Part 1

Produced by Chuck Greif from scanned pages available at the Internet Archive.

KENSINGTON RHYMES

KENSINGTON

RHYMES

BY COMPTON MACKENZIE

ILLUSTRATED BY J. R. MONSELL

LONDON: MARTIN SECKER

NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI

First published 1912

PRINTED BY

BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD

AT THE BALLANTYNE PRESS

TAVISTOCK STREET COVENT GARDEN

LONDON

TO

ETHEL LONG

CONTENTS

PAGE

OUR HOUSE 11

OUR SQUARE 15

THE DANCING CLASS 17

MY SISTER AT A PARTY 22

KISSING GAMES 26

A BALLAD OF THE ROUND POND 28

TOWN AND COUNTRY 35

POOR LAVENDER GIRLS 37

SUMMER HOLIDAYS 39

THE UNPLEASANT MOON 42

SUGGESTIONS ABOUT SLEEP 44

THE RARE BURGLAR 47

THE GERMAN BAND 49

THE DECEITFUL RAT-TAT 53

THE CAGE IN THE PILLAR BOX 54

THE FORTUNATE COALMEN 57

THE PAVEMENT ARTIST 60

SWEEPS 63

GREENGROCERS 65

CHRISTMAS NOT FAR OFF 66

THE DISAPPOINTMENT 67

TREASURE TROVE 68

A VISIT TO MY AUNT 73

DON QUIXOTE 77

THE WET DAY 84

LAST WORDS 87

KENSINGTON RHYMES

OUR house is very high and red, The steps are very white, The balcony is full of flowers, The knocker's very bright.

The hall has got a coloured lamp, A rack for father's hat, And pegs for coats: a curious word[A] Is printed on the mat.

The kitchen ticks too loud at night, It is a horrid place; Black-beetles run about the floor At a most dreadful pace.

The cellar is quite black with coal, The cat goes scratching there; People go tramping past above, But nobody knows where.

The dining-room has rosy walls, And silver knives and forks, And when I listen at the door, I hear the popping corks.

The library smells like new boots, It is a woolly room; The housemaid comes at eight o'clock And sweeps it with a broom.

The staircase has a thousand rods That rattle if you kick, And when the twilight makes it blue I rush up very quick.

The landing is a dismal place, The bannisters creak so, The door-knobs twinkle horribly, The gas is always low.

The drawing-room is cold and white, The chairs have crooked legs; Silk ladies rustle in and out While Fido sits and begs.

The bathroom is a trickling room, And always smells of paint, The cupboard's full of medicine For fever, cold or faint.

My bedroom is a brassy room With pictures on the wall: It's rather full of nurse's clothes But then my own are small.

Our house is very high and red, The steps are very white, The balcony is full of flowers, The knocker's very bright.

[A] Nobody knows what SALVE means

OUR square is really most select, Infectious children, dogs and cats Are not allowed to come inside, Nor any people from the flats.

I have a sweetheart in the square, I bring her pebbles that I find, And curious shapes in mould, and sticks, And kiss her when she does not mind.

She wears a dress of crackling white, A shiny sash of pink or blue, And over these a pinafore, And she comes out at half-past two.

Her legs are tall and thin and black, Her eyes are very large and brown, And as she walks along the paths, Her frock moves slowly up and down.

We all have sweethearts in our square, And when the winter comes again, We shall go to the dancing-class And watch them walking through the rain.

EACH week on Friday night at six Our dancing-class begins: Two ladies dressed in white appear And play two violins.

It's really meant for boys at school, But girls can also come, And when you walk inside the room You hear a pleasant hum.

The older boys wear Eton suits, The younger boys white tops; We stand together in a row And practise curious hops.

The dancing-master shows the step With many a puff and grunt; He has a red silk handkerchief Stuck grandly in his front.

He's awfully excitable, His wrists are very strong, He drags you up and down the room Whenever you go wrong.

And when you're going very wrong, The girls begin to laugh; And when you're pushed back in your place, The boys turn round and chaff.

We've learnt the polka and the waltz, We've _got_ the ladies' chain; Although he says our final bows Give him enormous pain.

The floor is very slippery, It's difficult to walk From one end to the other end Unless you sort of stalk.

And when the steps have all been done, He takes you by the arm To choose a partner for the dance-- It makes you get quite warm.

You have to bow and look polite, And ask with a grimace The pleasure of the next quadrille, And slouch into your place.

He always picks out girls you hate, I really don't know why, And when you look across the room It almost makes you cry

To see the girl you would have picked Dance with another boy Without a single smile for you, Determined to annoy.

Your heart beats very loud and quick, Your breath comes very fast, You pinch your partner in the chain-- But dances end at last.

You think you will not look at her, You look the other way; Yet when she beckons with her fan, You instantly obey.

How quick the evening gallops by And eight o'clock comes soon, But not till you've arranged to meet To-morrow afternoon.

I HEAR the piano, the party's begun; Hurry up! hurry up! there is going to be fun. Leave your wrap in the hall and tie up your shoes, There isn't a moment, a moment to lose. Take a peep at the dining-room as you go by, Lemonade, claret cup, orange wine you will spy: And they're going to have two sorts of ices this year, Both strawberry-cream and vanilla, I hear. Twelve dances are down on the programme, I see. Oh, do up your gloves, she is waiting for me! I hear the piano, the polka's begun! Oh, why does your beastly old sash come undone! That's right, are your ready? now don't you forget To say how d'ye do and express your regret That Miss Perkins[B] is laid up in bed with a cold-- It isn't my place--just you do as you're told. I say, look at Frank,[C] he's behaving as though He was playing with cads in a field full of snow; He's sliding about on the slippery floor All over the room with the kid from next door. It's a jolly good thing that Miss Perkins' in bed, They'll probably send old Eliza[D] instead. When we hear that she's come, we'll just not attend, Or tell her we never go home till the end. They give all the maids when they come, orange wine-- I say, do you think I might ask her for nine. All right, only don't say I danced more than twice; If you do, I'll say you have had more than one ice. Mother said that you could? She said one of each? You'd better look out or I'll jolly well peach. You don't care if I do? All right, just you wait! You'll tell Mrs. Jones we were not to be late? I'm not pinching at all, you beastly young sneak! You _won't_ follow me round when we play hide and seek! There's Dorothy![E] Pax! You can eat what you like, And to-morrow I'll give you a ride on my bike.

[B] Miss Perkins is our governess]

[C] He's my brother

[D] Eliza is our housemaid

[E] She's an awfully decent girl I know.

POSTMAN'S Knock! Postman's Knock! A letter for the girl next door, And two pence, please, to pay.

Kiss in the Ring! Kiss in the Ring! She's fallen down upon the floor, I don't know what to say.

Postman's Knock! Postman's Knock! I wish that I had asked for more; At games you must obey.

Kiss in the Ring! Kiss in the Ring! When running after her I tore Her frock the other day.

Postman's Knock! Postman's Knock! A letter for the girl next door, And a shilling she must pay.[F]

[F] But she didn't

THE Round Pond is a fine pond With fine ships sailing there, Cutters, yachts and men-o'-war, And sailor-boys everywhere.

Paper boats they hug the shore, And row-boats move with string But cutters, yachts and larger ships Sail on like anything.

It was the schooner _Kensington_, Set out one Saturday: The wind was blowing from the east, The sky was cold and grey.

Her crew stood on the quarter-deck And stared across the sea, With two brass cannon in the stern For the Royal Artillery.

The Royal Tin Artillery Had faced the sea before, They had fallen in the bath one night And heard the waste-plug roar.

They were rescued by the nursery maid And put on the ledge to dry; And they looked more like the Volunteers Than the Royal Artillery.

For the blue had all come off their clothes, And they afterwards wore grey; But they stood by the cannon like Marines That famous Saturday.

The crew of the schooner _Kensington_ Were Dutchmen to a man, With wooden legs and painted eyes; But the Captain he was bran.

His blood was of the brownest bran And his clothes were full of tucks; But he fell in the sea half-way across, And was eaten up by ducks.

We launched the boat at half-past three, And stood on the bank to watch, And some friends of mine who were fishing there Had a wonderful minnow-catch.

Fifteen minnows were caught at once In an ancient ginger jar, When a shout went up that the _Kensington_ Was heeling over too far.

Too far for a five-and-sixpenny ship That was warranted not to upset; But she righted herself in half a tick Though the crew got very wet.

The crew got very wet indeed; The Artillery all fell down, And lay on their backs for the rest of the voyage For fear they were going to drown.

The schooner _Kensington_ sailed on Across the wild Round Pond, And we ran along the gravel-bank With a hook stuck into a wand.

A hook stuck into a wand to guide The schooner safe ashore To incandescent harbour lights And a dock on the school-room floor.

But suddenly the wind dropped dead. And a calm came over the sea, And a terrible rumour got abroad It was time to go home to tea.

We whistled loud, we whistled long, The whole of that afternoon; But there wasn't wind enough to float A twopenny pink balloon.

And the other chaps upon the bank Looked anxiously out to sea; For their sweethearts and sisters were going home, And they feared for the cake at tea.

* * * * *

It was the schooner _Kensington_ Came in at dead of night With many another gallant ship And one unlucky kite.

The keeper found them at break of day, And locked them up quite dry In his little green hut, with a notice that On Monday we must apply.

So on Sunday after church we went To stare at them through the door; And we saw the schooner _Kensington_ Keel upwards on the floor.

But though we stood on the tips of our toes, And craned our necks to see, We could not spot the wooden-legged crew Or the Royal Artillery.

THEY say that country children have Most fierce adventures every night, With owls and bats and giant moths That flutter to the candle-light.

They say that country children search For earwigs underneath the sheets, That creeping animals abound Upon the wooden window-seats.

They say that country children wash Their hands in water full of things, Tadpoles and newts and wriggling eels, Until their hands are pink with stings.

But this I know, that if they slept Far, far away from owls and bats, Their hearts would thump tremendously To hear outside two fighting cats.

Two cats that surely must come through The inky window-pane and jump, With gleaming eyes, upon my bed-- Ah, then indeed their hearts would thump.

LAVENDER, lavender! Summer's in town! Blue skies and marguerites, Mother's new gown!

Lavender, lavender! Summer's in town! Blue seas and yellow sands, Children have flown.

Lavender, lavender! Bunchy and sweet! No one wants lavender All down our street.

Lavender girls in London never learn to play, Give them a penny, a penny before you go away.

WHEN I was small and went to bed Before the sun went down, My cot was woven out of gold Like a princess's gown.

And in the garden every night, I used to hear the birds, And from the people on the lawn A pleasant sound of words.

The garden was quite full of pinks Whose smell came blowing in Through windows open very wide Where gnats would dance and spin.

And as I lay in my cool cot, I'd think of daylight hours, Poppies and ox-eyed daisies white, And all the roadside flowers

Now lifting up their drooping heads In the long-shadow time; I'd listen for my mother's step The narrow stairs to climb.

And as she bent to say good-night And heard me say my prayer, She seemed a bit of mignonette, She was so sweet and fair.

And just as I was dozing off, I'd hear some jolly talk Of aunts and uncles setting out To take their supper-walk.

I'd hear their voices die away In the green curly lane; But I was always fast asleep When they came back again.

THE moon is not much use to me, She rises far too late: I'm fonder of the friendly fire That crackles in the grate.

But when I wake up in the night And find the fire asleep, His ashes make a horrid noise And mice begin to creep.

And then the moon crawls in between The curtains and the floor, And when I turn my face away, She's crawling round the door.

Oh, then I wish she was the fire, I like his light the most; He does not give the furniture A sort of shaking ghost.

I hide my head beneath the clothes And shut my eyes up tight, And then I see queer dancing wheels And spots of coloured light.

They do not comfort me at all, But pass the time away Until I hear the milkman's can And know that it is day.

I'VE heard it said that the dustman Is responsible for our sleep, That he puts a pinch of dust in our eyes When the stars begin to peep.

If this is true it would quite explain The horrible dreams that come, For the dustman looks a rough sort of chap, And his cart smells awfully rum.

I've tried to talk to the dustman, But his voice is fearfully hoarse; And once I put a penny in the bin-- It was taken out of course.

But for all the good it did my dreams, I need not have put it in; Perhaps he thought that the penny had slipped By accident into the bin.

It seems absurd in this civilised age[G] That our dreams should still be bad; If the dustman _is_ responsible I think he must be mad.

It's horrid enough to lie awake, And count the knobs on the bed; But it's horrider far to go to sleep, In fact I'd sooner be dead.

I expect that then if one had bad dreams And woke up in a fright, There would be an angel somewhere about To strike a cheerful light.

And your governess is not always glad, If you wake her up to say That a witch has been chasing you down a street Where the people have gone away.

[G] Father said this about something.

IT'S extremely unusual, my mother declares, For a burglar to sleep at the top of the stairs: The policemen, she says, are so terribly sure That daily the number of burglars gets fewer. They are caught by the dozen as morning comes round And dragged off to cells very deep underground: And there they repent of their wicked bad lives, With occasional visits from children and wives. So every night when I lie in my bed, I listen to hear the policeman's deep tread. I've a whistle that hangs on a piece of white cord, And it's much more consoling than any tin sword: For I know, if I blow, the policeman will come And make the old burglar look awfully glum.

I LOVE to lie in bed and hear The jolly German band. Why people do not care for it I cannot understand.

They do not mind the orchestra. And that makes far more noise; They quite forget that music is A thing that one enjoys.

When grown-up people come and call, I have to play for them; And once a deaf old lady said My playing was a gem.

But it's not true for them to say The Carnival de Venise[H] With three wrong notes is better than A band that plays with ease.

It comes each week at eight o'clock, And when I hear it play, I am a knight upon a horse And riding far away.

The lines upon the blanket are Six armies marching past, Six armies marching on a plain, Six armies marching fast.

Of course I am the general, I'm riding at the head; But suddenly the music stops And then I'm back in bed.

Each time it plays brings different thoughts, Exciting, sad and good. I'm sailing in a sailing ship, I'm walking in a wood.

I'm going to the pantomime, I'm at the hippodrome. But when the music stops, why then I always am at home.

In winter when it's dark at eight, The jolly German band Drives all unpleasant thoughts away Just like a fairy-wand.

In summer when it's light at eight, The German band still plays; It makes me think of pleasant things And seaside holidays.

I've heard that it plays out of tune, And upsets talking, and I've heard it called a nuisance, but I love the German band.

[H] This is beastly difficult, and almost so decent as _Rosalie the Prairie Flower_.

THE postman has given a loud rat-tat, Perhaps it's a parcel for me: Elizabeth does go slowly To open the door and see.

Oh dear, it's only a telegram, To wait on the stand in the hall Till Father comes home in the evening Or Mother comes back from a call.

I WONDER if an animal Lives in the pillar-box, For when the postman opens it You see a cage with locks.

And surely letters do not want A cage with bars and clamps; They have no wings, they could not fly, They're held by sticky stamps.

Perhaps the postman keeps a pet, A savage beast of prey; For lions, seals and diving-birds Are fed three times a day.

And all those figures on the plate Are meant perhaps for you To learn what time the beast is fed Like others at the Zoo.

And now I come to think of it, The postman's coat and hat Is not unlike a keeper's who Feeds animals with fat.

Besides, he always shuts the door With a tremendous bang, As if he feared to see stick out An irritable fang.

But then again I never heard The faintest roar or squeak, I never saw a sniffing nose Or spied a hooky beak.

So after all perhaps there's not A bird, a beast or snake. And yet to-morrow I shall post A slice of cherry-cake.

IT is a pleasant thing to watch The coalmen at their work; They do not seem to mind the dark Where many dangers lurk.

The braver of them goes below Into the cellar black, And calls out in a cheerful voice To bring another sack.

The other grunts and groans a lot Beneath his load of coal, And down the ladder goes with care Until he gains the hole.

He turns his burden upside down, The inside rattles out, And a delicious smell of coal Gets everywhere about.

The braver one takes up his spade And shovels it away; The other wipes his shiny face, And asks the time of day.

But it is very strange to me That neither seems to want To put the ladder down the hole And climb down where I can't.

A man, they say, once broke his leg By falling down a grating, And nearly died for want of food, Because they kept him waiting

A week before they pulled him out And took him to his home, From which he never more went forth The London streets to roam.

But coalmen do not run these risks, They have no nurse to frown, So they might spend the whole long day In climbing up and down.[I]

[I] They are silly not to.

I THINK that I should like to be A pavement artist best, For he has every kind of chalk Spread in a cosy nest.

I have ten pieces in a box, Black, yellow, white and blue, Pink, red, brown, orange, grey and green, But these are far too few.

He has a hundred different shades, And most uncommon sorts; He can draw salmon, queens and chops, Wrecks, mutinies and forts.

His cannon have enormous puffs Of the most curly smoke, Because he has so many 'greys,' Far more than other folk.

His girls are a delicious pink, And mine are rather pale; But then I have to be more strict For fear my pink should fail.

His fields have got a splendid green; They're full of flowers bright; But mine are covered up with snow Because my paper's white.