I live them o'er again;What hopes and fears, gay smiles, sad tears, seem mirrored in the mere,While looking on its glassy face by tell-tale Blankton Weir!I've seen it basking 'neath the rays of summer's golden glow,And when sweetly by the moonlight, silver ripples ebb and flow;When Nature starts in spring-time, awakening into life;When autumn leaves are falling, and the yellow corn is rife;'Mid the rime and sleet of winter, all through the live-long year,I've watched the water rushing through this tide-worn Blankton Weir.And I mind me of one even, so calm and clear and bright,What songs we sang—whose voices rang—that lovely summer night.Where are the hearty voices now who trolled those good old lays?And where the silvery laughter that rang in bygone days?Come back, that night of long ago! Come back, the moonlight clear!When hearts beat light, and eyes were bright, about old Blankton Weir.Was ever indolence so sweet, were ever days so fine,As when we lounged in that old punt and played with rod and line?'Tis true few fish we caught there, but the good old ale we quaffed,As we chatted, too, and smoked there, and idled, dreamed, and laughed:Then thought we only of to-day, of morrow had no fear,For sorrow scarce had tinged the stream that flowed through Blankton Weir.Those dreamy August afternoons, when in our skiff we lay,To hear the current murmuring as slow it swirled away;The plaintive hum of dragon-fly, the old weir's plash and roar,WhileSome-one'sgentle voice, too, seems whispering there once more;Come back, those days of love and trust, those times of hope and fear,When girls were girls, and hearts were hearts, about old Blankton Weir!Those brilliant sunny mornings when we tumbled out of bed,And hurried on a few rough clothes, and to the river sped!What laughing joyaunce hung about those merry days agone,We clove the rushing current at the early flush of dawn!Tremendous headers took we in the waters bright and clear,And splashed and dashed, and dived and swam, just off old Blankton Weir.Then that pleasant picnic-party, when all the girls were there,In pretty morning dresses and with freshly-braided hair;Fair Annie, with those deep-blue eyes, and rosy, laughing Nell,Dark Helen, sunny Amy, and the stately Isobel;Ah! Lizzie, 'twas but yesterday—at least 'twould so appear—We plighted vows of constancy, not far from Blankton Weir.Those flashing eyes, those brave true hearts, are gone, and few remainTo mourn the loss of sunny hours that ne'er come back again:Some married are—ah! me, how changed—for they will think no moreOf how they joined our chorus there, or helped to pull the oar:One gentle voice is hushed for aye—we miss a voice so dear—Who cheered along with evensong our path by Blankton Weir.Amid the whirl of weary life—I hear it o'er and o'er,That plaintive well-loved lullaby—the old weir's distant roar:It gilds the cloud of daily toil with sunshine's fitful gleams,It breaks upon my slumber, and I hear it in my dreams:Like music of the good old times, it strikes upon mine ear—If there's an air can banish care, 'tis that of Blankton Weir!I know the river's rushing, but it rushes not for me,I feel the morning blushing, though I am not there to see;For younger hearts now live and love where once we used to dwell,And others laugh, and dream, and sing, in spots we loved so well;Their motto "Carpe diem"—'twas ours for many a year—As show these rhymes of sunny times about old Blankton Weir.DIFFERENT VIEWS.A CHRISTMAS DUET.O,CHRISTMAS comes but once a year!(And even that is once too many;)Hurrah for all its right good cheer!(I wish I had my share of any!)What flavour of the good old times!(What hopeless and egregious folly!)What evergreens and merry chimes!(What prickles ever lurk in holly!)Indeed it is a merry time;(But O! those countless Christmas numbers!)For now we see the pantomime,(And now the waits disturb our slumbers.)We've kisses 'neath the mistletoe—(I hate such rough, unseemly capers!)And hearty welcomes, frost and snow;(Yes, in the illustrated papers.)Around the groaning Christmas board,(Which never equals expectations,)Where old and young are in accord—(I hate the most of my relations!)I view the turkey with delight,(A tough old bird beyond all question!)The blazing pudding—what a sight!('Tis concentrated indigestion!)Laugh on, ye merry girls and boys!(Each year the Christmas boxes strengthen,)Each year brings with it countless joys;(The Christmas bills each year they lengthen.)To all we pledge the brimming glass!(What days of gorging and unreason!)Too quick such merry moments pass—(Why can't we skip the "festive season"?)TWO NAUGHTY GIRLS.A SCULLER'S SKETCH.AS I go slowly drifting by,Two lazy lasses I espy;Two pretty pets who lounge and moon,Who dream and take their ease,And chatter through the afternoon,Beneath the trees.The one is Beatie, t'other Bell,No pow'r on earth will make me tellThe surname of each lovely flow'r—This pair of busy B's,Whodon'timprove each shining hour,Beneath the trees!Ah! why should one sweet damsel frown,And droop her pretty eyelids down?Or quickly hush her merry notes,And clasp her pliant knees?A pouting pet in petticoats,Beneath the trees!Has Bell at Beatie dared to sneer,Or Beatie chanced at Bell to jeer?Has either vented girlish spite,Because she likes to tease?Orloves, like dogs, to bark and bite,Beneath the trees!Has either called the other "flirt"?Does Bell object to Beatie's skirt?Or Bella's sweet forget-me-nots,Miss Beatrix displease?—I'd like to read them Doctor Watts,Beneath the trees.I drift and leave each dainty maid,Still sweet and sulky in the shade,With all their sunny laughing curlsA-flutter in the breeze:Two nice but very naughty girls,Beneath the trees!I said unto myself, Ha! ha!My dears, if I were your mama,Most quickly I'd pack off to bedTwo naughty busy B's—Who quarrel and make eyelids red,Beneath the trees!COULEUR DE ROSE.A SIX MONTHS' COURTSHIP.HER soft sables, you must know,Kept off winter's frost and snow,And the cruel wind did blowWhen we met:The demurest little nun,Though she'd sometimes change in fun,Like a snowflake in the sun,—Little pet!Pray what meant those frequent sighs,When those fathomless brown eyesSometimes gazed with glad surpriseInto mine?It was joy to be alone,With my arm around her zone,And to claim her for my ownValentine!'Fore the romping wind of MarchWas she bending like a larch,As her glance seemed yet more archThrough her curls;Came in view the ankles neat,Were revealed the dainty feet,And thechaussureof my sweetGirl of girls!Ah! my brightest fay of faysWas most fickle in her ways,In chameleon April days—Sun and rain!She would sometimes be put out,She would laugh or cry and pout;Smiling through her tears in doubt,Joy and pain!But in May so freshly fairShe would cull its blossoms rare,Just to twine them in her hair—Gay and wild:A sweet pæan of perfume,A gay sunny song of bloom,She would chase away all bloom—Laughing child!Ah! her cheek will shame the rose,With the tint that comes and goes,And more radiantly glows,When it's prest!Whilst her loving eyes flash bright,With a sweet and sparkling light,And white roses scarce look whiteIn her breast!In the balmy summer time,With gay roses in their prime,No one deems it is a crimeThen to "spoon"!Ah! how quick the time then sped,Now I wonder what we said,'Neath the roses white and red—Once in June?O! when summer skies were blue,And we fancied hearts were true,While the long day loving through—Who'd suppose?Our grand castles built in Spain,Or that love could ever wane,And its fragrance but remain,Like the rose?IN STRAWBERRY TIME.

ONE sunny day in glorious July

I lazed upon the verdant tennis lawn!

And smoking there an idle cigarette

I watched a maid who gazed upon the game,

Clad in a simple snowy cambric frock,

And all the budding beauty of Sixteen!

And as she held her racquet banjo-wise,

While dreamily she trifled with its strings,

I sketched the merry maiden as she stood,

And sang a lazy lay beneath the lime.

An impudent down-tilted sailor hat—Begirt with sheeny ribbon lily white—That throws in shade a pair of pure grey eyes—Dark-lashed, delightful, luminous, and sweet—But lets the sunshine kiss her ripe red lips,And mocking the carnation of her cheek,It plays about her pretty rounded chin,And glints amid her straying sunny curls.

An impudent down-tilted sailor hat—

Begirt with sheeny ribbon lily white—

That throws in shade a pair of pure grey eyes—

Dark-lashed, delightful, luminous, and sweet—

But lets the sunshine kiss her ripe red lips,

And mocking the carnation of her cheek,

It plays about her pretty rounded chin,

And glints amid her straying sunny curls.

A white, white dress that artlessly reveals—So exquisite its fashion and its fit—The pouting beauty of her fair young form;In all its dainty, dimpled girliness!From 'neath a silken girdle at her waistThe countless gathers radiate and fall,And give a hint of undulating grace,That closely clinging cambric strives to mock.Such is her choice costume so fresh and crisp;So recently assumed, it scarce has gainedThe pretty pucker and the nameless charm,It borrows from the wearer's changeful curves;While warm white lights start forth in bold relief,Contrasting with the shadows pearly grey,About her slender figure, pliant pleatsNow slyly smile and play at hide-and-seek:And, in transparent shadow, come and go,Shy hints of lace and subtlebroderie!

A white, white dress that artlessly reveals—

So exquisite its fashion and its fit—

The pouting beauty of her fair young form;

In all its dainty, dimpled girliness!

From 'neath a silken girdle at her waist

The countless gathers radiate and fall,

And give a hint of undulating grace,

That closely clinging cambric strives to mock.

Such is her choice costume so fresh and crisp;

So recently assumed, it scarce has gained

The pretty pucker and the nameless charm,

It borrows from the wearer's changeful curves;

While warm white lights start forth in bold relief,

Contrasting with the shadows pearly grey,

About her slender figure, pliant pleats

Now slyly smile and play at hide-and-seek:

And, in transparent shadow, come and go,

Shy hints of lace and subtlebroderie!

Observe—the filmy ruff about her throat,The pretty ruffles at her slender wrists,The shapely beauty of her small brown hands,That harp upon the rigid racquet strings.Note well the smart coquettish tennis shoon,The shimmer of her silken, sable hose,The while her tiny feet beat faultless time,And flash and glitter 'neath her petticoat!

Observe—the filmy ruff about her throat,

The pretty ruffles at her slender wrists,

The shapely beauty of her small brown hands,

That harp upon the rigid racquet strings.

Note well the smart coquettish tennis shoon,

The shimmer of her silken, sable hose,

The while her tiny feet beat faultless time,

And flash and glitter 'neath her petticoat!

And then——Ah, me! a cloud is o'er the sun,The breeze is cold, and life has lost its charm;The song has ceased—the maid has gone and leftThe Sketch unfinished, and the Sketcher sad!

And then——Ah, me! a cloud is o'er the sun,

The breeze is cold, and life has lost its charm;

The song has ceased—the maid has gone and left

The Sketch unfinished, and the Sketcher sad!

LOUNGING at ease in the laziest attitude,Fresh briny breezes are blowing so free;Never once thinking of longi—or lati—tude,Whilst our swift schooner skims over the sea.Smart little sailor-girls, laughing deliciously,Soften the skipper with maidenly wiles;Climb where they oughtn't to, pouting capriciously,Vanquish the boatswain with sunniest smiles.If a squall blows—as it will most unluckily—Dear little damsels, the best of A. B.'s,Face the salt spray, reef their petticoats pluckily,Laugh at wet jackets and sing in the breeze!Note them, ye maidens so silly and finical,See the brown hands of each nautical dear;Hear them discourse on a bobstay or binnacle,Watch their delight when permitted to steer!Dinners on deck are divinely delectable—Under the awning, well screened from the sun—Some folks would dineà la Russeand respectable;Giveusthe laughing, the quaffing, and fun!Dreaming when heats of the noontide so hazilyShimmer around our becalmed little craft;Smoking and mooning, so languidly lazily,Whilst some one reads 'neath the awning abaft.Dreaming in soft summer night so mysterious,Watching the waves as they dash from the bows;Prattle becoming first sober, then serious,Laughter soon softened to tremulous vows.Drifting from chaff into "something particular,"Though you intended but simply to "spoon:"Starlight is good for confession auricular,Lunatics thrive in the light of the moon!Down in the cabin at night, you most willinglyCluster to hear, round the small pianette,Sweet voices warble low, tender and thrillingly,Syren-like songs that you fain would forget.Far from the boredom of vapid society,Leaving all care and all worry at home,Swift speed the days in an endless variety,While the trimGladysflies over the foam!

LOUNGING at ease in the laziest attitude,Fresh briny breezes are blowing so free;Never once thinking of longi—or lati—tude,Whilst our swift schooner skims over the sea.

LOUNGING at ease in the laziest attitude,

Fresh briny breezes are blowing so free;

Never once thinking of longi—or lati—tude,

Whilst our swift schooner skims over the sea.

Smart little sailor-girls, laughing deliciously,Soften the skipper with maidenly wiles;Climb where they oughtn't to, pouting capriciously,Vanquish the boatswain with sunniest smiles.

Smart little sailor-girls, laughing deliciously,

Soften the skipper with maidenly wiles;

Climb where they oughtn't to, pouting capriciously,

Vanquish the boatswain with sunniest smiles.

If a squall blows—as it will most unluckily—Dear little damsels, the best of A. B.'s,Face the salt spray, reef their petticoats pluckily,Laugh at wet jackets and sing in the breeze!

If a squall blows—as it will most unluckily—

Dear little damsels, the best of A. B.'s,

Face the salt spray, reef their petticoats pluckily,

Laugh at wet jackets and sing in the breeze!

Note them, ye maidens so silly and finical,See the brown hands of each nautical dear;Hear them discourse on a bobstay or binnacle,Watch their delight when permitted to steer!

Note them, ye maidens so silly and finical,

See the brown hands of each nautical dear;

Hear them discourse on a bobstay or binnacle,

Watch their delight when permitted to steer!

Dinners on deck are divinely delectable—Under the awning, well screened from the sun—Some folks would dineà la Russeand respectable;Giveusthe laughing, the quaffing, and fun!

Dinners on deck are divinely delectable—

Under the awning, well screened from the sun—

Some folks would dineà la Russeand respectable;

Giveusthe laughing, the quaffing, and fun!

Dreaming when heats of the noontide so hazilyShimmer around our becalmed little craft;Smoking and mooning, so languidly lazily,Whilst some one reads 'neath the awning abaft.

Dreaming when heats of the noontide so hazily

Shimmer around our becalmed little craft;

Smoking and mooning, so languidly lazily,

Whilst some one reads 'neath the awning abaft.

Dreaming in soft summer night so mysterious,Watching the waves as they dash from the bows;Prattle becoming first sober, then serious,Laughter soon softened to tremulous vows.

Dreaming in soft summer night so mysterious,

Watching the waves as they dash from the bows;

Prattle becoming first sober, then serious,

Laughter soon softened to tremulous vows.

Drifting from chaff into "something particular,"Though you intended but simply to "spoon:"Starlight is good for confession auricular,Lunatics thrive in the light of the moon!

Drifting from chaff into "something particular,"

Though you intended but simply to "spoon:"

Starlight is good for confession auricular,

Lunatics thrive in the light of the moon!

Down in the cabin at night, you most willinglyCluster to hear, round the small pianette,Sweet voices warble low, tender and thrillingly,Syren-like songs that you fain would forget.

Down in the cabin at night, you most willingly

Cluster to hear, round the small pianette,

Sweet voices warble low, tender and thrillingly,

Syren-like songs that you fain would forget.

Far from the boredom of vapid society,Leaving all care and all worry at home,Swift speed the days in an endless variety,While the trimGladysflies over the foam!

Far from the boredom of vapid society,

Leaving all care and all worry at home,

Swift speed the days in an endless variety,

While the trimGladysflies over the foam!

HOW it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night:I'm too sleepy to read, and too lazy to write;So I'll watch the blue rings, as they eddy and twirl,And in gossamer wreathings coquettishly curl.In the stillness of night and the sparseness of chimesThere's a fleetness in fancy, a frolic in rhymes:There's a world of romance that persistently clingsTo the azurine curving of Cigarette Rings!What a picture comes back from the past-away times!—They are lounging once more 'neath the sweet-scented limes:See, how closely he watches the Queen of Coquettes,As her white hands roll deftly those small cigarettes!He believes in her smiles and puts faith in her sighs,While he's dazzled by light from her fathomless eyes:Ah! the dearest of voices delightfully singsThrough the weird intertwining of Cigarette Rings!How sweet was her song in the bright summer-time,When winds whispered low, 'neath the tremulous lime!How sweet too that bunch of forget-me-nots blue—The love he thought lasting, the words he thought true!...Ah! the words of a woman concerning such thingsAre weak and unstable as Cigarette Rings!

HOW it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night:

I'm too sleepy to read, and too lazy to write;

So I'll watch the blue rings, as they eddy and twirl,

And in gossamer wreathings coquettishly curl.

In the stillness of night and the sparseness of chimes

There's a fleetness in fancy, a frolic in rhymes:

There's a world of romance that persistently clings

To the azurine curving of Cigarette Rings!

What a picture comes back from the past-away times!—They are lounging once more 'neath the sweet-scented limes:See, how closely he watches the Queen of Coquettes,As her white hands roll deftly those small cigarettes!He believes in her smiles and puts faith in her sighs,While he's dazzled by light from her fathomless eyes:Ah! the dearest of voices delightfully singsThrough the weird intertwining of Cigarette Rings!

What a picture comes back from the past-away times!—

They are lounging once more 'neath the sweet-scented limes:

See, how closely he watches the Queen of Coquettes,

As her white hands roll deftly those small cigarettes!

He believes in her smiles and puts faith in her sighs,

While he's dazzled by light from her fathomless eyes:

Ah! the dearest of voices delightfully sings

Through the weird intertwining of Cigarette Rings!

How sweet was her song in the bright summer-time,When winds whispered low, 'neath the tremulous lime!How sweet too that bunch of forget-me-nots blue—The love he thought lasting, the words he thought true!...Ah! the words of a woman concerning such thingsAre weak and unstable as Cigarette Rings!

How sweet was her song in the bright summer-time,

When winds whispered low, 'neath the tremulous lime!

How sweet too that bunch of forget-me-nots blue—

The love he thought lasting, the words he thought true!...

Ah! the words of a woman concerning such things

Are weak and unstable as Cigarette Rings!

ABUSY scene, I must confess,The Continental Mail Express!The babbling of boys and porters,The shouting of the luggage-sorters.Indeed a vast and varied sight,Beneath the pale electric light;The roll of trucks, the noise, the hustle,The bawling "By yer leave!" and bustle.While anxious tourists blame and blessThe Continental Mail Express!Though wanting minutes ten to Eight,Still people hurry through the gate:Now London's dull, the Season over,They flit from Charing Cross to Dover;They take their tickets, pay their fare,They're booked right through to everywhere!To lead a life of hopeless worry,WithBradshaw,Baedeker, andMurray.And yet they hail with eagernessThe Continental Mail Express!I think of toil by rail and boat,And cackle at thetable d'hôte;Of coin of somewhat doubtful mintage,And wine of very gruesome vintage;Of passes steep that try the lungs,And chattering in unknown tongues.Of Rhenish hills, Italian fountains,Of forests dark, and snowy mountains—To start, I'd give all I possess,By Continental Mail Express!'Tis Eight o'clock, save minutes two—Here comes a stout, fur-capped Mossoo;He's in a fluster at the wicketBecause he cannot find his ticket;And over there may be espiedA pretty little two days' bride.How bored she'll be with six weeks' spooning,How wearied with the honeymooning.Yetlotsgo, leaving no address,By Continental Mail Express!Eight-five! The luggage is complete,The last arrival in his seat;The porters' labours almost ended,The latest evening paper vended.We wish departing friends "Good-night!"A whistle blows, the Guard says "Right!"We watch the red-light's coruscation,Then slowly, sadly, leave the station.All London's gone, say more or less,By Continental Mail Express!

ABUSY scene, I must confess,

The Continental Mail Express!

The babbling of boys and porters,

The shouting of the luggage-sorters.

Indeed a vast and varied sight,

Beneath the pale electric light;

The roll of trucks, the noise, the hustle,

The bawling "By yer leave!" and bustle.

While anxious tourists blame and bless

The Continental Mail Express!

Though wanting minutes ten to Eight,Still people hurry through the gate:Now London's dull, the Season over,They flit from Charing Cross to Dover;They take their tickets, pay their fare,They're booked right through to everywhere!To lead a life of hopeless worry,WithBradshaw,Baedeker, andMurray.And yet they hail with eagernessThe Continental Mail Express!

Though wanting minutes ten to Eight,

Still people hurry through the gate:

Now London's dull, the Season over,

They flit from Charing Cross to Dover;

They take their tickets, pay their fare,

They're booked right through to everywhere!

To lead a life of hopeless worry,

WithBradshaw,Baedeker, andMurray.

And yet they hail with eagerness

The Continental Mail Express!

I think of toil by rail and boat,And cackle at thetable d'hôte;Of coin of somewhat doubtful mintage,And wine of very gruesome vintage;Of passes steep that try the lungs,And chattering in unknown tongues.Of Rhenish hills, Italian fountains,Of forests dark, and snowy mountains—To start, I'd give all I possess,By Continental Mail Express!

I think of toil by rail and boat,

And cackle at thetable d'hôte;

Of coin of somewhat doubtful mintage,

And wine of very gruesome vintage;

Of passes steep that try the lungs,

And chattering in unknown tongues.

Of Rhenish hills, Italian fountains,

Of forests dark, and snowy mountains—

To start, I'd give all I possess,

By Continental Mail Express!

'Tis Eight o'clock, save minutes two—Here comes a stout, fur-capped Mossoo;He's in a fluster at the wicketBecause he cannot find his ticket;And over there may be espiedA pretty little two days' bride.How bored she'll be with six weeks' spooning,How wearied with the honeymooning.Yetlotsgo, leaving no address,By Continental Mail Express!

'Tis Eight o'clock, save minutes two—

Here comes a stout, fur-capped Mossoo;

He's in a fluster at the wicket

Because he cannot find his ticket;

And over there may be espied

A pretty little two days' bride.

How bored she'll be with six weeks' spooning,

How wearied with the honeymooning.

Yetlotsgo, leaving no address,

By Continental Mail Express!

Eight-five! The luggage is complete,The last arrival in his seat;The porters' labours almost ended,The latest evening paper vended.We wish departing friends "Good-night!"A whistle blows, the Guard says "Right!"We watch the red-light's coruscation,Then slowly, sadly, leave the station.All London's gone, say more or less,By Continental Mail Express!

Eight-five! The luggage is complete,

The last arrival in his seat;

The porters' labours almost ended,

The latest evening paper vended.

We wish departing friends "Good-night!"

A whistle blows, the Guard says "Right!"

We watch the red-light's coruscation,

Then slowly, sadly, leave the station.

All London's gone, say more or less,

By Continental Mail Express!

THE chesnuts droop low by the river,And shady are Ankerwycke trees;The dragon-flies flash and they quiverTo somnolent humming of bees!But here is a spot of the past time—I'm many a mile from the Weir—I'll rest and think over the last timeI ventured to meditate here.O, chesnuts are shady, and golden are sheaves,And sweet is the exquisite music of leaves!I pause in this quaint little harbour,Quite out of the swirl of the stream;With leaves overhead like an arbour,I smoke, and I ponder, and dream.The bank, with its rough broken edges,Exists as in days now remote;There's still the faint savour of sedgesAnd lilies fresh crushed by the boat.O, breezes are soft, and the dreamer receivesThe rarest refrain from the music of leaves!A brown-eyed and trustful young maidenThen steered this identical skiff,Her lap with forget-me-nots laden.I now am forgotten; but if?—No matter! I see the sweet gloryOf love in those fathomless eyes;I tell her an often-told story—They sparkle with light and surprise!O, rivers are rapid, and Syrens were thieves,Their music was naught to the music of leaves!Ah, Love, do you ever rememberThe stream and its musical flow?The story I told in September,The song of the leaves long ago?Our love was a beautiful brief song,As sweet as your voice and your eyes;But frail as a lyrical leaf-song,Inspired by the short summer sighs!O, summer is short, and the sculler still grieves,His sorrow is echoed in music of leaves!

THE chesnuts droop low by the river,

And shady are Ankerwycke trees;

The dragon-flies flash and they quiver

To somnolent humming of bees!

But here is a spot of the past time—

I'm many a mile from the Weir—

I'll rest and think over the last time

I ventured to meditate here.

O, chesnuts are shady, and golden are sheaves,

And sweet is the exquisite music of leaves!

I pause in this quaint little harbour,Quite out of the swirl of the stream;With leaves overhead like an arbour,I smoke, and I ponder, and dream.The bank, with its rough broken edges,Exists as in days now remote;There's still the faint savour of sedgesAnd lilies fresh crushed by the boat.O, breezes are soft, and the dreamer receivesThe rarest refrain from the music of leaves!

I pause in this quaint little harbour,

Quite out of the swirl of the stream;

With leaves overhead like an arbour,

I smoke, and I ponder, and dream.

The bank, with its rough broken edges,

Exists as in days now remote;

There's still the faint savour of sedges

And lilies fresh crushed by the boat.

O, breezes are soft, and the dreamer receives

The rarest refrain from the music of leaves!

A brown-eyed and trustful young maidenThen steered this identical skiff,Her lap with forget-me-nots laden.I now am forgotten; but if?—No matter! I see the sweet gloryOf love in those fathomless eyes;I tell her an often-told story—They sparkle with light and surprise!O, rivers are rapid, and Syrens were thieves,Their music was naught to the music of leaves!

A brown-eyed and trustful young maiden

Then steered this identical skiff,

Her lap with forget-me-nots laden.

I now am forgotten; but if?—

No matter! I see the sweet glory

Of love in those fathomless eyes;

I tell her an often-told story—

They sparkle with light and surprise!

O, rivers are rapid, and Syrens were thieves,

Their music was naught to the music of leaves!

Ah, Love, do you ever rememberThe stream and its musical flow?The story I told in September,The song of the leaves long ago?Our love was a beautiful brief song,As sweet as your voice and your eyes;But frail as a lyrical leaf-song,Inspired by the short summer sighs!O, summer is short, and the sculler still grieves,His sorrow is echoed in music of leaves!

Ah, Love, do you ever remember

The stream and its musical flow?

The story I told in September,

The song of the leaves long ago?

Our love was a beautiful brief song,

As sweet as your voice and your eyes;

But frail as a lyrical leaf-song,

Inspired by the short summer sighs!

O, summer is short, and the sculler still grieves,

His sorrow is echoed in music of leaves!

The Lazy Minstrel hastes to own hePrefers the "o" long in "Balcōny!"

The Lazy Minstrel hastes to own he

Prefers the "o" long in "Balcōny!"

I'LL dream and moon, O will I not?My views just now are somewhat hazy;I fancy I am very hot,I'm certain I am very lazy!I cannot read, I dare not think,I'm idle as alazzarone;So in the sunshine I will blink—In this Balcōny.Mama o'erTauchnitztakes a nap,Papa is readingGalignani,And Loo is conningMurray'smap,And humming airs fromPuritani.There's Tom-boy Ten in shortened skirts—Which just reveal her frilledcalzoni—And Sweet-and-Twenty, Queen of Flirts,In this Balcōny!I've nothing in the world to do,I like thedolce far niente;I love the eyes of peerless blue,And nameless grace of Sweet-and-Twenty!I've lunched with dainty VioletOff nectarines and friedagoni;And now I'll smoke a cigarette,In this Balcōny.I do not think I care to talk,I am not up to much exertion;I'm not inclined to ride or walk,I loathe the very word excursion!Now shall I heated effort make,And climb the hill to Serbelloni?I'd rather gaze upon the lake—From this Balcōny.Or rather gaze on Violet,This sunny day in sweet September:Her eyes I never can forget,Her voice I always shall remember!P'r'aps lazy lovers oft are slow—I whisperedcon espressione—And what Imeantto say I know,In this Balcōny!Alas! thatMurraydropped by Loo,Mama awakens in a minute!Papa has read his paper through,And finds, of course, there's nothing in it!And Tom-boy Ten is full of fun,She's off somewhere to ride a pony,And Vi has gone! So fades the sun—From this Balcōny!

I'LL dream and moon, O will I not?

My views just now are somewhat hazy;

I fancy I am very hot,

I'm certain I am very lazy!

I cannot read, I dare not think,

I'm idle as alazzarone;

So in the sunshine I will blink—

In this Balcōny.

Mama o'erTauchnitztakes a nap,Papa is readingGalignani,And Loo is conningMurray'smap,And humming airs fromPuritani.There's Tom-boy Ten in shortened skirts—Which just reveal her frilledcalzoni—And Sweet-and-Twenty, Queen of Flirts,In this Balcōny!

Mama o'erTauchnitztakes a nap,

Papa is readingGalignani,

And Loo is conningMurray'smap,

And humming airs fromPuritani.

There's Tom-boy Ten in shortened skirts—

Which just reveal her frilledcalzoni—

And Sweet-and-Twenty, Queen of Flirts,

In this Balcōny!

I've nothing in the world to do,I like thedolce far niente;I love the eyes of peerless blue,And nameless grace of Sweet-and-Twenty!I've lunched with dainty VioletOff nectarines and friedagoni;And now I'll smoke a cigarette,In this Balcōny.

I've nothing in the world to do,

I like thedolce far niente;

I love the eyes of peerless blue,

And nameless grace of Sweet-and-Twenty!

I've lunched with dainty Violet

Off nectarines and friedagoni;

And now I'll smoke a cigarette,

In this Balcōny.

I do not think I care to talk,I am not up to much exertion;I'm not inclined to ride or walk,I loathe the very word excursion!Now shall I heated effort make,And climb the hill to Serbelloni?I'd rather gaze upon the lake—From this Balcōny.

I do not think I care to talk,

I am not up to much exertion;

I'm not inclined to ride or walk,

I loathe the very word excursion!

Now shall I heated effort make,

And climb the hill to Serbelloni?

I'd rather gaze upon the lake—

From this Balcōny.

Or rather gaze on Violet,This sunny day in sweet September:Her eyes I never can forget,Her voice I always shall remember!P'r'aps lazy lovers oft are slow—I whisperedcon espressione—And what Imeantto say I know,In this Balcōny!

Or rather gaze on Violet,

This sunny day in sweet September:

Her eyes I never can forget,

Her voice I always shall remember!

P'r'aps lazy lovers oft are slow—

I whisperedcon espressione—

And what Imeantto say I know,

In this Balcōny!

Alas! thatMurraydropped by Loo,Mama awakens in a minute!Papa has read his paper through,And finds, of course, there's nothing in it!And Tom-boy Ten is full of fun,She's off somewhere to ride a pony,And Vi has gone! So fades the sun—From this Balcōny!

Alas! thatMurraydropped by Loo,

Mama awakens in a minute!

Papa has read his paper through,

And finds, of course, there's nothing in it!

And Tom-boy Ten is full of fun,

She's off somewhere to ride a pony,

And Vi has gone! So fades the sun—

From this Balcōny!

BESIDE the river in the rain—The sopping sky is leaden grey—I watch the drops run down the pane!Assuming the Tapleyan vein—I sit and drone a dismal lay—Beside the river in the rain!With pluvial patter for refrain;I've smoked the very blackest clay;I watch the drops run down the pane.I've gazed upon big fishes slain,That on the walls make brave display,Beside the river in the rain.It will not clear, 'tis very plain,The rain will last throughout the day—I watch the drops run down the pane.I almost feel my boundless brainAt last shows signs of giving way;Beside the river in the rain.O, never will I stop again—No more will I attempt to stay,Beside the river in the rain,To watch the drops run down the pane!

BESIDE the river in the rain—The sopping sky is leaden grey—I watch the drops run down the pane!

BESIDE the river in the rain—

The sopping sky is leaden grey—

I watch the drops run down the pane!

Assuming the Tapleyan vein—I sit and drone a dismal lay—Beside the river in the rain!

Assuming the Tapleyan vein—

I sit and drone a dismal lay—

Beside the river in the rain!

With pluvial patter for refrain;I've smoked the very blackest clay;I watch the drops run down the pane.

With pluvial patter for refrain;

I've smoked the very blackest clay;

I watch the drops run down the pane.

I've gazed upon big fishes slain,That on the walls make brave display,Beside the river in the rain.

I've gazed upon big fishes slain,

That on the walls make brave display,

Beside the river in the rain.

It will not clear, 'tis very plain,The rain will last throughout the day—I watch the drops run down the pane.

It will not clear, 'tis very plain,

The rain will last throughout the day—

I watch the drops run down the pane.

I almost feel my boundless brainAt last shows signs of giving way;Beside the river in the rain.

I almost feel my boundless brain

At last shows signs of giving way;

Beside the river in the rain.

O, never will I stop again—No more will I attempt to stay,Beside the river in the rain,To watch the drops run down the pane!

O, never will I stop again—

No more will I attempt to stay,

Beside the river in the rain,

To watch the drops run down the pane!

PRINCESS of pretty pets,Tomboy in trouserettes;Eyes are like violets—Gleefully glancing!Skin, like an otter sleek,Nose, like a baby-Greek,Sweet little dimple-cheek—Merrily dancing!Lark-like her song it trills,Over the dale and hills,Hark how her laughter thrills!Joyously joking.Yet, should she feel inclined,I fancy you will find,She, like all womankind,Oft is provoking!Often she stands on chairs,Sometimes she unawaresSlyly creeps up the stairs,Secretly hiding:Then will this merry maid—She is of nought afraid—Come down the balustrade,Saucily sliding!Books she abominates,But see her go on skates,And over five-barred gatesFearlessly scramble!Climbing up apple-trees,Barking her supple knees,Flouting mama's decrees—Out for a ramble.Now she is good as gold,Then she is pert and bold,Minds not what she is told,Carelessly tripping.She is an April miss,Bounding to grief from bliss,Often she has a kiss—Sometimes a whipping!Naughty but best of girls,Through life she gaily twirls,Shaking her sunny curls—Careless and joyful.Ev'ry one on her dotes,Carolling merry notes,Pet in short petticoats—Truly tomboyful!

PRINCESS of pretty pets,Tomboy in trouserettes;Eyes are like violets—Gleefully glancing!Skin, like an otter sleek,Nose, like a baby-Greek,Sweet little dimple-cheek—Merrily dancing!

PRINCESS of pretty pets,

Tomboy in trouserettes;

Eyes are like violets—

Gleefully glancing!

Skin, like an otter sleek,

Nose, like a baby-Greek,

Sweet little dimple-cheek—

Merrily dancing!

Lark-like her song it trills,Over the dale and hills,Hark how her laughter thrills!Joyously joking.Yet, should she feel inclined,I fancy you will find,She, like all womankind,Oft is provoking!

Lark-like her song it trills,

Over the dale and hills,

Hark how her laughter thrills!

Joyously joking.

Yet, should she feel inclined,

I fancy you will find,

She, like all womankind,

Oft is provoking!

Often she stands on chairs,Sometimes she unawaresSlyly creeps up the stairs,Secretly hiding:Then will this merry maid—She is of nought afraid—Come down the balustrade,Saucily sliding!

Often she stands on chairs,

Sometimes she unawares

Slyly creeps up the stairs,

Secretly hiding:

Then will this merry maid—

She is of nought afraid—

Come down the balustrade,

Saucily sliding!

Books she abominates,But see her go on skates,And over five-barred gatesFearlessly scramble!Climbing up apple-trees,Barking her supple knees,Flouting mama's decrees—Out for a ramble.

Books she abominates,

But see her go on skates,

And over five-barred gates

Fearlessly scramble!

Climbing up apple-trees,

Barking her supple knees,

Flouting mama's decrees—

Out for a ramble.

Now she is good as gold,Then she is pert and bold,Minds not what she is told,Carelessly tripping.She is an April miss,Bounding to grief from bliss,Often she has a kiss—Sometimes a whipping!

Now she is good as gold,

Then she is pert and bold,

Minds not what she is told,

Carelessly tripping.

She is an April miss,

Bounding to grief from bliss,

Often she has a kiss—

Sometimes a whipping!

Naughty but best of girls,Through life she gaily twirls,Shaking her sunny curls—Careless and joyful.Ev'ry one on her dotes,Carolling merry notes,Pet in short petticoats—Truly tomboyful!

Naughty but best of girls,

Through life she gaily twirls,

Shaking her sunny curls—

Careless and joyful.

Ev'ry one on her dotes,

Carolling merry notes,

Pet in short petticoats—

Truly tomboyful!

My Pegasus won't bear a bridle,A bit, or a saddle, or shoe:I'm doing my best to be idle,And sing from my bass-wood canoe!

My Pegasus won't bear a bridle,

A bit, or a saddle, or shoe:

I'm doing my best to be idle,

And sing from my bass-wood canoe!

O,SUMMER is sweet, and its sky is so blue—The days are so long, and my heart is so light,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!Where am I? No matter! It's nothing to you—The breeze is so pleasant, the sun is so bright—O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!I glory in thinking there's nothing to do.I moon and I ponder from morn until night,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!My face and my hands are of tropical hue.In spotless white flannel my limbs are bedight.O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!But O, it is pleasant to dream the day through,Half-hidden by rushes, and well out of sight,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!I crush the white lilies, 'tis almost "too too;"I dream to the song of the dragon-flies' flight—O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!Somewhere on the Thames, I can't give you a clue,Be able to find me, you possibly might,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!And if you are pleasant, and I'm in the cue,Through azurine smoke you may hear me recite—O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

O,SUMMER is sweet, and its sky is so blue—The days are so long, and my heart is so light,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

O,SUMMER is sweet, and its sky is so blue—

The days are so long, and my heart is so light,

When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

Where am I? No matter! It's nothing to you—The breeze is so pleasant, the sun is so bright—O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!

Where am I? No matter! It's nothing to you—

The breeze is so pleasant, the sun is so bright—

O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!

I glory in thinking there's nothing to do.I moon and I ponder from morn until night,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

I glory in thinking there's nothing to do.

I moon and I ponder from morn until night,

When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

My face and my hands are of tropical hue.In spotless white flannel my limbs are bedight.O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!

My face and my hands are of tropical hue.

In spotless white flannel my limbs are bedight.

O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!

But O, it is pleasant to dream the day through,Half-hidden by rushes, and well out of sight,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

But O, it is pleasant to dream the day through,

Half-hidden by rushes, and well out of sight,

When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

I crush the white lilies, 'tis almost "too too;"I dream to the song of the dragon-flies' flight—O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!

I crush the white lilies, 'tis almost "too too;"

I dream to the song of the dragon-flies' flight—

O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!

Somewhere on the Thames, I can't give you a clue,Be able to find me, you possibly might,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

Somewhere on the Thames, I can't give you a clue,

Be able to find me, you possibly might,

When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

And if you are pleasant, and I'm in the cue,Through azurine smoke you may hear me recite—O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue,When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

And if you are pleasant, and I'm in the cue,

Through azurine smoke you may hear me recite—

O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue,

When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

DOWN on the sands there strolls a merry maid,Aglow with ruddy health and gladsome glee;She breasts the breezes of the summer sea,And lets each zephyr trifle with each braid;Laughs gaily as her petticoats evadeHer girlish grasp and wildly flutter free,As, bending to some boisterous decree,The neatest foot and ankle are displayed.Her youthful rounded figure you may traceHalf pouting, as rude Boreas unfurlsA wealth of snowy frillery and lace,A glory of soft golden rippled curls.Comes, blushing with a rare unconscious grace,The bonniest of England's bonny girls!

DOWN on the sands there strolls a merry maid,

Aglow with ruddy health and gladsome glee;

She breasts the breezes of the summer sea,

And lets each zephyr trifle with each braid;

Laughs gaily as her petticoats evade

Her girlish grasp and wildly flutter free,

As, bending to some boisterous decree,

The neatest foot and ankle are displayed.

Her youthful rounded figure you may traceHalf pouting, as rude Boreas unfurlsA wealth of snowy frillery and lace,A glory of soft golden rippled curls.Comes, blushing with a rare unconscious grace,The bonniest of England's bonny girls!

Her youthful rounded figure you may trace

Half pouting, as rude Boreas unfurls

A wealth of snowy frillery and lace,

A glory of soft golden rippled curls.

Comes, blushing with a rare unconscious grace,

The bonniest of England's bonny girls!

OCTOBER is the time of year;For no regattas interfere,The river then is fairly clearOf steaming "spindles,"You then have space to moor your punt,You then can get a room in frontOf Skindle's.When Taplow Woods are russet-red,When half the poplar-leaves are shed,When silence reigns at Maidenhead,And autumn dwindles,'Tis good to lounge upon that lawn,Though beauties of last June are goneFrom Skindle's.We toiled in June all down to Bray,And yarns we spun for Mab and May;O, who would think such girls as theyWould turn out swindles?Butnowwe toil and spin for jack,And in the evening we get backTo Skindle's.And after dinner—passing praise—'Tis sweet to meditate and laze,To watch the ruddy logs ablaze;And as one kindlesThe big post-prandial cigar,My friend, be thankful that we areAt Skindle's.

OCTOBER is the time of year;For no regattas interfere,The river then is fairly clearOf steaming "spindles,"You then have space to moor your punt,You then can get a room in frontOf Skindle's.

OCTOBER is the time of year;

For no regattas interfere,

The river then is fairly clear

Of steaming "spindles,"

You then have space to moor your punt,

You then can get a room in front

Of Skindle's.

When Taplow Woods are russet-red,When half the poplar-leaves are shed,When silence reigns at Maidenhead,And autumn dwindles,'Tis good to lounge upon that lawn,Though beauties of last June are goneFrom Skindle's.

When Taplow Woods are russet-red,

When half the poplar-leaves are shed,

When silence reigns at Maidenhead,

And autumn dwindles,

'Tis good to lounge upon that lawn,

Though beauties of last June are gone

From Skindle's.

We toiled in June all down to Bray,And yarns we spun for Mab and May;O, who would think such girls as theyWould turn out swindles?Butnowwe toil and spin for jack,And in the evening we get backTo Skindle's.

We toiled in June all down to Bray,

And yarns we spun for Mab and May;

O, who would think such girls as they

Would turn out swindles?

Butnowwe toil and spin for jack,

And in the evening we get back

To Skindle's.

And after dinner—passing praise—'Tis sweet to meditate and laze,To watch the ruddy logs ablaze;And as one kindlesThe big post-prandial cigar,My friend, be thankful that we areAt Skindle's.

And after dinner—passing praise—

'Tis sweet to meditate and laze,

To watch the ruddy logs ablaze;

And as one kindles

The big post-prandial cigar,

My friend, be thankful that we are

At Skindle's.

'TIS simply detestable weather!At home I'm determined to stay;A fortune I've spent in shoe-leather,And ruined three hats ev'ry day!Umbrellas I've borrowed and broken,And angered their owners no doubt:These things I consider a token,'Tis not the least use to go out!But let the weather be foul or fair,I'll sit and smile in my Easy Chair!The morning's uncertain and hazy—I can't be quite sure of the time—I'm feeling exhausted and lazy,Not equal to reason or rhyme!While streets still are muddy and sloppy,While bitter the easterly breeze,I'll maunder and nod like a poppy,And take forty winks at mine ease!My dreams are pleasant, soIdon't care.I'll sit and snooze in my Easy Chair!There's nothing of note in the papers,There's nothing to do or to say:We suffer extremely from "vapours"—The fog and the damp of each day.Though cities be frozen or flooded,'Tis useless to fume or to fret;Though friends are bespattered and mudded—I'll smoke a serene cigarette!And all the burdens I have to bear,I'll smoke away in my Easy Chair!Within it is snug and quiescent,Without it persistently pours;My chair is well-cushioned and pleasant,Though life's full of angles and bores!My room is deliciously torrid,By frost or by rain I'm unvext;The world is decidedly horrid—So call me the month after next!The world may roll and may tear its hair,I'll roll and laugh in my Easy Chair!

'TIS simply detestable weather!

At home I'm determined to stay;

A fortune I've spent in shoe-leather,

And ruined three hats ev'ry day!

Umbrellas I've borrowed and broken,

And angered their owners no doubt:

These things I consider a token,

'Tis not the least use to go out!

But let the weather be foul or fair,

I'll sit and smile in my Easy Chair!

The morning's uncertain and hazy—I can't be quite sure of the time—I'm feeling exhausted and lazy,Not equal to reason or rhyme!While streets still are muddy and sloppy,While bitter the easterly breeze,I'll maunder and nod like a poppy,And take forty winks at mine ease!My dreams are pleasant, soIdon't care.I'll sit and snooze in my Easy Chair!

The morning's uncertain and hazy—

I can't be quite sure of the time—

I'm feeling exhausted and lazy,

Not equal to reason or rhyme!

While streets still are muddy and sloppy,

While bitter the easterly breeze,

I'll maunder and nod like a poppy,

And take forty winks at mine ease!

My dreams are pleasant, soIdon't care.

I'll sit and snooze in my Easy Chair!

There's nothing of note in the papers,There's nothing to do or to say:We suffer extremely from "vapours"—The fog and the damp of each day.Though cities be frozen or flooded,'Tis useless to fume or to fret;Though friends are bespattered and mudded—I'll smoke a serene cigarette!And all the burdens I have to bear,I'll smoke away in my Easy Chair!

There's nothing of note in the papers,

There's nothing to do or to say:

We suffer extremely from "vapours"—

The fog and the damp of each day.

Though cities be frozen or flooded,

'Tis useless to fume or to fret;

Though friends are bespattered and mudded—

I'll smoke a serene cigarette!

And all the burdens I have to bear,

I'll smoke away in my Easy Chair!

Within it is snug and quiescent,Without it persistently pours;My chair is well-cushioned and pleasant,Though life's full of angles and bores!My room is deliciously torrid,By frost or by rain I'm unvext;The world is decidedly horrid—So call me the month after next!The world may roll and may tear its hair,I'll roll and laugh in my Easy Chair!

Within it is snug and quiescent,

Without it persistently pours;

My chair is well-cushioned and pleasant,

Though life's full of angles and bores!

My room is deliciously torrid,

By frost or by rain I'm unvext;

The world is decidedly horrid—

So call me the month after next!

The world may roll and may tear its hair,

I'll roll and laugh in my Easy Chair!

'TIS a queer old pile of timbers, all gnarled and rough and green,Both moss-o'ergrown and weed-covered, and jaggèd too, I ween!'Tis battered and 'tis spattered, all worn and knocked about,Beclamped with rusty rivets, and bepatched with timbers stout;A tottering, trembling structure, enshrining memories dear,This weather-beaten barrier, this quaint old Blankton Weir.While leaning on those withered rails, what feelings oft come back,As I watch the white foam sparkling and note the current's track;What crowds of fleeting fancies come dancing through my brain!And the good old days of Blankton, I live them o'er again;What hopes and fears, gay smiles, sad tears, seem mirrored in the mere,While looking on its glassy face by tell-tale Blankton Weir!I've seen it basking 'neath the rays of summer's golden glow,And when sweetly by the moonlight, silver ripples ebb and flow;When Nature starts in spring-time, awakening into life;When autumn leaves are falling, and the yellow corn is rife;'Mid the rime and sleet of winter, all through the live-long year,I've watched the water rushing through this tide-worn Blankton Weir.And I mind me of one even, so calm and clear and bright,What songs we sang—whose voices rang—that lovely summer night.Where are the hearty voices now who trolled those good old lays?And where the silvery laughter that rang in bygone days?Come back, that night of long ago! Come back, the moonlight clear!When hearts beat light, and eyes were bright, about old Blankton Weir.Was ever indolence so sweet, were ever days so fine,As when we lounged in that old punt and played with rod and line?'Tis true few fish we caught there, but the good old ale we quaffed,As we chatted, too, and smoked there, and idled, dreamed, and laughed:Then thought we only of to-day, of morrow had no fear,For sorrow scarce had tinged the stream that flowed through Blankton Weir.Those dreamy August afternoons, when in our skiff we lay,To hear the current murmuring as slow it swirled away;The plaintive hum of dragon-fly, the old weir's plash and roar,WhileSome-one'sgentle voice, too, seems whispering there once more;Come back, those days of love and trust, those times of hope and fear,When girls were girls, and hearts were hearts, about old Blankton Weir!Those brilliant sunny mornings when we tumbled out of bed,And hurried on a few rough clothes, and to the river sped!What laughing joyaunce hung about those merry days agone,We clove the rushing current at the early flush of dawn!Tremendous headers took we in the waters bright and clear,And splashed and dashed, and dived and swam, just off old Blankton Weir.Then that pleasant picnic-party, when all the girls were there,In pretty morning dresses and with freshly-braided hair;Fair Annie, with those deep-blue eyes, and rosy, laughing Nell,Dark Helen, sunny Amy, and the stately Isobel;Ah! Lizzie, 'twas but yesterday—at least 'twould so appear—We plighted vows of constancy, not far from Blankton Weir.Those flashing eyes, those brave true hearts, are gone, and few remainTo mourn the loss of sunny hours that ne'er come back again:Some married are—ah! me, how changed—for they will think no moreOf how they joined our chorus there, or helped to pull the oar:One gentle voice is hushed for aye—we miss a voice so dear—Who cheered along with evensong our path by Blankton Weir.Amid the whirl of weary life—I hear it o'er and o'er,That plaintive well-loved lullaby—the old weir's distant roar:It gilds the cloud of daily toil with sunshine's fitful gleams,It breaks upon my slumber, and I hear it in my dreams:Like music of the good old times, it strikes upon mine ear—If there's an air can banish care, 'tis that of Blankton Weir!I know the river's rushing, but it rushes not for me,I feel the morning blushing, though I am not there to see;For younger hearts now live and love where once we used to dwell,And others laugh, and dream, and sing, in spots we loved so well;Their motto "Carpe diem"—'twas ours for many a year—As show these rhymes of sunny times about old Blankton Weir.

'TIS a queer old pile of timbers, all gnarled and rough and green,

Both moss-o'ergrown and weed-covered, and jaggèd too, I ween!

'Tis battered and 'tis spattered, all worn and knocked about,

Beclamped with rusty rivets, and bepatched with timbers stout;

A tottering, trembling structure, enshrining memories dear,

This weather-beaten barrier, this quaint old Blankton Weir.

While leaning on those withered rails, what feelings oft come back,As I watch the white foam sparkling and note the current's track;What crowds of fleeting fancies come dancing through my brain!And the good old days of Blankton, I live them o'er again;What hopes and fears, gay smiles, sad tears, seem mirrored in the mere,While looking on its glassy face by tell-tale Blankton Weir!

While leaning on those withered rails, what feelings oft come back,

As I watch the white foam sparkling and note the current's track;

What crowds of fleeting fancies come dancing through my brain!

And the good old days of Blankton, I live them o'er again;

What hopes and fears, gay smiles, sad tears, seem mirrored in the mere,

While looking on its glassy face by tell-tale Blankton Weir!

I've seen it basking 'neath the rays of summer's golden glow,And when sweetly by the moonlight, silver ripples ebb and flow;When Nature starts in spring-time, awakening into life;When autumn leaves are falling, and the yellow corn is rife;'Mid the rime and sleet of winter, all through the live-long year,I've watched the water rushing through this tide-worn Blankton Weir.

I've seen it basking 'neath the rays of summer's golden glow,

And when sweetly by the moonlight, silver ripples ebb and flow;

When Nature starts in spring-time, awakening into life;

When autumn leaves are falling, and the yellow corn is rife;

'Mid the rime and sleet of winter, all through the live-long year,

I've watched the water rushing through this tide-worn Blankton Weir.

And I mind me of one even, so calm and clear and bright,What songs we sang—whose voices rang—that lovely summer night.Where are the hearty voices now who trolled those good old lays?And where the silvery laughter that rang in bygone days?Come back, that night of long ago! Come back, the moonlight clear!When hearts beat light, and eyes were bright, about old Blankton Weir.

And I mind me of one even, so calm and clear and bright,

What songs we sang—whose voices rang—that lovely summer night.

Where are the hearty voices now who trolled those good old lays?

And where the silvery laughter that rang in bygone days?

Come back, that night of long ago! Come back, the moonlight clear!

When hearts beat light, and eyes were bright, about old Blankton Weir.

Was ever indolence so sweet, were ever days so fine,As when we lounged in that old punt and played with rod and line?'Tis true few fish we caught there, but the good old ale we quaffed,As we chatted, too, and smoked there, and idled, dreamed, and laughed:Then thought we only of to-day, of morrow had no fear,For sorrow scarce had tinged the stream that flowed through Blankton Weir.

Was ever indolence so sweet, were ever days so fine,

As when we lounged in that old punt and played with rod and line?

'Tis true few fish we caught there, but the good old ale we quaffed,

As we chatted, too, and smoked there, and idled, dreamed, and laughed:

Then thought we only of to-day, of morrow had no fear,

For sorrow scarce had tinged the stream that flowed through Blankton Weir.

Those dreamy August afternoons, when in our skiff we lay,To hear the current murmuring as slow it swirled away;The plaintive hum of dragon-fly, the old weir's plash and roar,WhileSome-one'sgentle voice, too, seems whispering there once more;Come back, those days of love and trust, those times of hope and fear,When girls were girls, and hearts were hearts, about old Blankton Weir!

Those dreamy August afternoons, when in our skiff we lay,

To hear the current murmuring as slow it swirled away;

The plaintive hum of dragon-fly, the old weir's plash and roar,

WhileSome-one'sgentle voice, too, seems whispering there once more;

Come back, those days of love and trust, those times of hope and fear,

When girls were girls, and hearts were hearts, about old Blankton Weir!

Those brilliant sunny mornings when we tumbled out of bed,And hurried on a few rough clothes, and to the river sped!What laughing joyaunce hung about those merry days agone,We clove the rushing current at the early flush of dawn!Tremendous headers took we in the waters bright and clear,And splashed and dashed, and dived and swam, just off old Blankton Weir.

Those brilliant sunny mornings when we tumbled out of bed,

And hurried on a few rough clothes, and to the river sped!

What laughing joyaunce hung about those merry days agone,

We clove the rushing current at the early flush of dawn!

Tremendous headers took we in the waters bright and clear,

And splashed and dashed, and dived and swam, just off old Blankton Weir.

Then that pleasant picnic-party, when all the girls were there,In pretty morning dresses and with freshly-braided hair;Fair Annie, with those deep-blue eyes, and rosy, laughing Nell,Dark Helen, sunny Amy, and the stately Isobel;Ah! Lizzie, 'twas but yesterday—at least 'twould so appear—We plighted vows of constancy, not far from Blankton Weir.

Then that pleasant picnic-party, when all the girls were there,

In pretty morning dresses and with freshly-braided hair;

Fair Annie, with those deep-blue eyes, and rosy, laughing Nell,

Dark Helen, sunny Amy, and the stately Isobel;

Ah! Lizzie, 'twas but yesterday—at least 'twould so appear—

We plighted vows of constancy, not far from Blankton Weir.

Those flashing eyes, those brave true hearts, are gone, and few remainTo mourn the loss of sunny hours that ne'er come back again:Some married are—ah! me, how changed—for they will think no moreOf how they joined our chorus there, or helped to pull the oar:One gentle voice is hushed for aye—we miss a voice so dear—Who cheered along with evensong our path by Blankton Weir.

Those flashing eyes, those brave true hearts, are gone, and few remain

To mourn the loss of sunny hours that ne'er come back again:

Some married are—ah! me, how changed—for they will think no more

Of how they joined our chorus there, or helped to pull the oar:

One gentle voice is hushed for aye—we miss a voice so dear—

Who cheered along with evensong our path by Blankton Weir.

Amid the whirl of weary life—I hear it o'er and o'er,That plaintive well-loved lullaby—the old weir's distant roar:It gilds the cloud of daily toil with sunshine's fitful gleams,It breaks upon my slumber, and I hear it in my dreams:Like music of the good old times, it strikes upon mine ear—If there's an air can banish care, 'tis that of Blankton Weir!

Amid the whirl of weary life—I hear it o'er and o'er,

That plaintive well-loved lullaby—the old weir's distant roar:

It gilds the cloud of daily toil with sunshine's fitful gleams,

It breaks upon my slumber, and I hear it in my dreams:

Like music of the good old times, it strikes upon mine ear—

If there's an air can banish care, 'tis that of Blankton Weir!

I know the river's rushing, but it rushes not for me,I feel the morning blushing, though I am not there to see;For younger hearts now live and love where once we used to dwell,And others laugh, and dream, and sing, in spots we loved so well;Their motto "Carpe diem"—'twas ours for many a year—As show these rhymes of sunny times about old Blankton Weir.

I know the river's rushing, but it rushes not for me,

I feel the morning blushing, though I am not there to see;

For younger hearts now live and love where once we used to dwell,

And others laugh, and dream, and sing, in spots we loved so well;

Their motto "Carpe diem"—'twas ours for many a year—

As show these rhymes of sunny times about old Blankton Weir.

O,CHRISTMAS comes but once a year!(And even that is once too many;)Hurrah for all its right good cheer!(I wish I had my share of any!)What flavour of the good old times!(What hopeless and egregious folly!)What evergreens and merry chimes!(What prickles ever lurk in holly!)Indeed it is a merry time;(But O! those countless Christmas numbers!)For now we see the pantomime,(And now the waits disturb our slumbers.)We've kisses 'neath the mistletoe—(I hate such rough, unseemly capers!)And hearty welcomes, frost and snow;(Yes, in the illustrated papers.)Around the groaning Christmas board,(Which never equals expectations,)Where old and young are in accord—(I hate the most of my relations!)I view the turkey with delight,(A tough old bird beyond all question!)The blazing pudding—what a sight!('Tis concentrated indigestion!)Laugh on, ye merry girls and boys!(Each year the Christmas boxes strengthen,)Each year brings with it countless joys;(The Christmas bills each year they lengthen.)To all we pledge the brimming glass!(What days of gorging and unreason!)Too quick such merry moments pass—(Why can't we skip the "festive season"?)

O,CHRISTMAS comes but once a year!

(And even that is once too many;)

Hurrah for all its right good cheer!

(I wish I had my share of any!)

What flavour of the good old times!

(What hopeless and egregious folly!)

What evergreens and merry chimes!

(What prickles ever lurk in holly!)

Indeed it is a merry time;(But O! those countless Christmas numbers!)For now we see the pantomime,(And now the waits disturb our slumbers.)We've kisses 'neath the mistletoe—(I hate such rough, unseemly capers!)And hearty welcomes, frost and snow;(Yes, in the illustrated papers.)

Indeed it is a merry time;

(But O! those countless Christmas numbers!)

For now we see the pantomime,

(And now the waits disturb our slumbers.)

We've kisses 'neath the mistletoe—

(I hate such rough, unseemly capers!)

And hearty welcomes, frost and snow;

(Yes, in the illustrated papers.)

Around the groaning Christmas board,(Which never equals expectations,)Where old and young are in accord—(I hate the most of my relations!)I view the turkey with delight,(A tough old bird beyond all question!)The blazing pudding—what a sight!('Tis concentrated indigestion!)

Around the groaning Christmas board,

(Which never equals expectations,)

Where old and young are in accord—

(I hate the most of my relations!)

I view the turkey with delight,

(A tough old bird beyond all question!)

The blazing pudding—what a sight!

('Tis concentrated indigestion!)

Laugh on, ye merry girls and boys!(Each year the Christmas boxes strengthen,)Each year brings with it countless joys;(The Christmas bills each year they lengthen.)To all we pledge the brimming glass!(What days of gorging and unreason!)Too quick such merry moments pass—(Why can't we skip the "festive season"?)

Laugh on, ye merry girls and boys!

(Each year the Christmas boxes strengthen,)

Each year brings with it countless joys;

(The Christmas bills each year they lengthen.)

To all we pledge the brimming glass!

(What days of gorging and unreason!)

Too quick such merry moments pass—

(Why can't we skip the "festive season"?)

AS I go slowly drifting by,Two lazy lasses I espy;Two pretty pets who lounge and moon,Who dream and take their ease,And chatter through the afternoon,Beneath the trees.The one is Beatie, t'other Bell,No pow'r on earth will make me tellThe surname of each lovely flow'r—This pair of busy B's,Whodon'timprove each shining hour,Beneath the trees!Ah! why should one sweet damsel frown,And droop her pretty eyelids down?Or quickly hush her merry notes,And clasp her pliant knees?A pouting pet in petticoats,Beneath the trees!Has Bell at Beatie dared to sneer,Or Beatie chanced at Bell to jeer?Has either vented girlish spite,Because she likes to tease?Orloves, like dogs, to bark and bite,Beneath the trees!Has either called the other "flirt"?Does Bell object to Beatie's skirt?Or Bella's sweet forget-me-nots,Miss Beatrix displease?—I'd like to read them Doctor Watts,Beneath the trees.I drift and leave each dainty maid,Still sweet and sulky in the shade,With all their sunny laughing curlsA-flutter in the breeze:Two nice but very naughty girls,Beneath the trees!I said unto myself, Ha! ha!My dears, if I were your mama,Most quickly I'd pack off to bedTwo naughty busy B's—Who quarrel and make eyelids red,Beneath the trees!

AS I go slowly drifting by,Two lazy lasses I espy;Two pretty pets who lounge and moon,Who dream and take their ease,And chatter through the afternoon,Beneath the trees.

AS I go slowly drifting by,

Two lazy lasses I espy;

Two pretty pets who lounge and moon,

Who dream and take their ease,

And chatter through the afternoon,

Beneath the trees.

The one is Beatie, t'other Bell,No pow'r on earth will make me tellThe surname of each lovely flow'r—This pair of busy B's,Whodon'timprove each shining hour,Beneath the trees!

The one is Beatie, t'other Bell,

No pow'r on earth will make me tell

The surname of each lovely flow'r—

This pair of busy B's,

Whodon'timprove each shining hour,

Beneath the trees!

Ah! why should one sweet damsel frown,And droop her pretty eyelids down?Or quickly hush her merry notes,And clasp her pliant knees?A pouting pet in petticoats,Beneath the trees!

Ah! why should one sweet damsel frown,

And droop her pretty eyelids down?

Or quickly hush her merry notes,

And clasp her pliant knees?

A pouting pet in petticoats,

Beneath the trees!

Has Bell at Beatie dared to sneer,Or Beatie chanced at Bell to jeer?Has either vented girlish spite,Because she likes to tease?Orloves, like dogs, to bark and bite,Beneath the trees!

Has Bell at Beatie dared to sneer,

Or Beatie chanced at Bell to jeer?

Has either vented girlish spite,

Because she likes to tease?

Orloves, like dogs, to bark and bite,

Beneath the trees!

Has either called the other "flirt"?Does Bell object to Beatie's skirt?Or Bella's sweet forget-me-nots,Miss Beatrix displease?—I'd like to read them Doctor Watts,Beneath the trees.

Has either called the other "flirt"?

Does Bell object to Beatie's skirt?

Or Bella's sweet forget-me-nots,

Miss Beatrix displease?—

I'd like to read them Doctor Watts,

Beneath the trees.

I drift and leave each dainty maid,Still sweet and sulky in the shade,With all their sunny laughing curlsA-flutter in the breeze:Two nice but very naughty girls,Beneath the trees!

I drift and leave each dainty maid,

Still sweet and sulky in the shade,

With all their sunny laughing curls

A-flutter in the breeze:

Two nice but very naughty girls,

Beneath the trees!

I said unto myself, Ha! ha!My dears, if I were your mama,Most quickly I'd pack off to bedTwo naughty busy B's—Who quarrel and make eyelids red,Beneath the trees!

I said unto myself, Ha! ha!

My dears, if I were your mama,

Most quickly I'd pack off to bed

Two naughty busy B's—

Who quarrel and make eyelids red,

Beneath the trees!

HER soft sables, you must know,Kept off winter's frost and snow,And the cruel wind did blowWhen we met:The demurest little nun,Though she'd sometimes change in fun,Like a snowflake in the sun,—Little pet!Pray what meant those frequent sighs,When those fathomless brown eyesSometimes gazed with glad surpriseInto mine?It was joy to be alone,With my arm around her zone,And to claim her for my ownValentine!'Fore the romping wind of MarchWas she bending like a larch,As her glance seemed yet more archThrough her curls;Came in view the ankles neat,Were revealed the dainty feet,And thechaussureof my sweetGirl of girls!Ah! my brightest fay of faysWas most fickle in her ways,In chameleon April days—Sun and rain!She would sometimes be put out,She would laugh or cry and pout;Smiling through her tears in doubt,Joy and pain!But in May so freshly fairShe would cull its blossoms rare,Just to twine them in her hair—Gay and wild:A sweet pæan of perfume,A gay sunny song of bloom,She would chase away all bloom—Laughing child!Ah! her cheek will shame the rose,With the tint that comes and goes,And more radiantly glows,When it's prest!Whilst her loving eyes flash bright,With a sweet and sparkling light,And white roses scarce look whiteIn her breast!In the balmy summer time,With gay roses in their prime,No one deems it is a crimeThen to "spoon"!Ah! how quick the time then sped,Now I wonder what we said,'Neath the roses white and red—Once in June?O! when summer skies were blue,And we fancied hearts were true,While the long day loving through—Who'd suppose?Our grand castles built in Spain,Or that love could ever wane,And its fragrance but remain,Like the rose?

HER soft sables, you must know,

Kept off winter's frost and snow,

And the cruel wind did blow

When we met:

The demurest little nun,

Though she'd sometimes change in fun,

Like a snowflake in the sun,—

Little pet!

Pray what meant those frequent sighs,When those fathomless brown eyesSometimes gazed with glad surpriseInto mine?It was joy to be alone,With my arm around her zone,And to claim her for my ownValentine!

Pray what meant those frequent sighs,

When those fathomless brown eyes

Sometimes gazed with glad surprise

Into mine?

It was joy to be alone,

With my arm around her zone,

And to claim her for my own

Valentine!

'Fore the romping wind of MarchWas she bending like a larch,As her glance seemed yet more archThrough her curls;Came in view the ankles neat,Were revealed the dainty feet,And thechaussureof my sweetGirl of girls!

'Fore the romping wind of March

Was she bending like a larch,

As her glance seemed yet more arch

Through her curls;

Came in view the ankles neat,

Were revealed the dainty feet,

And thechaussureof my sweet

Girl of girls!

Ah! my brightest fay of faysWas most fickle in her ways,In chameleon April days—Sun and rain!She would sometimes be put out,She would laugh or cry and pout;Smiling through her tears in doubt,Joy and pain!

Ah! my brightest fay of fays

Was most fickle in her ways,

In chameleon April days—

Sun and rain!

She would sometimes be put out,

She would laugh or cry and pout;

Smiling through her tears in doubt,

Joy and pain!

But in May so freshly fairShe would cull its blossoms rare,Just to twine them in her hair—Gay and wild:A sweet pæan of perfume,A gay sunny song of bloom,She would chase away all bloom—Laughing child!

But in May so freshly fair

She would cull its blossoms rare,

Just to twine them in her hair—

Gay and wild:

A sweet pæan of perfume,

A gay sunny song of bloom,

She would chase away all bloom—

Laughing child!

Ah! her cheek will shame the rose,With the tint that comes and goes,And more radiantly glows,When it's prest!Whilst her loving eyes flash bright,With a sweet and sparkling light,And white roses scarce look whiteIn her breast!

Ah! her cheek will shame the rose,

With the tint that comes and goes,

And more radiantly glows,

When it's prest!

Whilst her loving eyes flash bright,

With a sweet and sparkling light,

And white roses scarce look white

In her breast!

In the balmy summer time,With gay roses in their prime,No one deems it is a crimeThen to "spoon"!Ah! how quick the time then sped,Now I wonder what we said,'Neath the roses white and red—Once in June?

In the balmy summer time,

With gay roses in their prime,

No one deems it is a crime

Then to "spoon"!

Ah! how quick the time then sped,

Now I wonder what we said,

'Neath the roses white and red—

Once in June?

O! when summer skies were blue,And we fancied hearts were true,While the long day loving through—Who'd suppose?Our grand castles built in Spain,Or that love could ever wane,And its fragrance but remain,Like the rose?

O! when summer skies were blue,

And we fancied hearts were true,

While the long day loving through—

Who'd suppose?

Our grand castles built in Spain,

Or that love could ever wane,

And its fragrance but remain,

Like the rose?

Back to Index Next