THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY.

A howl and a yowl, as the rivals close, with a frantic force they fight;A smash and a crash, and the pebbles fly, as they kick and scream and bite!A thump and a bump and a blackened eye, a sprain and a broken nose!A crack and a smack and a fractured leg—a bundle of tattered clothes!But bold Sparrer Gus, when the red sun rose, was nought but a bruisëd scar,And gay Lantern Jack he never came back that night from the Capstan Bar!(Terrific applause, as every one thinks it is over. Great disappointment of the Audience when the C. P., after bowing low, holds up his hand as a token that he will try their patience a few moments longer. He gives a deep sigh, and in a low plaintive voice recites the remainder.)Ah! our tale is told! But we oft come here and gaze on the haunted mill,For the noxious nugget no longer chirps and the captious carp is still!When the gaping grampus is all forlorn and the muffineers are beat,When the scallywag, with his carpet-bag, refuses to drink or eat,When the careful crumpet no longer tries to plunder the Pullman car,When the day is past and the tide runs fast—we weep for the Capstan Bar!(A whirlwind of applause, during which the C. P. retires, jumps into a cab, just catches the mail train, and is in London before the Vicar and the good people of Sniggerton have quite decided who was the Author of the notable Poem they had heard recited.)THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY.A REALISTIC STUDY.A Song of May? Who can essay—When nights are cold and skies are grey,When clad in winterly attire,When crooning o'er the ruddy fire—A merry laughing roundelay?When raw and rainy is each day,With nothing Springlike to inspireThis hopeless, dull, catarrhic lyre—Who can essay a Song of May?O,MAY is the month when the madly æstheticalPlunge deep into nonsense profoundly poetical!They sing and they shout about sunshine and greenery,Of beauty and blossom and song-birds and scenery:I own that my notion of May is a hazy one,And don't think its weather is good for the Lazy One;To go out of doors I have not the temerity—Now May has set in with its usual severity!The weather, distressing for man and for beast it is,The sky is o'erclouded, the wind in the East it is;The streets and the footways detestably muddy are,Our cheeks are all blue, and our noses all ruddy are:We've coughs, and we've colds, and we've pains most rheumatical,Our temper is short, and our language emphatical!There's nothing but hopeless, dull, gloomy austerity—Now May has set in with its usual severity!The mornings are dark, and the nights demoniacal,We're dismal, depressed, and we're hypochondriacal!O, May is a fraud—there's no trace of blue skies about,The month that all poets have told lots of lies about!Let's all stop at home, and in easy-chairs ruminate,The curtains draw close and the lamps now illuminate;And pile on the logs with most cheerful celerity—Now May has set in with its usual severity!TWO AND TWO.A SONG OF SCHOOL-GIRLS.COME the little ones in frocks,With their pretty shoes and socks,And their tangled sunny locks—Laughing crew!Come the dainty dimpled pets,With their tresses all in nets,And their peeping pantalettesJust in view:Come the gay and graceful girls,With their fringes and their curls—Sweetest string of Beauty's pearls,Two and two!What delicious laughter trills,As "rude Boreas" oft wills,Just to flutter frocks and frillsAll askew!And the "blust'ring railer" shows—'Neath the curt and kilted clothes—Hints of shapely sable hoseUnto you—With a glimpse of ankles neat,And small, deftly booted feet,All a-patter down the street—Two and two!Here the coming flirt appears,With the belle of after-years,And the beauty even peersMay pursue:Each Liliputian fairGallant Guardsmen may ensnare,Or enthral a millionaire,And subdue!Who would think such mischief liesIn the future of their sighs,Or such pretty childlike eyes—Two and two?There are eyes of peerless brown,That in time may take the town;There are others drooping down—Black or blue—Whose bright flashes you may findWill bedazzle—nay, may blind—E'en the wisest of mankind,False and true.There are lips we cannot miss,Sweet foreshadowings of bliss—Which, in truth, seem made to kiss,Two and two!On the Book of Beauty's pageFairer girls of ev'ry age,Skilful artist, I'll engage,Never drew.As they prattle, laugh, and play,It is sad to think some day,That Old Time their spirits gay,May subdue!That young maidens, slim and shy,May grow old and stout and sly—Makes one grieve as they pass byTwo and two!A SHORTHAND SONNET.WRITTEN ON THE FAN OF A FLIRT.THEY are blue,As the skies—Those sweet eyes,Made to woo!But can youE'er surmise—Are her sighs,False or true?To beguile,And to hurtWith a smileAnd desert;Is the wile,Of a Flirt!IN A GONDOLA.WEARY of show and sight, with pictures bored,Sick ofpalazziand of churches tired;Here let me rest, and for awhile forgetThe "lions" of the City of the Sea!My friend to see some masterpiece has gone,When he returns he will of Titian talk,Of Veronese will he babble on,Gush o'er Bassano, rave o'er Tintoret!While he's away I'll rest and muse in peace,Beneath thefelsawill I laze and smoke,And through the sable doorway gaze uponThe brightly tinted sunny water-sheet!So quaint, so full of harmony it seems—Like some rare picture in an ebon frame!The foreground shows our trusty gondolier,White-clad, brown-skinned, recumbent, fast asleep!Above—the gondola's bright, sheeny prowThat flashes, gleams, and glisters in the sun;On either side are mouldy, tide-washed walls,Cracked, blistered, weed-covered, decayed, and dampReflecting oft the passing polished prow,Re-echoing the cry of gondolier!Here ruddy rust and verdant fungoid growthMeet in the shattered stone and fissured brick—Evolving thence rare harmonies in red,In brown, in yellow, and in green and grey.A flight of battered, bankrupt marble stepsOf mildewed aspect, fractured, seamed, and scarred—Worn by the lapping of the countless tides,Made hollow by the tread of centuries—Lead to a sculptured archway, where the door,Massive and iron-bound, now stands ajar,While footsteps echo through the sombre hall,To clink of keys and voices partly hushed!See melancholy windows closely barredBy tangled iron-work of choice design;And groups of quaintly headed mooring-posts,Reflected quaintly in the green canal:Beyond are rare effects of light and shade—Strange fitful freaks of colour, hot and cold;A picturesque low bridge, with life replete,As figures, gaily dight, pass to and fro.A mass of cool grey shadow—rising thence,Behold the fabric of some grand old church,With blue-faced clock, whose blurred gold figures showThe hour of our luncheon draweth nigh;Beyond a glint of silver light shows whereThe Canalazzo sparkles in the sun;And, over all, a deep blue sky 'gainst whichBut list! In yon balcōny do I hearThe voice of maid, the twang of mandoline!There, where the sea-green shutters are thrown back,There, where bright blossoms flout the rugged stone,From 'neath the awning, gay and saffron-striped,Comes rippling a Venetianbarcarolle!The dreamy song, the tinkling mandoline,The mild narcotic of the cigarette,The lulling motion of my lazy craft,The pleasant, peaceful, plash of passing oar—All help to form a soothing lullaby,Which soon transports me to the Land of Dreams!I dream I am a Doge of mighty fame;And I, in gorgeous raiment fitly clad,Aboard theBucentorotake mine ease,And issue mandates none dare disobey!All tourists are accounted criminal,And sight-seeing a capital offence;To the Piombi, bores I quickly send,My foes unto the Pozzi I consign!And on theBucentoroentertainMy friends, like any house-boat on the Thames—A merry laugh! My friend returns! I wake!My dream is o'er! Alas! no longer Doge,I dread the countless "lions" yet unseen!Let us to Danieli's go and lunch!THE LAST LEAF.AGRAND old Garden by the sea—I muse beneath the ilex tree,And musing, see across the bay,The white sails gleaming far away!The flash of foam, the sunshine's glint,The ever-changing tone and tint,Of purple, grey, and malachite,And shadows flitting 'fore the light.While overhead the summer breezePlays sweet leaf music in the trees!And 'neath the cliff, a muffled roar—The ceaseless sigh of surf on shore!O lilt of leaves! O song of sea!O mingled thrillful harmony!Now sweet, now sad, it seems to me.This touching, tender, minor key.To such rare music would I sing,The while I in the hammock swing!Ah! could the Rhymer but impartThe magic of the Poet's art,In order that this Leaf might beA triumph of bright minstrelsy!O were it not too hot to think,And if I had but pen and ink;Or were it not this afternoon,And if my Banjo were in tune;Or if the weather were not fine,And could I rouse this Muse of mine;Why then.... But there, I can't pretend—The Minstrel's lazy toTHE END.OPINIONS OF THE PRESSON THEFIRST EDITION.St. James's Gazette.—"One of the lightest and brightest writers ofvers de société."Saturday Review.—"Mr. J. Ashby-Sterry is a facile and agreeable versifier, with a genuine gift of expression, a light and dexterous touch, and a grace that is really individual."The World.—"Sweet and musical. His musical melodies are set in an appropriately dainty shrine."Daily Telegraph.—"'The Lazy Minstrel' commends itself both by outward form and inward merit to the lover of choice and dainty literature."Daily News.—"Mr. Ashby-Sterry is a merry bard. He very seldom brings 'the eternal note of sadness in.'"Punch.—"The first edition of his 'Lays' went off with a bang that must have astonished His Laziness."G. A. S. in theIllustrated London News.—"Emphatically 'nice' in the nicest—the old-fashioned sense of the word.... A delicate little tome.... Graceful and, on occasion, tender."The Globe.—"The bard not only of the lazy but the leisured.... Mr. Ashby-Sterry is a humourist, too, who sees the ludicrous as well as the pleasant side of life, and describes it with much gusto.... There is as much variety in his rhythms as there is ingenuity in his rhymes."The Queen.—"One of the most facile writers of light and pleasant rhyme."Vanity Fair.—"He is the Laureate of the Upper Thames, and no one has so completely seized as he has the sentiment of the lovely river."Observer.—"There are few cultivated tastes for which 'The Lazy Minstrel' does not provide in his characteristic way."The Bookbuyer(New York).—"Mr. Sterry has the lightness and sureness of touch, without which this kind of verse is of all verse the flattest, stalest, and most unprofitable. He has a keen eye for those significant details which make up a picture, an easy indolence which excludes all appearance of labour, and the self-possession of a man of the world who amuses himself with the making of verse."Court Circular.—"He is one of the foremost writers ofvers de sociétéof the day, and his productions are distinguished by poetic fancy and neat workmanship."Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News.—"One of the most welcome of the lighter singers."The Theatre.—"There never was such a songster."Morning Advertiser.—"He is always in tune with his subject, and knows how to rhyme with facility and expression."Court Journal.—"Whether witty or pathetic, the lays and carols are equally well written and entertaining."Newcastle Chronicle.—"Few writers can impart so much grace to everything he touches, and none have so light and aerial a muse as Mr. Sterry."North British Daily Mail.—"For fluency of expression, ready command of the fitting epithet at all times, tender grace and gentle humour, Mr. Ashby-Sterry is indeed a marvel; and the public are under heavy obligations to the man who furnishes such a pleasant feast of mirth-provoking rhymes."Liverpool Daily Post.—"The humour of them is the airy, well-bred humour of the man of the world."Sheffield Weekly Telegraph.—"Quaint and droll, perfect in design and diction, light, bright, and musical, these poems are the most cheerful verses we can meet with in latter-day literature."Liverpool Mercury.—"A delightful little book, delightful to read and not less delightful to look upon."Brighton Herald.—"Mr. J. Ashby-Sterry is past-master in the art of manufacturing dainty verses, little bubbles of song that, like bubbles of another kind, are delightful because they are so fragile and pretty."Liverpool Courier.—"It is a pleasure to meet with verses so vivacious; to come in contact with a humorous fancy so fresh and individual."Publishers' Circular.—"It lightens and brightens one's heart to read Mr. Sterry's charming songs and carols; their good humour and delicious style, so free from anything like care or worldly taint, seems to be infectious."Yorkshire Post.—"Here and there 'The Lazy Minstrel' becomes sentimental, but there is always a touch of gay insouciance about his sentiment, and a consistent absence of the mawkishness too often found in the drawing-room ballad."Sheffield Independent.—"Quaint, melodious, finished with marvellous care, and full of unexpected oddities of form and expression."Liverpool Review.—"He infuses a sunshine and breeziness into his descriptions of scenes and people which make them live before us. His laziness never degenerates into languor, or his sentiment into insipidity."Wakefield Free Press.—"The Lazy one is master of his art—he chooses all that is fair, serene, and summer-like for his subjects, and treats them with a soft colour and a musical rhythmic flow that leaves nothing to be desired."New York Times.—"The metre is perfect, the music of the verse well sustained, and there is that fun and merry quip in 'The Lazy Minstrel' which becomesvers de société."London:T. FISHER UNWIN, 26,Paternoster Square.CorrectionsThe first line indicates the original, the second the correction:p.25:A LOVER'S LULLABYA LOVER'S LULLABY.p.26:I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter,I'll wear my Tam o'Shanter!p.46:Her ebony-stick with a crutch.Her ebony-stick with acrutchp.98:Or oves, like dogs, to bark and bite,Orloves, like dogs, to bark and bite,p.134:('Twill rain, I'm sure, before the night!('Twill rain, I'm sure, before thenight!)p.148:The good ship she steers, like a clever young "cox.,"The good ship she steers, like a clever young "cox,"Cover created by Transcriber and placed into the Public Domain.

A howl and a yowl, as the rivals close, with a frantic force they fight;

A smash and a crash, and the pebbles fly, as they kick and scream and bite!

A thump and a bump and a blackened eye, a sprain and a broken nose!

A crack and a smack and a fractured leg—a bundle of tattered clothes!

But bold Sparrer Gus, when the red sun rose, was nought but a bruisëd scar,

And gay Lantern Jack he never came back that night from the Capstan Bar!

(Terrific applause, as every one thinks it is over. Great disappointment of the Audience when the C. P., after bowing low, holds up his hand as a token that he will try their patience a few moments longer. He gives a deep sigh, and in a low plaintive voice recites the remainder.)

Ah! our tale is told! But we oft come here and gaze on the haunted mill,For the noxious nugget no longer chirps and the captious carp is still!When the gaping grampus is all forlorn and the muffineers are beat,When the scallywag, with his carpet-bag, refuses to drink or eat,When the careful crumpet no longer tries to plunder the Pullman car,When the day is past and the tide runs fast—we weep for the Capstan Bar!

Ah! our tale is told! But we oft come here and gaze on the haunted mill,

For the noxious nugget no longer chirps and the captious carp is still!

When the gaping grampus is all forlorn and the muffineers are beat,

When the scallywag, with his carpet-bag, refuses to drink or eat,

When the careful crumpet no longer tries to plunder the Pullman car,

When the day is past and the tide runs fast—we weep for the Capstan Bar!

(A whirlwind of applause, during which the C. P. retires, jumps into a cab, just catches the mail train, and is in London before the Vicar and the good people of Sniggerton have quite decided who was the Author of the notable Poem they had heard recited.)

A Song of May? Who can essay—When nights are cold and skies are grey,When clad in winterly attire,When crooning o'er the ruddy fire—A merry laughing roundelay?When raw and rainy is each day,With nothing Springlike to inspireThis hopeless, dull, catarrhic lyre—Who can essay a Song of May?

A Song of May? Who can essay—

When nights are cold and skies are grey,

When clad in winterly attire,

When crooning o'er the ruddy fire—

A merry laughing roundelay?

When raw and rainy is each day,

With nothing Springlike to inspire

This hopeless, dull, catarrhic lyre—

Who can essay a Song of May?

O,MAY is the month when the madly æstheticalPlunge deep into nonsense profoundly poetical!They sing and they shout about sunshine and greenery,Of beauty and blossom and song-birds and scenery:I own that my notion of May is a hazy one,And don't think its weather is good for the Lazy One;To go out of doors I have not the temerity—Now May has set in with its usual severity!The weather, distressing for man and for beast it is,The sky is o'erclouded, the wind in the East it is;The streets and the footways detestably muddy are,Our cheeks are all blue, and our noses all ruddy are:We've coughs, and we've colds, and we've pains most rheumatical,Our temper is short, and our language emphatical!There's nothing but hopeless, dull, gloomy austerity—Now May has set in with its usual severity!The mornings are dark, and the nights demoniacal,We're dismal, depressed, and we're hypochondriacal!O, May is a fraud—there's no trace of blue skies about,The month that all poets have told lots of lies about!Let's all stop at home, and in easy-chairs ruminate,The curtains draw close and the lamps now illuminate;And pile on the logs with most cheerful celerity—Now May has set in with its usual severity!

O,MAY is the month when the madly æsthetical

Plunge deep into nonsense profoundly poetical!

They sing and they shout about sunshine and greenery,

Of beauty and blossom and song-birds and scenery:

I own that my notion of May is a hazy one,

And don't think its weather is good for the Lazy One;

To go out of doors I have not the temerity—

Now May has set in with its usual severity!

The weather, distressing for man and for beast it is,The sky is o'erclouded, the wind in the East it is;The streets and the footways detestably muddy are,Our cheeks are all blue, and our noses all ruddy are:We've coughs, and we've colds, and we've pains most rheumatical,Our temper is short, and our language emphatical!There's nothing but hopeless, dull, gloomy austerity—Now May has set in with its usual severity!

The weather, distressing for man and for beast it is,

The sky is o'erclouded, the wind in the East it is;

The streets and the footways detestably muddy are,

Our cheeks are all blue, and our noses all ruddy are:

We've coughs, and we've colds, and we've pains most rheumatical,

Our temper is short, and our language emphatical!

There's nothing but hopeless, dull, gloomy austerity—

Now May has set in with its usual severity!

The mornings are dark, and the nights demoniacal,We're dismal, depressed, and we're hypochondriacal!O, May is a fraud—there's no trace of blue skies about,The month that all poets have told lots of lies about!Let's all stop at home, and in easy-chairs ruminate,The curtains draw close and the lamps now illuminate;And pile on the logs with most cheerful celerity—Now May has set in with its usual severity!

The mornings are dark, and the nights demoniacal,

We're dismal, depressed, and we're hypochondriacal!

O, May is a fraud—there's no trace of blue skies about,

The month that all poets have told lots of lies about!

Let's all stop at home, and in easy-chairs ruminate,

The curtains draw close and the lamps now illuminate;

And pile on the logs with most cheerful celerity—

Now May has set in with its usual severity!

COME the little ones in frocks,With their pretty shoes and socks,And their tangled sunny locks—Laughing crew!Come the dainty dimpled pets,With their tresses all in nets,And their peeping pantalettesJust in view:Come the gay and graceful girls,With their fringes and their curls—Sweetest string of Beauty's pearls,Two and two!What delicious laughter trills,As "rude Boreas" oft wills,Just to flutter frocks and frillsAll askew!And the "blust'ring railer" shows—'Neath the curt and kilted clothes—Hints of shapely sable hoseUnto you—With a glimpse of ankles neat,And small, deftly booted feet,All a-patter down the street—Two and two!Here the coming flirt appears,With the belle of after-years,And the beauty even peersMay pursue:Each Liliputian fairGallant Guardsmen may ensnare,Or enthral a millionaire,And subdue!Who would think such mischief liesIn the future of their sighs,Or such pretty childlike eyes—Two and two?There are eyes of peerless brown,That in time may take the town;There are others drooping down—Black or blue—Whose bright flashes you may findWill bedazzle—nay, may blind—E'en the wisest of mankind,False and true.There are lips we cannot miss,Sweet foreshadowings of bliss—Which, in truth, seem made to kiss,Two and two!On the Book of Beauty's pageFairer girls of ev'ry age,Skilful artist, I'll engage,Never drew.As they prattle, laugh, and play,It is sad to think some day,That Old Time their spirits gay,May subdue!That young maidens, slim and shy,May grow old and stout and sly—Makes one grieve as they pass byTwo and two!

COME the little ones in frocks,

With their pretty shoes and socks,

And their tangled sunny locks—

Laughing crew!

Come the dainty dimpled pets,

With their tresses all in nets,

And their peeping pantalettes

Just in view:

Come the gay and graceful girls,

With their fringes and their curls—

Sweetest string of Beauty's pearls,

Two and two!

What delicious laughter trills,As "rude Boreas" oft wills,Just to flutter frocks and frillsAll askew!And the "blust'ring railer" shows—'Neath the curt and kilted clothes—Hints of shapely sable hoseUnto you—With a glimpse of ankles neat,And small, deftly booted feet,All a-patter down the street—Two and two!

What delicious laughter trills,

As "rude Boreas" oft wills,

Just to flutter frocks and frills

All askew!

And the "blust'ring railer" shows—

'Neath the curt and kilted clothes—

Hints of shapely sable hose

Unto you—

With a glimpse of ankles neat,

And small, deftly booted feet,

All a-patter down the street—

Two and two!

Here the coming flirt appears,With the belle of after-years,And the beauty even peersMay pursue:Each Liliputian fairGallant Guardsmen may ensnare,Or enthral a millionaire,And subdue!Who would think such mischief liesIn the future of their sighs,Or such pretty childlike eyes—Two and two?

Here the coming flirt appears,

With the belle of after-years,

And the beauty even peers

May pursue:

Each Liliputian fair

Gallant Guardsmen may ensnare,

Or enthral a millionaire,

And subdue!

Who would think such mischief lies

In the future of their sighs,

Or such pretty childlike eyes—

Two and two?

There are eyes of peerless brown,That in time may take the town;There are others drooping down—Black or blue—Whose bright flashes you may findWill bedazzle—nay, may blind—E'en the wisest of mankind,False and true.There are lips we cannot miss,Sweet foreshadowings of bliss—Which, in truth, seem made to kiss,Two and two!

There are eyes of peerless brown,

That in time may take the town;

There are others drooping down—

Black or blue—

Whose bright flashes you may find

Will bedazzle—nay, may blind—

E'en the wisest of mankind,

False and true.

There are lips we cannot miss,

Sweet foreshadowings of bliss—

Which, in truth, seem made to kiss,

Two and two!

On the Book of Beauty's pageFairer girls of ev'ry age,Skilful artist, I'll engage,Never drew.As they prattle, laugh, and play,It is sad to think some day,That Old Time their spirits gay,May subdue!That young maidens, slim and shy,May grow old and stout and sly—Makes one grieve as they pass byTwo and two!

On the Book of Beauty's page

Fairer girls of ev'ry age,

Skilful artist, I'll engage,

Never drew.

As they prattle, laugh, and play,

It is sad to think some day,

That Old Time their spirits gay,

May subdue!

That young maidens, slim and shy,

May grow old and stout and sly—

Makes one grieve as they pass by

Two and two!

THEY are blue,As the skies—Those sweet eyes,Made to woo!But can youE'er surmise—Are her sighs,False or true?To beguile,And to hurtWith a smileAnd desert;Is the wile,Of a Flirt!

THEY are blue,As the skies—Those sweet eyes,Made to woo!But can youE'er surmise—Are her sighs,False or true?

THEY are blue,

As the skies—

Those sweet eyes,

Made to woo!

But can you

E'er surmise—

Are her sighs,

False or true?

To beguile,And to hurtWith a smileAnd desert;Is the wile,Of a Flirt!

To beguile,

And to hurt

With a smile

And desert;

Is the wile,

Of a Flirt!

WEARY of show and sight, with pictures bored,Sick ofpalazziand of churches tired;Here let me rest, and for awhile forgetThe "lions" of the City of the Sea!My friend to see some masterpiece has gone,When he returns he will of Titian talk,Of Veronese will he babble on,Gush o'er Bassano, rave o'er Tintoret!While he's away I'll rest and muse in peace,Beneath thefelsawill I laze and smoke,And through the sable doorway gaze uponThe brightly tinted sunny water-sheet!So quaint, so full of harmony it seems—Like some rare picture in an ebon frame!The foreground shows our trusty gondolier,White-clad, brown-skinned, recumbent, fast asleep!Above—the gondola's bright, sheeny prowThat flashes, gleams, and glisters in the sun;On either side are mouldy, tide-washed walls,Cracked, blistered, weed-covered, decayed, and dampReflecting oft the passing polished prow,Re-echoing the cry of gondolier!Here ruddy rust and verdant fungoid growthMeet in the shattered stone and fissured brick—Evolving thence rare harmonies in red,In brown, in yellow, and in green and grey.A flight of battered, bankrupt marble stepsOf mildewed aspect, fractured, seamed, and scarred—Worn by the lapping of the countless tides,Made hollow by the tread of centuries—Lead to a sculptured archway, where the door,Massive and iron-bound, now stands ajar,While footsteps echo through the sombre hall,To clink of keys and voices partly hushed!See melancholy windows closely barredBy tangled iron-work of choice design;And groups of quaintly headed mooring-posts,Reflected quaintly in the green canal:Beyond are rare effects of light and shade—Strange fitful freaks of colour, hot and cold;A picturesque low bridge, with life replete,As figures, gaily dight, pass to and fro.A mass of cool grey shadow—rising thence,Behold the fabric of some grand old church,With blue-faced clock, whose blurred gold figures showThe hour of our luncheon draweth nigh;Beyond a glint of silver light shows whereThe Canalazzo sparkles in the sun;And, over all, a deep blue sky 'gainst whichBut list! In yon balcōny do I hearThe voice of maid, the twang of mandoline!There, where the sea-green shutters are thrown back,There, where bright blossoms flout the rugged stone,From 'neath the awning, gay and saffron-striped,Comes rippling a Venetianbarcarolle!The dreamy song, the tinkling mandoline,The mild narcotic of the cigarette,The lulling motion of my lazy craft,The pleasant, peaceful, plash of passing oar—All help to form a soothing lullaby,Which soon transports me to the Land of Dreams!I dream I am a Doge of mighty fame;And I, in gorgeous raiment fitly clad,Aboard theBucentorotake mine ease,And issue mandates none dare disobey!All tourists are accounted criminal,And sight-seeing a capital offence;To the Piombi, bores I quickly send,My foes unto the Pozzi I consign!And on theBucentoroentertainMy friends, like any house-boat on the Thames—A merry laugh! My friend returns! I wake!My dream is o'er! Alas! no longer Doge,I dread the countless "lions" yet unseen!Let us to Danieli's go and lunch!

WEARY of show and sight, with pictures bored,

Sick ofpalazziand of churches tired;

Here let me rest, and for awhile forget

The "lions" of the City of the Sea!

My friend to see some masterpiece has gone,

When he returns he will of Titian talk,

Of Veronese will he babble on,

Gush o'er Bassano, rave o'er Tintoret!

While he's away I'll rest and muse in peace,

Beneath thefelsawill I laze and smoke,

And through the sable doorway gaze upon

The brightly tinted sunny water-sheet!

So quaint, so full of harmony it seems—

Like some rare picture in an ebon frame!

The foreground shows our trusty gondolier,

White-clad, brown-skinned, recumbent, fast asleep!

Above—the gondola's bright, sheeny prow

That flashes, gleams, and glisters in the sun;

On either side are mouldy, tide-washed walls,

Cracked, blistered, weed-covered, decayed, and damp

Reflecting oft the passing polished prow,

Re-echoing the cry of gondolier!

Here ruddy rust and verdant fungoid growth

Meet in the shattered stone and fissured brick—

Evolving thence rare harmonies in red,

In brown, in yellow, and in green and grey.

A flight of battered, bankrupt marble steps

Of mildewed aspect, fractured, seamed, and scarred—

Worn by the lapping of the countless tides,

Made hollow by the tread of centuries—

Lead to a sculptured archway, where the door,

Massive and iron-bound, now stands ajar,

While footsteps echo through the sombre hall,

To clink of keys and voices partly hushed!

See melancholy windows closely barred

By tangled iron-work of choice design;

And groups of quaintly headed mooring-posts,

Reflected quaintly in the green canal:

Beyond are rare effects of light and shade—

Strange fitful freaks of colour, hot and cold;

A picturesque low bridge, with life replete,

As figures, gaily dight, pass to and fro.

A mass of cool grey shadow—rising thence,

Behold the fabric of some grand old church,

With blue-faced clock, whose blurred gold figures show

The hour of our luncheon draweth nigh;

Beyond a glint of silver light shows where

The Canalazzo sparkles in the sun;

And, over all, a deep blue sky 'gainst which

But list! In yon balcōny do I hear

The voice of maid, the twang of mandoline!

There, where the sea-green shutters are thrown back,

There, where bright blossoms flout the rugged stone,

From 'neath the awning, gay and saffron-striped,

Comes rippling a Venetianbarcarolle!

The dreamy song, the tinkling mandoline,

The mild narcotic of the cigarette,

The lulling motion of my lazy craft,

The pleasant, peaceful, plash of passing oar—

All help to form a soothing lullaby,

Which soon transports me to the Land of Dreams!

I dream I am a Doge of mighty fame;

And I, in gorgeous raiment fitly clad,

Aboard theBucentorotake mine ease,

And issue mandates none dare disobey!

All tourists are accounted criminal,

And sight-seeing a capital offence;

To the Piombi, bores I quickly send,

My foes unto the Pozzi I consign!

And on theBucentoroentertain

My friends, like any house-boat on the Thames—

A merry laugh! My friend returns! I wake!

My dream is o'er! Alas! no longer Doge,

I dread the countless "lions" yet unseen!

Let us to Danieli's go and lunch!

AGRAND old Garden by the sea—I muse beneath the ilex tree,And musing, see across the bay,The white sails gleaming far away!The flash of foam, the sunshine's glint,The ever-changing tone and tint,Of purple, grey, and malachite,And shadows flitting 'fore the light.While overhead the summer breezePlays sweet leaf music in the trees!And 'neath the cliff, a muffled roar—The ceaseless sigh of surf on shore!O lilt of leaves! O song of sea!O mingled thrillful harmony!Now sweet, now sad, it seems to me.This touching, tender, minor key.To such rare music would I sing,The while I in the hammock swing!Ah! could the Rhymer but impartThe magic of the Poet's art,In order that this Leaf might beA triumph of bright minstrelsy!O were it not too hot to think,And if I had but pen and ink;Or were it not this afternoon,And if my Banjo were in tune;Or if the weather were not fine,And could I rouse this Muse of mine;Why then.... But there, I can't pretend—The Minstrel's lazy to

AGRAND old Garden by the sea—

I muse beneath the ilex tree,

And musing, see across the bay,

The white sails gleaming far away!

The flash of foam, the sunshine's glint,

The ever-changing tone and tint,

Of purple, grey, and malachite,

And shadows flitting 'fore the light.

While overhead the summer breeze

Plays sweet leaf music in the trees!

And 'neath the cliff, a muffled roar—

The ceaseless sigh of surf on shore!

O lilt of leaves! O song of sea!

O mingled thrillful harmony!

Now sweet, now sad, it seems to me.

This touching, tender, minor key.

To such rare music would I sing,

The while I in the hammock swing!

Ah! could the Rhymer but impart

The magic of the Poet's art,

In order that this Leaf might be

A triumph of bright minstrelsy!

O were it not too hot to think,

And if I had but pen and ink;

Or were it not this afternoon,

And if my Banjo were in tune;

Or if the weather were not fine,

And could I rouse this Muse of mine;

Why then.... But there, I can't pretend—

The Minstrel's lazy to

THE END.

St. James's Gazette.—"One of the lightest and brightest writers ofvers de société."

Saturday Review.—"Mr. J. Ashby-Sterry is a facile and agreeable versifier, with a genuine gift of expression, a light and dexterous touch, and a grace that is really individual."

The World.—"Sweet and musical. His musical melodies are set in an appropriately dainty shrine."

Daily Telegraph.—"'The Lazy Minstrel' commends itself both by outward form and inward merit to the lover of choice and dainty literature."

Daily News.—"Mr. Ashby-Sterry is a merry bard. He very seldom brings 'the eternal note of sadness in.'"

Punch.—"The first edition of his 'Lays' went off with a bang that must have astonished His Laziness."

G. A. S. in theIllustrated London News.—"Emphatically 'nice' in the nicest—the old-fashioned sense of the word.... A delicate little tome.... Graceful and, on occasion, tender."

The Globe.—"The bard not only of the lazy but the leisured.... Mr. Ashby-Sterry is a humourist, too, who sees the ludicrous as well as the pleasant side of life, and describes it with much gusto.... There is as much variety in his rhythms as there is ingenuity in his rhymes."

The Queen.—"One of the most facile writers of light and pleasant rhyme."

Vanity Fair.—"He is the Laureate of the Upper Thames, and no one has so completely seized as he has the sentiment of the lovely river."

Observer.—"There are few cultivated tastes for which 'The Lazy Minstrel' does not provide in his characteristic way."

The Bookbuyer(New York).—"Mr. Sterry has the lightness and sureness of touch, without which this kind of verse is of all verse the flattest, stalest, and most unprofitable. He has a keen eye for those significant details which make up a picture, an easy indolence which excludes all appearance of labour, and the self-possession of a man of the world who amuses himself with the making of verse."

Court Circular.—"He is one of the foremost writers ofvers de sociétéof the day, and his productions are distinguished by poetic fancy and neat workmanship."

Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News.—"One of the most welcome of the lighter singers."

The Theatre.—"There never was such a songster."

Morning Advertiser.—"He is always in tune with his subject, and knows how to rhyme with facility and expression."

Court Journal.—"Whether witty or pathetic, the lays and carols are equally well written and entertaining."

Newcastle Chronicle.—"Few writers can impart so much grace to everything he touches, and none have so light and aerial a muse as Mr. Sterry."

North British Daily Mail.—"For fluency of expression, ready command of the fitting epithet at all times, tender grace and gentle humour, Mr. Ashby-Sterry is indeed a marvel; and the public are under heavy obligations to the man who furnishes such a pleasant feast of mirth-provoking rhymes."

Liverpool Daily Post.—"The humour of them is the airy, well-bred humour of the man of the world."

Sheffield Weekly Telegraph.—"Quaint and droll, perfect in design and diction, light, bright, and musical, these poems are the most cheerful verses we can meet with in latter-day literature."

Liverpool Mercury.—"A delightful little book, delightful to read and not less delightful to look upon."

Brighton Herald.—"Mr. J. Ashby-Sterry is past-master in the art of manufacturing dainty verses, little bubbles of song that, like bubbles of another kind, are delightful because they are so fragile and pretty."

Liverpool Courier.—"It is a pleasure to meet with verses so vivacious; to come in contact with a humorous fancy so fresh and individual."

Publishers' Circular.—"It lightens and brightens one's heart to read Mr. Sterry's charming songs and carols; their good humour and delicious style, so free from anything like care or worldly taint, seems to be infectious."

Yorkshire Post.—"Here and there 'The Lazy Minstrel' becomes sentimental, but there is always a touch of gay insouciance about his sentiment, and a consistent absence of the mawkishness too often found in the drawing-room ballad."

Sheffield Independent.—"Quaint, melodious, finished with marvellous care, and full of unexpected oddities of form and expression."

Liverpool Review.—"He infuses a sunshine and breeziness into his descriptions of scenes and people which make them live before us. His laziness never degenerates into languor, or his sentiment into insipidity."

Wakefield Free Press.—"The Lazy one is master of his art—he chooses all that is fair, serene, and summer-like for his subjects, and treats them with a soft colour and a musical rhythmic flow that leaves nothing to be desired."

New York Times.—"The metre is perfect, the music of the verse well sustained, and there is that fun and merry quip in 'The Lazy Minstrel' which becomesvers de société."

London:

T. FISHER UNWIN, 26,Paternoster Square.

CorrectionsThe first line indicates the original, the second the correction:p.25:A LOVER'S LULLABYA LOVER'S LULLABY.p.26:I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter,I'll wear my Tam o'Shanter!p.46:Her ebony-stick with a crutch.Her ebony-stick with acrutchp.98:Or oves, like dogs, to bark and bite,Orloves, like dogs, to bark and bite,p.134:('Twill rain, I'm sure, before the night!('Twill rain, I'm sure, before thenight!)p.148:The good ship she steers, like a clever young "cox.,"The good ship she steers, like a clever young "cox,"Cover created by Transcriber and placed into the Public Domain.

The first line indicates the original, the second the correction:

p.25:

p.26:

p.46:

p.98:

p.134:

p.148:

Cover created by Transcriber and placed into the Public Domain.

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