Transcriber's note.

Transcriber's note.Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. Alistof other changes made, can be found at the end of the book.[Among the verses in this Collection may be found a few which have previously appeared in a Volume, by the same Author, now out of print.]THE LAZY MINSTRELfrontispieceThe LazyMinstrelByJ. ASHBY-STERRYAnd while his merry Banjo rang,'Twas thus the Lazy Minstrel sang!THIRD EDITION.LONDONT. FISHER UNWIN26 Paternoster SquareMDCCCLXXXVIIThe Author reserves all rights of translation and reproduction.TONINA, MARY,ANDFLORENCE,THIS VOLUME ISINSCRIBED.CONTENTS.Lazy Lays:—PageHambleden Lock3Spring's Delights6A Modern Syren9Regrets12Hammockuity13My Country Cousin15A Common-Sense Carol18Saint May20A Canoe Canzonet23A Lover's Lullaby25The Tam O' Shanter Cap26A Street Sketch28A Tiny Trip29A Study31Doctor Brighton33Lizzie37A Marlow Madrigal38In Rotten Row41A Portrait43Symphonies in Fur45Drifting Down48Toujours Tennis50Tarpauline52The Kitten54In the Temple56An Unfinished Sketch59On Board the "Gladys"62Cigarette Rings65At Charing Cross67The Music of Leaves70Casual Carols:—In a Bellagio Balcony75A Riverain Rhyme78The Little Rebel80Canoebial Bliss83Rosie85Skindle's in October86In My Easy Chair88Blankton Weir90Different Views95Two Naughty Girls97Couleur de Rose99In Strawberry Time102Number One104After Breakfast107In an Old City Church110A Little Love-Letter112Stray Sunbeams114Pearl116A Nutshell Novel118The Pink of Perfection119The Impartial121A Traveller's Tarantella122In a Minor Key124A Shower-Song126The Social Zodiac:—January131February132March133April134May135June136July137August138September139October140November141December142Idle Songs:—Mother o' Pearl145A Lay of the "Lion"147Jennie150A Favourite Lounge151Spring Cleaning153Taken in Tow155Thrown!157Baggage on the Brain160Haytime163Pet's Punishment165The Baby in the Train167Miss Sailor-Boy170A Private Note171L'Inconnue173Fallacies of the Fog175The Merry Young Water-Girl177A Secular Sermon179On the French Coast181At the "Lord Warden"183Bolney Ferry185Dot188A Riverside Luncheon190Love-Locks192A Streatley Sonata196The Midshipmaid199A Pantile Poem201Henley in July204The Minstrel's Return207A Singer's Sketch-Book:—Dover213Chamouni214Baveno215At Table d'Hôte216At Etretât217Homesick218Skreeliesporran219A Christmas Carol220Sound without Sense222The Merry Month of May227Two and Two229A Shorthand Sonnet232In a Gondola233The Last Leaf236OVERTURE.Within this Volume you will find,No project to "improve the mind"!No "purpose" lurks within these lays—These idle songs of idle days.They're seldom learnëd, never long—The best apology for song!Should e'er they chance to have the pow'r,To pass away some lazy hour—They'll serve all "purpose," it is true,The Minstrel ever had in view!LAZY LAYS.HAMBLEDEN LOCK.ACAPITAL luncheon I've had at the "Lion,"I've drifted down here with the light Summer breeze;I land at the bank, where the turf's brown and dry on,And lazily list to the music of trees!O, sweet is the air, with a perfume of clover,O, sleepy the cattle in Remenham meads!The lull of the lasher is soothing, moreover,The wind whistles low in the stream-stricken reeds!With sail closely furled, and a weed incandescent—Made fast to a post is the swiftShuttlecock—I think you will own 'tis uncommonly pleasantTo dream and do nothing by Hambleden Lock!See a barge blunder through, overbearing and shabby,With its captain asleep, and his wife in command;Then a boatful of beauties for Medmenham Abbey,And a cargo of campers all tired and tanned.Two duffers collide, they don't know what they're doing—They're both in the ways of the water unskilled—But here is the Infant, so great at canoeing,Sweet, saucy, short-skirted, and snowily frilled.I notice the tint of a ribbon or feather,The ripple of ruffle, the fashion of frock;I languidly laze in the sweet Summer weather,And muse o'er the maidens by Hambleden Lock!What value they give to the bright panorama—O, had I the pencil of Millais or Sandys!—The lasses with sunshades from far Yokohama,The pretty girl-scullers with pretty brown hands!Next theSyrensteams in; see the kind-eyed old colley,On the deck, in the sun, how he loves to recline!Note the well-ordered craft and its Skipper so jolly,With friends, down to Marlow, he's taking to dine.In the snug-curtained cabin, I can't help espyingA dew-clouded tankard of seltzer-and-hock,And a plateful of peaches big babies are trying,I note, as they glide out of Hambleden Lock!A punt passes in, with Waltonians laden,And boatman rugose of mahogany hue;And then comes a youth and a sunny-haired maidenWho sitvis-à-visin their bass-wood canoe.Now look at the Admiral steering theFairy,O, where could he find a much better crew thanHis dutiful daughters, Flo, Nina, and Mary,Who row with such grace in his trim-built randan?I muse while the water is ebbing and flowing,I silently smoke and serenely take stockOf countless Thames toilers, now coming, now going,Who take a pink ticket at Hambleden Lock!SPRING'S DELIGHTS.'Tis good-bye to comfort, to ease and prosperity,Now Spring has set in with its usual severity!SPRING'S Delights are now returning!Let the Lazy Minstrel sing;While the ruddy logs are burning,Let his merry banjo ring!Take no heed of pluvial patter,Waste no time in vain regrets;Though our teeth are all a-chatter,Like the clinking castanets!Though it's freezing, sleeting, snowing,Though we're speechless from catarrh,Though the East wind's wildly blowing,Let us warble,Tra la la!Spring's Delights are now returning!Let us order new great-coats:Never let us dream of spurningWoollen wrap around our throats.Let us see the couch nocturnalSnugly swathed in eider-down:Let not thoughts of weather vernalTempt us to go out of Town.Though the biting blast is cruel,Though our "tonic's" notsol-fa,Though we sadly sup on gruel,Let us warble,Tra la la!Spring's Delights are now returningNow the poet deftly weavesQuaint conceits and rhymes concerningCroton oil and mustard leaves!Let us, though we are a fixture,In our room compelled to stay—Let us quaff the glad cough mixture,Gaily gargle time away!Though we're racked with pains rheumatic,Though to sleep we've said ta-ta,Let us, with a voice ecstatic,Wildly warble,Tra la la!Spring's Delights are now returning!Doctors now are blithe and gay!Heaps of money now they're earning,Calls they're making ev'ry day.Ev'ry shepherd swain grows colder,As, in vain, he tries to sing;Feels he now quite ten years older,'Neath the blast of blighting Spring!Though we're doubtful of the issue,Let us bravely shout Hurrah!And in one superbA-tishoo!Sneeze and warbleTra la la!A MODERN SYREN.THE laughing ripples sing their lay,The sky is blue, and o'er the bayThe breeze is blowing free;For, O, the morning's fresh and fair,And bright and bracing is the air,Down by the summer sea.A pretty, winsome, merry girl,With all her sunny hair a-curl,Was dimpled bonny Bee;Her laugh was light, her eyes were blue,They always said her heart was true,Down by the summer sea.The sun is hot, the day is grand,And up and down the yellow sandPerambulateth he:She promised they should meet at eight,And from her lips should learn his fate,Down by the summer sea.He fancies it is getting late,For by his watch 'tis now past eight,Some minutes twenty-three;The shore he scans with eyesight keen.And notes the track of smallbottines,Down by the summer sea.He hums a merry song and strolls,And tracks this pretty pair o' soles—His heart is full of glee!For now that he has found the clue,He follows footsteps two and two,Down by the summer sea."But ah!" he says, and stops his song—"This soler system is all wrong,'Tis plain enough to me,Those prints are proofs—I can't tell whose—But 'quite another pair of shoes,'Down by the summer sea."The short and narrow, long and wide,He finds march closely side by sideBy some occult decree;And as he cons the footprints o'er,He finds that two and two make four,Down by the summer sea!He sighs, and says, "Ah, well, indeed!"And from his pocket takes a weed,And strikes the light fuzee:He adds, "I think I'll now go home,For maidens' vows are frail as foamDown by the summer sea!"REGRETS.OFOR the look of those pure grey eyes—Seeming to plead and speak—The parted lips, the deep-drawn sighs,The blush on the kissen cheek!O for the tangle of soft brown hair,Fanned by the lazy breeze;The fleeting hours unshadowed by care,Shaded by tremulous trees!O for the dream of those sunny days,Their bright unbroken spell,And thrilling sweet untutored praise—From lips once loved too well!O for the feeling of days agone,The simple faith and truth,The Spring of time, life's rosy dawn—O for the love and the youth!HAMMOCKUITY.If you swing in a hammock the summer day through,And you dream with profound assiduity,A new phase of content it will give unto you,Which philosophers call "Hammockuity"!ALL through the lazy afternoon,Beneath the sycamore,I listen to the distant Lune,Or slumber to its roar;'Tis sweet to muse, to sleep or sing,When talk is superfluity;'Tis sweet beneath the trees to swing,And practise hammockuity.Forgotten here, I would forgetThe destiny fate weaves,The while I smoke a cigaretteTo music of the leaves;I wish my present lazy lifeA lengthy continuity;Away from trouble, care, and strife,In happy hammockuity!While others work, while others play,Or love, or laugh, or weep;I watch the smoke-rings curl away,And almost fall asleep!I'd give up thought of future fame—Despite such incongruity—I'd forfeit riches, power, name,For blissful hammockuity!I hate the booming busy beeWho dares to wake me up—I wonder if it's time for tea,Or grateful cyder-cup?I would I could, beneath the trees,Repose in perpetuity,And swing, and sing, and take mine easeIn lasting hammockuity!MY COUNTRY COUSIN.TO Town, about the close of dull November,Up comes the Country Cousin, pray remember,—The Cattle Show to visit in December!Her winsome, watchet eyes, they are the sweetest,Herchaussureand her gloves they are the neatest,Her toilette you'll consider the completest.She's pretty, piquante, pouting, and capricious;So dainty, dimpled, daring, and delicious:She's joyful, and she's jaunty and judicious.She loves to hear the latest tittle-tattle;On manners, music, crinoline, and cattle,And pictures, peers and poets will she prattle!She often goes out shopping with her Mother,The Park she sometimes visits with her Brother—She'd much prefer to stroll there with Another!The gayMikadomusic sets her humming—And how she likes the Temple kettle-drumming,With those who love to go chrysanthemumming!She has no views on "rights" or vivisection,Finds politics a nuisance on reflection—To bores she has a most supreme objection!Delight she takes in anything that's merry,She dearly loves a pleasant lunchchezVerrey,And much prefers dry Pommery to sherry!She rattles through a picture exhibition,Then goes to see a circus or magician,And does a morning concert in addition!Of theatres, you'll find, she'll ne'er grow weary;Each night she'll go—let plays be good or dreary—And sit them through, still looking bright and cheery!She can't e'en rest 'twixt Saturday and Monday,But in a hansom—despite Mrs. Grundy—She drives down to the Abbey on a Sunday!She's bright each morn—as fresh as any daisy—And when with seeing sights I'm nearly crazy,She says I am "incorrigibly lazy!"But when one morn from Euston she has started—Those eyelids drooped a wee bit when we parted—I certainly feel dismal and down-hearted.That merry whirling time at last is ended!—And as for hearts? Pooh! pooh! I'm feeling splendid."Least said," the proverb hints, "is soonest mended."A COMMON-SENSE CAROL.By the sea, on the shore, it is pleasant to be,The sunshine's delicious I own;This life would be ever delightful to me,If folks would but leave me alone!O,HOLIDAY-MAKERS can rarely be still,But take superhuman exertionsAnd make themselves hot and exhausted and illTo organize horrid "excursions"!Let those who enjoy it ride out in a "shay"—Exploring each dell and each dingle—But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!They think it delightful to walk on the pier,And try to create a sensation;When passengers land, looking pallid and queer,A cause is for great jubilation:Let lunatics listen to bands when they play,And nod to their noise and their jingle—But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!Anemone-hunters roam over the rocks,All hoping to fish up a tank-full;They hopelessly ruin their shoes and their socks—O, why can't they rest and be thankful?They rave o'er a winkle, a wrass, or a wray,And sea-weeds that with them commingle—But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!They fancy 'tis pleasant to go for a sailWith wind in a dubious quarter;When waves "chop about," and they get very pale,And up to their knees in the water.Let maritime maniacs, wetted with spray,Discourse on a cleat or a cringle—But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!I'd much rather take a good pull at ozoneWithout all this bustle and riot;If well-meaning friends would but leave me alone,To bask in the sunshine and quiet.Such labour as theirs fills my heart with dismay—The thought of it makes my blood tingle—So I will throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!SAINT MAY.There's a bell that wakes the echo and renders incomplete,The sullen shuttered silence of the solemn City street!SAINT ALOYS the Great is both mouldy and grim,The Decalogue's dusty, the windows are dim;If I'm not mistaken, you'll long have to searchBefore you discover this old City church:But it's whereabouts I don't intend to betray,Though a pilgrim each week to the shrine of Saint May!The one bell is cracked in its crazy old tower,The sermon oft lasts rather more than an hour;The parson is prosy, the clerk eighty-three,The organ drones out in a sad minor key:Yet how quickly the moments, I find, fly away,I pass every week 'neath the spell of Saint May.She sits in a high, ancient black oaken pew,Which almost conceals her fair face from my view;The sweetest of pictures, it can't be denied,With two tiny sisters who sit by her side:And they lisp the responses and kneel down to pray,With their little hands locked in the palm of Saint May.Of saints I've seen many in churches before—In Florence or Venice, they're there by the score;Agnese, Maria—the rest I forget—By Titian, Bassano, and brave Tintoret—Though as pictures delightful, I fancy that they,E'en as pictures, can't rival my gentle Saint May.She's almost too young and too plump for a saint,With sweet little dimples that Millais might paint;She wears no ascetic or mortified mien,No wimple of yellow or vestment of green—But her soft golden hair throws a sunshiny ray,Like a nimbus, around the fair face of Saint May!What surquayne or partlet could look better thanMy saint's curly jacket of black Astracan?What coif than her bonnet—a triumph of skill—Or alb than her petticoat, edged with a frill.Would she love, would she honour, and would sheobey?I wonder while gazing across at Saint May!The sermon is finished, the blessing is o'er,The sparse congregation drift out at the door;I pause as I pass down the gloomy old aisle,To see my saint pass and perchance get a smile:I would daily change faith like the Vicar of Bray,Could I pass all my life in adoring Saint May!Through the weary dull week, as it rolls on apace,I'm haunted by thoughts of that tender young face;And oft, O how oft, does the vision arise—The pureness and truth of those eloquent eyes!And I long for the hour, and I count on the day,When I sit at a distance and worship Saint May!No doubt you'll be vastly surprised when you're toldHer name, in the Calendar, ne'er was enrolled—They prattled of "May," the sweet sisterly pair,I added the "Saint,"—she was canonized there!Ah! if saints might wed sinners, I'd yield to her sway,And I straightway would fall on my knees to Saint May!A CANOE CANZONET.

Transcriber's note.Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. Alistof other changes made, can be found at the end of the book.

Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. Alistof other changes made, can be found at the end of the book.

[Among the verses in this Collection may be found a few which have previously appeared in a Volume, by the same Author, now out of print.]

frontispiece

The LazyMinstrelByJ. ASHBY-STERRYAnd while his merry Banjo rang,'Twas thus the Lazy Minstrel sang!THIRD EDITION.LONDONT. FISHER UNWIN26 Paternoster SquareMDCCCLXXXVII

The LazyMinstrel

J. ASHBY-STERRY

And while his merry Banjo rang,'Twas thus the Lazy Minstrel sang!

And while his merry Banjo rang,

'Twas thus the Lazy Minstrel sang!

THIRD EDITION.

LONDON

T. FISHER UNWIN

26 Paternoster Square

MDCCCLXXXVII

The Author reserves all rights of translation and reproduction.

NINA, MARY,ANDFLORENCE,

THIS VOLUME ISINSCRIBED.

Within this Volume you will find,No project to "improve the mind"!No "purpose" lurks within these lays—These idle songs of idle days.They're seldom learnëd, never long—The best apology for song!Should e'er they chance to have the pow'r,To pass away some lazy hour—They'll serve all "purpose," it is true,The Minstrel ever had in view!

Within this Volume you will find,

No project to "improve the mind"!

No "purpose" lurks within these lays—

These idle songs of idle days.

They're seldom learnëd, never long—

The best apology for song!

Should e'er they chance to have the pow'r,

To pass away some lazy hour—

They'll serve all "purpose," it is true,

The Minstrel ever had in view!

ACAPITAL luncheon I've had at the "Lion,"I've drifted down here with the light Summer breeze;I land at the bank, where the turf's brown and dry on,And lazily list to the music of trees!O, sweet is the air, with a perfume of clover,O, sleepy the cattle in Remenham meads!The lull of the lasher is soothing, moreover,The wind whistles low in the stream-stricken reeds!With sail closely furled, and a weed incandescent—Made fast to a post is the swiftShuttlecock—I think you will own 'tis uncommonly pleasantTo dream and do nothing by Hambleden Lock!See a barge blunder through, overbearing and shabby,With its captain asleep, and his wife in command;Then a boatful of beauties for Medmenham Abbey,And a cargo of campers all tired and tanned.Two duffers collide, they don't know what they're doing—They're both in the ways of the water unskilled—But here is the Infant, so great at canoeing,Sweet, saucy, short-skirted, and snowily frilled.I notice the tint of a ribbon or feather,The ripple of ruffle, the fashion of frock;I languidly laze in the sweet Summer weather,And muse o'er the maidens by Hambleden Lock!What value they give to the bright panorama—O, had I the pencil of Millais or Sandys!—The lasses with sunshades from far Yokohama,The pretty girl-scullers with pretty brown hands!Next theSyrensteams in; see the kind-eyed old colley,On the deck, in the sun, how he loves to recline!Note the well-ordered craft and its Skipper so jolly,With friends, down to Marlow, he's taking to dine.In the snug-curtained cabin, I can't help espyingA dew-clouded tankard of seltzer-and-hock,And a plateful of peaches big babies are trying,I note, as they glide out of Hambleden Lock!A punt passes in, with Waltonians laden,And boatman rugose of mahogany hue;And then comes a youth and a sunny-haired maidenWho sitvis-à-visin their bass-wood canoe.Now look at the Admiral steering theFairy,O, where could he find a much better crew thanHis dutiful daughters, Flo, Nina, and Mary,Who row with such grace in his trim-built randan?I muse while the water is ebbing and flowing,I silently smoke and serenely take stockOf countless Thames toilers, now coming, now going,Who take a pink ticket at Hambleden Lock!

ACAPITAL luncheon I've had at the "Lion,"

I've drifted down here with the light Summer breeze;

I land at the bank, where the turf's brown and dry on,

And lazily list to the music of trees!

O, sweet is the air, with a perfume of clover,

O, sleepy the cattle in Remenham meads!

The lull of the lasher is soothing, moreover,

The wind whistles low in the stream-stricken reeds!

With sail closely furled, and a weed incandescent—

Made fast to a post is the swiftShuttlecock—

I think you will own 'tis uncommonly pleasant

To dream and do nothing by Hambleden Lock!

See a barge blunder through, overbearing and shabby,With its captain asleep, and his wife in command;Then a boatful of beauties for Medmenham Abbey,And a cargo of campers all tired and tanned.Two duffers collide, they don't know what they're doing—They're both in the ways of the water unskilled—But here is the Infant, so great at canoeing,Sweet, saucy, short-skirted, and snowily frilled.I notice the tint of a ribbon or feather,The ripple of ruffle, the fashion of frock;I languidly laze in the sweet Summer weather,And muse o'er the maidens by Hambleden Lock!

See a barge blunder through, overbearing and shabby,

With its captain asleep, and his wife in command;

Then a boatful of beauties for Medmenham Abbey,

And a cargo of campers all tired and tanned.

Two duffers collide, they don't know what they're doing—

They're both in the ways of the water unskilled—

But here is the Infant, so great at canoeing,

Sweet, saucy, short-skirted, and snowily frilled.

I notice the tint of a ribbon or feather,

The ripple of ruffle, the fashion of frock;

I languidly laze in the sweet Summer weather,

And muse o'er the maidens by Hambleden Lock!

What value they give to the bright panorama—O, had I the pencil of Millais or Sandys!—The lasses with sunshades from far Yokohama,The pretty girl-scullers with pretty brown hands!Next theSyrensteams in; see the kind-eyed old colley,On the deck, in the sun, how he loves to recline!Note the well-ordered craft and its Skipper so jolly,With friends, down to Marlow, he's taking to dine.In the snug-curtained cabin, I can't help espyingA dew-clouded tankard of seltzer-and-hock,And a plateful of peaches big babies are trying,I note, as they glide out of Hambleden Lock!

What value they give to the bright panorama—

O, had I the pencil of Millais or Sandys!—

The lasses with sunshades from far Yokohama,

The pretty girl-scullers with pretty brown hands!

Next theSyrensteams in; see the kind-eyed old colley,

On the deck, in the sun, how he loves to recline!

Note the well-ordered craft and its Skipper so jolly,

With friends, down to Marlow, he's taking to dine.

In the snug-curtained cabin, I can't help espying

A dew-clouded tankard of seltzer-and-hock,

And a plateful of peaches big babies are trying,

I note, as they glide out of Hambleden Lock!

A punt passes in, with Waltonians laden,And boatman rugose of mahogany hue;And then comes a youth and a sunny-haired maidenWho sitvis-à-visin their bass-wood canoe.Now look at the Admiral steering theFairy,O, where could he find a much better crew thanHis dutiful daughters, Flo, Nina, and Mary,Who row with such grace in his trim-built randan?I muse while the water is ebbing and flowing,I silently smoke and serenely take stockOf countless Thames toilers, now coming, now going,Who take a pink ticket at Hambleden Lock!

A punt passes in, with Waltonians laden,

And boatman rugose of mahogany hue;

And then comes a youth and a sunny-haired maiden

Who sitvis-à-visin their bass-wood canoe.

Now look at the Admiral steering theFairy,

O, where could he find a much better crew than

His dutiful daughters, Flo, Nina, and Mary,

Who row with such grace in his trim-built randan?

I muse while the water is ebbing and flowing,

I silently smoke and serenely take stock

Of countless Thames toilers, now coming, now going,

Who take a pink ticket at Hambleden Lock!

'Tis good-bye to comfort, to ease and prosperity,Now Spring has set in with its usual severity!

'Tis good-bye to comfort, to ease and prosperity,

Now Spring has set in with its usual severity!

SPRING'S Delights are now returning!Let the Lazy Minstrel sing;While the ruddy logs are burning,Let his merry banjo ring!Take no heed of pluvial patter,Waste no time in vain regrets;Though our teeth are all a-chatter,Like the clinking castanets!Though it's freezing, sleeting, snowing,Though we're speechless from catarrh,Though the East wind's wildly blowing,Let us warble,Tra la la!Spring's Delights are now returning!Let us order new great-coats:Never let us dream of spurningWoollen wrap around our throats.Let us see the couch nocturnalSnugly swathed in eider-down:Let not thoughts of weather vernalTempt us to go out of Town.Though the biting blast is cruel,Though our "tonic's" notsol-fa,Though we sadly sup on gruel,Let us warble,Tra la la!Spring's Delights are now returningNow the poet deftly weavesQuaint conceits and rhymes concerningCroton oil and mustard leaves!Let us, though we are a fixture,In our room compelled to stay—Let us quaff the glad cough mixture,Gaily gargle time away!Though we're racked with pains rheumatic,Though to sleep we've said ta-ta,Let us, with a voice ecstatic,Wildly warble,Tra la la!Spring's Delights are now returning!Doctors now are blithe and gay!Heaps of money now they're earning,Calls they're making ev'ry day.Ev'ry shepherd swain grows colder,As, in vain, he tries to sing;Feels he now quite ten years older,'Neath the blast of blighting Spring!Though we're doubtful of the issue,Let us bravely shout Hurrah!And in one superbA-tishoo!Sneeze and warbleTra la la!

SPRING'S Delights are now returning!

Let the Lazy Minstrel sing;

While the ruddy logs are burning,

Let his merry banjo ring!

Take no heed of pluvial patter,

Waste no time in vain regrets;

Though our teeth are all a-chatter,

Like the clinking castanets!

Though it's freezing, sleeting, snowing,

Though we're speechless from catarrh,

Though the East wind's wildly blowing,

Let us warble,Tra la la!

Spring's Delights are now returning!Let us order new great-coats:Never let us dream of spurningWoollen wrap around our throats.Let us see the couch nocturnalSnugly swathed in eider-down:Let not thoughts of weather vernalTempt us to go out of Town.Though the biting blast is cruel,Though our "tonic's" notsol-fa,Though we sadly sup on gruel,Let us warble,Tra la la!

Spring's Delights are now returning!

Let us order new great-coats:

Never let us dream of spurning

Woollen wrap around our throats.

Let us see the couch nocturnal

Snugly swathed in eider-down:

Let not thoughts of weather vernal

Tempt us to go out of Town.

Though the biting blast is cruel,

Though our "tonic's" notsol-fa,

Though we sadly sup on gruel,

Let us warble,Tra la la!

Spring's Delights are now returningNow the poet deftly weavesQuaint conceits and rhymes concerningCroton oil and mustard leaves!Let us, though we are a fixture,In our room compelled to stay—Let us quaff the glad cough mixture,Gaily gargle time away!Though we're racked with pains rheumatic,Though to sleep we've said ta-ta,Let us, with a voice ecstatic,Wildly warble,Tra la la!

Spring's Delights are now returning

Now the poet deftly weaves

Quaint conceits and rhymes concerning

Croton oil and mustard leaves!

Let us, though we are a fixture,

In our room compelled to stay—

Let us quaff the glad cough mixture,

Gaily gargle time away!

Though we're racked with pains rheumatic,

Though to sleep we've said ta-ta,

Let us, with a voice ecstatic,

Wildly warble,Tra la la!

Spring's Delights are now returning!Doctors now are blithe and gay!Heaps of money now they're earning,Calls they're making ev'ry day.Ev'ry shepherd swain grows colder,As, in vain, he tries to sing;Feels he now quite ten years older,'Neath the blast of blighting Spring!Though we're doubtful of the issue,Let us bravely shout Hurrah!And in one superbA-tishoo!Sneeze and warbleTra la la!

Spring's Delights are now returning!

Doctors now are blithe and gay!

Heaps of money now they're earning,

Calls they're making ev'ry day.

Ev'ry shepherd swain grows colder,

As, in vain, he tries to sing;

Feels he now quite ten years older,

'Neath the blast of blighting Spring!

Though we're doubtful of the issue,

Let us bravely shout Hurrah!

And in one superbA-tishoo!

Sneeze and warbleTra la la!

THE laughing ripples sing their lay,The sky is blue, and o'er the bayThe breeze is blowing free;For, O, the morning's fresh and fair,And bright and bracing is the air,Down by the summer sea.A pretty, winsome, merry girl,With all her sunny hair a-curl,Was dimpled bonny Bee;Her laugh was light, her eyes were blue,They always said her heart was true,Down by the summer sea.The sun is hot, the day is grand,And up and down the yellow sandPerambulateth he:She promised they should meet at eight,And from her lips should learn his fate,Down by the summer sea.He fancies it is getting late,For by his watch 'tis now past eight,Some minutes twenty-three;The shore he scans with eyesight keen.And notes the track of smallbottines,Down by the summer sea.He hums a merry song and strolls,And tracks this pretty pair o' soles—His heart is full of glee!For now that he has found the clue,He follows footsteps two and two,Down by the summer sea."But ah!" he says, and stops his song—"This soler system is all wrong,'Tis plain enough to me,Those prints are proofs—I can't tell whose—But 'quite another pair of shoes,'Down by the summer sea."The short and narrow, long and wide,He finds march closely side by sideBy some occult decree;And as he cons the footprints o'er,He finds that two and two make four,Down by the summer sea!He sighs, and says, "Ah, well, indeed!"And from his pocket takes a weed,And strikes the light fuzee:He adds, "I think I'll now go home,For maidens' vows are frail as foamDown by the summer sea!"

THE laughing ripples sing their lay,The sky is blue, and o'er the bayThe breeze is blowing free;For, O, the morning's fresh and fair,And bright and bracing is the air,Down by the summer sea.

THE laughing ripples sing their lay,

The sky is blue, and o'er the bay

The breeze is blowing free;

For, O, the morning's fresh and fair,

And bright and bracing is the air,

Down by the summer sea.

A pretty, winsome, merry girl,With all her sunny hair a-curl,Was dimpled bonny Bee;Her laugh was light, her eyes were blue,They always said her heart was true,Down by the summer sea.

A pretty, winsome, merry girl,

With all her sunny hair a-curl,

Was dimpled bonny Bee;

Her laugh was light, her eyes were blue,

They always said her heart was true,

Down by the summer sea.

The sun is hot, the day is grand,And up and down the yellow sandPerambulateth he:She promised they should meet at eight,And from her lips should learn his fate,Down by the summer sea.

The sun is hot, the day is grand,

And up and down the yellow sand

Perambulateth he:

She promised they should meet at eight,

And from her lips should learn his fate,

Down by the summer sea.

He fancies it is getting late,For by his watch 'tis now past eight,Some minutes twenty-three;The shore he scans with eyesight keen.And notes the track of smallbottines,Down by the summer sea.

He fancies it is getting late,

For by his watch 'tis now past eight,

Some minutes twenty-three;

The shore he scans with eyesight keen.

And notes the track of smallbottines,

Down by the summer sea.

He hums a merry song and strolls,And tracks this pretty pair o' soles—His heart is full of glee!For now that he has found the clue,He follows footsteps two and two,Down by the summer sea.

He hums a merry song and strolls,

And tracks this pretty pair o' soles—

His heart is full of glee!

For now that he has found the clue,

He follows footsteps two and two,

Down by the summer sea.

"But ah!" he says, and stops his song—"This soler system is all wrong,'Tis plain enough to me,Those prints are proofs—I can't tell whose—But 'quite another pair of shoes,'Down by the summer sea."

"But ah!" he says, and stops his song—

"This soler system is all wrong,

'Tis plain enough to me,

Those prints are proofs—I can't tell whose—

But 'quite another pair of shoes,'

Down by the summer sea."

The short and narrow, long and wide,He finds march closely side by sideBy some occult decree;And as he cons the footprints o'er,He finds that two and two make four,Down by the summer sea!

The short and narrow, long and wide,

He finds march closely side by side

By some occult decree;

And as he cons the footprints o'er,

He finds that two and two make four,

Down by the summer sea!

He sighs, and says, "Ah, well, indeed!"And from his pocket takes a weed,And strikes the light fuzee:He adds, "I think I'll now go home,For maidens' vows are frail as foamDown by the summer sea!"

He sighs, and says, "Ah, well, indeed!"

And from his pocket takes a weed,

And strikes the light fuzee:

He adds, "I think I'll now go home,

For maidens' vows are frail as foam

Down by the summer sea!"

OFOR the look of those pure grey eyes—Seeming to plead and speak—The parted lips, the deep-drawn sighs,The blush on the kissen cheek!O for the tangle of soft brown hair,Fanned by the lazy breeze;The fleeting hours unshadowed by care,Shaded by tremulous trees!O for the dream of those sunny days,Their bright unbroken spell,And thrilling sweet untutored praise—From lips once loved too well!O for the feeling of days agone,The simple faith and truth,The Spring of time, life's rosy dawn—O for the love and the youth!

OFOR the look of those pure grey eyes—Seeming to plead and speak—The parted lips, the deep-drawn sighs,The blush on the kissen cheek!

OFOR the look of those pure grey eyes—

Seeming to plead and speak—

The parted lips, the deep-drawn sighs,

The blush on the kissen cheek!

O for the tangle of soft brown hair,Fanned by the lazy breeze;The fleeting hours unshadowed by care,Shaded by tremulous trees!

O for the tangle of soft brown hair,

Fanned by the lazy breeze;

The fleeting hours unshadowed by care,

Shaded by tremulous trees!

O for the dream of those sunny days,Their bright unbroken spell,And thrilling sweet untutored praise—From lips once loved too well!

O for the dream of those sunny days,

Their bright unbroken spell,

And thrilling sweet untutored praise—

From lips once loved too well!

O for the feeling of days agone,The simple faith and truth,The Spring of time, life's rosy dawn—O for the love and the youth!

O for the feeling of days agone,

The simple faith and truth,

The Spring of time, life's rosy dawn—

O for the love and the youth!

If you swing in a hammock the summer day through,And you dream with profound assiduity,A new phase of content it will give unto you,Which philosophers call "Hammockuity"!

If you swing in a hammock the summer day through,

And you dream with profound assiduity,

A new phase of content it will give unto you,

Which philosophers call "Hammockuity"!

ALL through the lazy afternoon,Beneath the sycamore,I listen to the distant Lune,Or slumber to its roar;'Tis sweet to muse, to sleep or sing,When talk is superfluity;'Tis sweet beneath the trees to swing,And practise hammockuity.Forgotten here, I would forgetThe destiny fate weaves,The while I smoke a cigaretteTo music of the leaves;I wish my present lazy lifeA lengthy continuity;Away from trouble, care, and strife,In happy hammockuity!While others work, while others play,Or love, or laugh, or weep;I watch the smoke-rings curl away,And almost fall asleep!I'd give up thought of future fame—Despite such incongruity—I'd forfeit riches, power, name,For blissful hammockuity!I hate the booming busy beeWho dares to wake me up—I wonder if it's time for tea,Or grateful cyder-cup?I would I could, beneath the trees,Repose in perpetuity,And swing, and sing, and take mine easeIn lasting hammockuity!

ALL through the lazy afternoon,

Beneath the sycamore,

I listen to the distant Lune,

Or slumber to its roar;

'Tis sweet to muse, to sleep or sing,

When talk is superfluity;

'Tis sweet beneath the trees to swing,

And practise hammockuity.

Forgotten here, I would forgetThe destiny fate weaves,The while I smoke a cigaretteTo music of the leaves;I wish my present lazy lifeA lengthy continuity;Away from trouble, care, and strife,In happy hammockuity!

Forgotten here, I would forget

The destiny fate weaves,

The while I smoke a cigarette

To music of the leaves;

I wish my present lazy life

A lengthy continuity;

Away from trouble, care, and strife,

In happy hammockuity!

While others work, while others play,Or love, or laugh, or weep;I watch the smoke-rings curl away,And almost fall asleep!I'd give up thought of future fame—Despite such incongruity—I'd forfeit riches, power, name,For blissful hammockuity!

While others work, while others play,

Or love, or laugh, or weep;

I watch the smoke-rings curl away,

And almost fall asleep!

I'd give up thought of future fame—

Despite such incongruity—

I'd forfeit riches, power, name,

For blissful hammockuity!

I hate the booming busy beeWho dares to wake me up—I wonder if it's time for tea,Or grateful cyder-cup?I would I could, beneath the trees,Repose in perpetuity,And swing, and sing, and take mine easeIn lasting hammockuity!

I hate the booming busy bee

Who dares to wake me up—

I wonder if it's time for tea,

Or grateful cyder-cup?

I would I could, beneath the trees,

Repose in perpetuity,

And swing, and sing, and take mine ease

In lasting hammockuity!

TO Town, about the close of dull November,Up comes the Country Cousin, pray remember,—The Cattle Show to visit in December!Her winsome, watchet eyes, they are the sweetest,Herchaussureand her gloves they are the neatest,Her toilette you'll consider the completest.She's pretty, piquante, pouting, and capricious;So dainty, dimpled, daring, and delicious:She's joyful, and she's jaunty and judicious.She loves to hear the latest tittle-tattle;On manners, music, crinoline, and cattle,And pictures, peers and poets will she prattle!She often goes out shopping with her Mother,The Park she sometimes visits with her Brother—She'd much prefer to stroll there with Another!The gayMikadomusic sets her humming—And how she likes the Temple kettle-drumming,With those who love to go chrysanthemumming!She has no views on "rights" or vivisection,Finds politics a nuisance on reflection—To bores she has a most supreme objection!Delight she takes in anything that's merry,She dearly loves a pleasant lunchchezVerrey,And much prefers dry Pommery to sherry!She rattles through a picture exhibition,Then goes to see a circus or magician,And does a morning concert in addition!Of theatres, you'll find, she'll ne'er grow weary;Each night she'll go—let plays be good or dreary—And sit them through, still looking bright and cheery!She can't e'en rest 'twixt Saturday and Monday,But in a hansom—despite Mrs. Grundy—She drives down to the Abbey on a Sunday!She's bright each morn—as fresh as any daisy—And when with seeing sights I'm nearly crazy,She says I am "incorrigibly lazy!"But when one morn from Euston she has started—Those eyelids drooped a wee bit when we parted—I certainly feel dismal and down-hearted.That merry whirling time at last is ended!—And as for hearts? Pooh! pooh! I'm feeling splendid."Least said," the proverb hints, "is soonest mended."

TO Town, about the close of dull November,Up comes the Country Cousin, pray remember,—The Cattle Show to visit in December!

TO Town, about the close of dull November,

Up comes the Country Cousin, pray remember,—

The Cattle Show to visit in December!

Her winsome, watchet eyes, they are the sweetest,Herchaussureand her gloves they are the neatest,Her toilette you'll consider the completest.

Her winsome, watchet eyes, they are the sweetest,

Herchaussureand her gloves they are the neatest,

Her toilette you'll consider the completest.

She's pretty, piquante, pouting, and capricious;So dainty, dimpled, daring, and delicious:She's joyful, and she's jaunty and judicious.

She's pretty, piquante, pouting, and capricious;

So dainty, dimpled, daring, and delicious:

She's joyful, and she's jaunty and judicious.

She loves to hear the latest tittle-tattle;On manners, music, crinoline, and cattle,And pictures, peers and poets will she prattle!

She loves to hear the latest tittle-tattle;

On manners, music, crinoline, and cattle,

And pictures, peers and poets will she prattle!

She often goes out shopping with her Mother,The Park she sometimes visits with her Brother—She'd much prefer to stroll there with Another!

She often goes out shopping with her Mother,

The Park she sometimes visits with her Brother—

She'd much prefer to stroll there with Another!

The gayMikadomusic sets her humming—And how she likes the Temple kettle-drumming,With those who love to go chrysanthemumming!

The gayMikadomusic sets her humming—

And how she likes the Temple kettle-drumming,

With those who love to go chrysanthemumming!

She has no views on "rights" or vivisection,Finds politics a nuisance on reflection—To bores she has a most supreme objection!

She has no views on "rights" or vivisection,

Finds politics a nuisance on reflection—

To bores she has a most supreme objection!

Delight she takes in anything that's merry,She dearly loves a pleasant lunchchezVerrey,And much prefers dry Pommery to sherry!

Delight she takes in anything that's merry,

She dearly loves a pleasant lunchchezVerrey,

And much prefers dry Pommery to sherry!

She rattles through a picture exhibition,Then goes to see a circus or magician,And does a morning concert in addition!

She rattles through a picture exhibition,

Then goes to see a circus or magician,

And does a morning concert in addition!

Of theatres, you'll find, she'll ne'er grow weary;Each night she'll go—let plays be good or dreary—And sit them through, still looking bright and cheery!

Of theatres, you'll find, she'll ne'er grow weary;

Each night she'll go—let plays be good or dreary—

And sit them through, still looking bright and cheery!

She can't e'en rest 'twixt Saturday and Monday,But in a hansom—despite Mrs. Grundy—She drives down to the Abbey on a Sunday!

She can't e'en rest 'twixt Saturday and Monday,

But in a hansom—despite Mrs. Grundy—

She drives down to the Abbey on a Sunday!

She's bright each morn—as fresh as any daisy—And when with seeing sights I'm nearly crazy,She says I am "incorrigibly lazy!"

She's bright each morn—as fresh as any daisy—

And when with seeing sights I'm nearly crazy,

She says I am "incorrigibly lazy!"

But when one morn from Euston she has started—Those eyelids drooped a wee bit when we parted—I certainly feel dismal and down-hearted.

But when one morn from Euston she has started—

Those eyelids drooped a wee bit when we parted—

I certainly feel dismal and down-hearted.

That merry whirling time at last is ended!—And as for hearts? Pooh! pooh! I'm feeling splendid."Least said," the proverb hints, "is soonest mended."

That merry whirling time at last is ended!—

And as for hearts? Pooh! pooh! I'm feeling splendid.

"Least said," the proverb hints, "is soonest mended."

By the sea, on the shore, it is pleasant to be,The sunshine's delicious I own;This life would be ever delightful to me,If folks would but leave me alone!

By the sea, on the shore, it is pleasant to be,

The sunshine's delicious I own;

This life would be ever delightful to me,

If folks would but leave me alone!

O,HOLIDAY-MAKERS can rarely be still,But take superhuman exertionsAnd make themselves hot and exhausted and illTo organize horrid "excursions"!Let those who enjoy it ride out in a "shay"—Exploring each dell and each dingle—But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!They think it delightful to walk on the pier,And try to create a sensation;When passengers land, looking pallid and queer,A cause is for great jubilation:Let lunatics listen to bands when they play,And nod to their noise and their jingle—But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!Anemone-hunters roam over the rocks,All hoping to fish up a tank-full;They hopelessly ruin their shoes and their socks—O, why can't they rest and be thankful?They rave o'er a winkle, a wrass, or a wray,And sea-weeds that with them commingle—But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!They fancy 'tis pleasant to go for a sailWith wind in a dubious quarter;When waves "chop about," and they get very pale,And up to their knees in the water.Let maritime maniacs, wetted with spray,Discourse on a cleat or a cringle—But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!I'd much rather take a good pull at ozoneWithout all this bustle and riot;If well-meaning friends would but leave me alone,To bask in the sunshine and quiet.Such labour as theirs fills my heart with dismay—The thought of it makes my blood tingle—So I will throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!

O,HOLIDAY-MAKERS can rarely be still,

But take superhuman exertions

And make themselves hot and exhausted and ill

To organize horrid "excursions"!

Let those who enjoy it ride out in a "shay"—

Exploring each dell and each dingle—

But let me throw stones in the water all day

And roll on the sand and the shingle!

They think it delightful to walk on the pier,And try to create a sensation;When passengers land, looking pallid and queer,A cause is for great jubilation:Let lunatics listen to bands when they play,And nod to their noise and their jingle—But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!

They think it delightful to walk on the pier,

And try to create a sensation;

When passengers land, looking pallid and queer,

A cause is for great jubilation:

Let lunatics listen to bands when they play,

And nod to their noise and their jingle—

But let me throw stones in the water all day

And roll on the sand and the shingle!

Anemone-hunters roam over the rocks,All hoping to fish up a tank-full;They hopelessly ruin their shoes and their socks—O, why can't they rest and be thankful?They rave o'er a winkle, a wrass, or a wray,And sea-weeds that with them commingle—But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!

Anemone-hunters roam over the rocks,

All hoping to fish up a tank-full;

They hopelessly ruin their shoes and their socks—

O, why can't they rest and be thankful?

They rave o'er a winkle, a wrass, or a wray,

And sea-weeds that with them commingle—

But let me throw stones in the water all day

And roll on the sand and the shingle!

They fancy 'tis pleasant to go for a sailWith wind in a dubious quarter;When waves "chop about," and they get very pale,And up to their knees in the water.Let maritime maniacs, wetted with spray,Discourse on a cleat or a cringle—But let me throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!

They fancy 'tis pleasant to go for a sail

With wind in a dubious quarter;

When waves "chop about," and they get very pale,

And up to their knees in the water.

Let maritime maniacs, wetted with spray,

Discourse on a cleat or a cringle—

But let me throw stones in the water all day

And roll on the sand and the shingle!

I'd much rather take a good pull at ozoneWithout all this bustle and riot;If well-meaning friends would but leave me alone,To bask in the sunshine and quiet.Such labour as theirs fills my heart with dismay—The thought of it makes my blood tingle—So I will throw stones in the water all dayAnd roll on the sand and the shingle!

I'd much rather take a good pull at ozone

Without all this bustle and riot;

If well-meaning friends would but leave me alone,

To bask in the sunshine and quiet.

Such labour as theirs fills my heart with dismay—

The thought of it makes my blood tingle—

So I will throw stones in the water all day

And roll on the sand and the shingle!

There's a bell that wakes the echo and renders incomplete,The sullen shuttered silence of the solemn City street!

There's a bell that wakes the echo and renders incomplete,

The sullen shuttered silence of the solemn City street!

SAINT ALOYS the Great is both mouldy and grim,The Decalogue's dusty, the windows are dim;If I'm not mistaken, you'll long have to searchBefore you discover this old City church:But it's whereabouts I don't intend to betray,Though a pilgrim each week to the shrine of Saint May!The one bell is cracked in its crazy old tower,The sermon oft lasts rather more than an hour;The parson is prosy, the clerk eighty-three,The organ drones out in a sad minor key:Yet how quickly the moments, I find, fly away,I pass every week 'neath the spell of Saint May.She sits in a high, ancient black oaken pew,Which almost conceals her fair face from my view;The sweetest of pictures, it can't be denied,With two tiny sisters who sit by her side:And they lisp the responses and kneel down to pray,With their little hands locked in the palm of Saint May.Of saints I've seen many in churches before—In Florence or Venice, they're there by the score;Agnese, Maria—the rest I forget—By Titian, Bassano, and brave Tintoret—Though as pictures delightful, I fancy that they,E'en as pictures, can't rival my gentle Saint May.She's almost too young and too plump for a saint,With sweet little dimples that Millais might paint;She wears no ascetic or mortified mien,No wimple of yellow or vestment of green—But her soft golden hair throws a sunshiny ray,Like a nimbus, around the fair face of Saint May!What surquayne or partlet could look better thanMy saint's curly jacket of black Astracan?What coif than her bonnet—a triumph of skill—Or alb than her petticoat, edged with a frill.Would she love, would she honour, and would sheobey?I wonder while gazing across at Saint May!The sermon is finished, the blessing is o'er,The sparse congregation drift out at the door;I pause as I pass down the gloomy old aisle,To see my saint pass and perchance get a smile:I would daily change faith like the Vicar of Bray,Could I pass all my life in adoring Saint May!Through the weary dull week, as it rolls on apace,I'm haunted by thoughts of that tender young face;And oft, O how oft, does the vision arise—The pureness and truth of those eloquent eyes!And I long for the hour, and I count on the day,When I sit at a distance and worship Saint May!No doubt you'll be vastly surprised when you're toldHer name, in the Calendar, ne'er was enrolled—They prattled of "May," the sweet sisterly pair,I added the "Saint,"—she was canonized there!Ah! if saints might wed sinners, I'd yield to her sway,And I straightway would fall on my knees to Saint May!

SAINT ALOYS the Great is both mouldy and grim,

The Decalogue's dusty, the windows are dim;

If I'm not mistaken, you'll long have to search

Before you discover this old City church:

But it's whereabouts I don't intend to betray,

Though a pilgrim each week to the shrine of Saint May!

The one bell is cracked in its crazy old tower,The sermon oft lasts rather more than an hour;The parson is prosy, the clerk eighty-three,The organ drones out in a sad minor key:Yet how quickly the moments, I find, fly away,I pass every week 'neath the spell of Saint May.

The one bell is cracked in its crazy old tower,

The sermon oft lasts rather more than an hour;

The parson is prosy, the clerk eighty-three,

The organ drones out in a sad minor key:

Yet how quickly the moments, I find, fly away,

I pass every week 'neath the spell of Saint May.

She sits in a high, ancient black oaken pew,Which almost conceals her fair face from my view;The sweetest of pictures, it can't be denied,With two tiny sisters who sit by her side:And they lisp the responses and kneel down to pray,With their little hands locked in the palm of Saint May.

She sits in a high, ancient black oaken pew,

Which almost conceals her fair face from my view;

The sweetest of pictures, it can't be denied,

With two tiny sisters who sit by her side:

And they lisp the responses and kneel down to pray,

With their little hands locked in the palm of Saint May.

Of saints I've seen many in churches before—In Florence or Venice, they're there by the score;Agnese, Maria—the rest I forget—By Titian, Bassano, and brave Tintoret—Though as pictures delightful, I fancy that they,E'en as pictures, can't rival my gentle Saint May.

Of saints I've seen many in churches before—

In Florence or Venice, they're there by the score;

Agnese, Maria—the rest I forget—

By Titian, Bassano, and brave Tintoret—

Though as pictures delightful, I fancy that they,

E'en as pictures, can't rival my gentle Saint May.

She's almost too young and too plump for a saint,With sweet little dimples that Millais might paint;She wears no ascetic or mortified mien,No wimple of yellow or vestment of green—But her soft golden hair throws a sunshiny ray,Like a nimbus, around the fair face of Saint May!

She's almost too young and too plump for a saint,

With sweet little dimples that Millais might paint;

She wears no ascetic or mortified mien,

No wimple of yellow or vestment of green—

But her soft golden hair throws a sunshiny ray,

Like a nimbus, around the fair face of Saint May!

What surquayne or partlet could look better thanMy saint's curly jacket of black Astracan?What coif than her bonnet—a triumph of skill—Or alb than her petticoat, edged with a frill.Would she love, would she honour, and would sheobey?I wonder while gazing across at Saint May!

What surquayne or partlet could look better than

My saint's curly jacket of black Astracan?

What coif than her bonnet—a triumph of skill—

Or alb than her petticoat, edged with a frill.

Would she love, would she honour, and would sheobey?

I wonder while gazing across at Saint May!

The sermon is finished, the blessing is o'er,The sparse congregation drift out at the door;I pause as I pass down the gloomy old aisle,To see my saint pass and perchance get a smile:I would daily change faith like the Vicar of Bray,Could I pass all my life in adoring Saint May!

The sermon is finished, the blessing is o'er,

The sparse congregation drift out at the door;

I pause as I pass down the gloomy old aisle,

To see my saint pass and perchance get a smile:

I would daily change faith like the Vicar of Bray,

Could I pass all my life in adoring Saint May!

Through the weary dull week, as it rolls on apace,I'm haunted by thoughts of that tender young face;And oft, O how oft, does the vision arise—The pureness and truth of those eloquent eyes!And I long for the hour, and I count on the day,When I sit at a distance and worship Saint May!

Through the weary dull week, as it rolls on apace,

I'm haunted by thoughts of that tender young face;

And oft, O how oft, does the vision arise—

The pureness and truth of those eloquent eyes!

And I long for the hour, and I count on the day,

When I sit at a distance and worship Saint May!

No doubt you'll be vastly surprised when you're toldHer name, in the Calendar, ne'er was enrolled—They prattled of "May," the sweet sisterly pair,I added the "Saint,"—she was canonized there!Ah! if saints might wed sinners, I'd yield to her sway,And I straightway would fall on my knees to Saint May!

No doubt you'll be vastly surprised when you're told

Her name, in the Calendar, ne'er was enrolled—

They prattled of "May," the sweet sisterly pair,

I added the "Saint,"—she was canonized there!

Ah! if saints might wed sinners, I'd yield to her sway,

And I straightway would fall on my knees to Saint May!

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