Part 1
Transcriber's note.
Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of other changes made, can be found at the end of the book. For this text version, diacritical marks that cannot be represented in plain text are shown in the following manner:
[O] o with macron above (balcOny).
Mark up: _italics_
[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 MINSTREL
The Lazy Minstrel
By J. ASHBY-STERRY
_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._
TO NINA, MARY, AND FLORENCE, THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED.
CONTENTS.
LAZY LAYS:-- Page
Hambleden Lock 3
Spring's Delights 6
A Modern Syren 9
Regrets 12
Hammockuity 13
My Country Cousin 15
A Common-Sense Carol 18
Saint May 20
A Canoe Canzonet 23
A Lover's Lullaby 25
The Tam O' Shanter Cap 26
A Street Sketch 28
A Tiny Trip 29
A Study 31
Doctor Brighton 33
Lizzie 37
A Marlow Madrigal 38
In Rotten Row 41
A Portrait 43
Symphonies in Fur 45
Drifting Down 48
Toujours Tennis 50
Tarpauline 52
The Kitten 54
In the Temple 56
An Unfinished Sketch 59
On Board the "Gladys" 62
Cigarette Rings 65
At Charing Cross 67
The Music of Leaves 70
CASUAL CAROLS:--
In a Bellagio Balcony 75
A Riverain Rhyme 78
The Little Rebel 80
Canoebial Bliss 83
Rosie 85
Skindle's in October 86
In My Easy Chair 88
Blankton Weir 90
Different Views 95
Two Naughty Girls 97
Couleur de Rose 99
In Strawberry Time 102
Number One 104
After Breakfast 107
In an Old City Church 110
A Little Love-Letter 112
Stray Sunbeams 114
Pearl 116
A Nutshell Novel 118
The Pink of Perfection 119
The Impartial 121
A Traveller's Tarantella 122
In a Minor Key 124
A Shower-Song 126
THE SOCIAL ZODIAC:--
January 131
February 132
March 133
April 134
May 135
June 136
July 137
August 138
September 139
October 140
November 141
December 142
IDLE SONGS:--
Mother o' Pearl 145
A Lay of the "Lion" 147
Jennie 150
A Favourite Lounge 151
Spring Cleaning 153
Taken in Tow 155
Thrown! 157
Baggage on the Brain 160
Haytime 163
Pet's Punishment 165
The Baby in the Train 167
Miss Sailor-Boy 170
A Private Note 171
L'Inconnue 173
Fallacies of the Fog 175
The Merry Young Water-Girl 177
A Secular Sermon 179
On the French Coast 181
At the "Lord Warden" 183
Bolney Ferry 185
Dot 188
A Riverside Luncheon 190
Love-Locks 192
A Streatley Sonata 196
The Midshipmaid 199
A Pantile Poem 201
Henley in July 204
The Minstrel's Return 207
A SINGER'S SKETCH-BOOK:--
Dover 213
Chamouni 214
Baveno 215
At Table d'Hôte 216
At Etretât 217
Homesick 218
Skreeliesporran 219
A Christmas Carol 220
Sound without Sense 222
The Merry Month of May 227
Two and Two 229
A Shorthand Sonnet 232
In a Gondola 233
The Last Leaf 236
_OVERTURE._
_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.
A CAPITAL 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 swift _Shuttlecock_-- 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!
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 the _Syren_ steams 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 maiden Who sit _vis-à-vis_ in their bass-wood canoe. Now look at the Admiral steering the _Fairy_, 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!
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 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" not _sol-fa_, Though we sadly sup on gruel, Let us 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 superb _A-tishoo_! Sneeze and warble _Tra la la_!
A MODERN SYREN.
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.
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 small _bottines_, 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 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 foam Down by the summer sea!"
REGRETS.
O FOR 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 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!
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!
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, Her _chaussure_ and 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 gay _Mikado_ music 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 lunch _chez_ Verrey, 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 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 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 day And 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 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!
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 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.
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 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 she _obey_? 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 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!
A CANOE CANZONET.
_The leaves scarce rustled in the trees, And faintly blew the summer breeze; A damsel drifted slowly down, Aboard her ship to Henley town; And as the white sail passed along, A punted Poet sang this song!_
IN your canoe, love, when you are going, With white sail flowing, and merry song; In your canoe, love, with ripples gleaming And sunshine beaming, you drift along! While you are dreaming, or idly singing, Your sweet voice ringing, when skies are blue: In summer days, love, on water-ways, love, You like to laze, love,--in your canoe!
In your canoe, love, I'd be a tripper, If you were skipper and I were mate; In your canoe, love, where sedges shiver And willows quiver, we'd navigate! Upon the River, you'd ne'er be lonely, For, if you only had room for two, I'd pass my leisure with greatest pleasure With you, my treasure,--in your canoe!
In your canoe, love, when breezes sigh light, In tender twilight, we'd drift away; In your canoe, love, light as a feather, Were we together--what _should_ I say? In sunny weather, were Fates propitious, A tale delicious I'd tell to you! In quiet spots, love, forget-me-nots, love, We'd gather lots, love,--in your canoe!
BOLNEY BACKWATER, _July_.
A LOVER'S LULLABY.
MIRROR your sweet eyes in mine, love, See how they glitter and shine! Quick fly such moments divine, love, Link your lithe fingers in mine!
Lay your soft cheek against mine, love, Pillow your head on my breast; While your brown locks I entwine, love, Pout your red lips when they're prest!
Mirror your fate, then, in mine, love; Sorrow and sighing resign: Life is too short to repine, love, Link your fair future in mine!
THE TAM O' SHANTER CAP.
_Upon the Spa at Scarborough, the Minstrel was a panter-- He asked a Wilful Maiden why she wore a Tam o' Shanter? She gazed upon his furrowed face, half doubting if he chaffed her, Then, noting well his solemn mien, she answered thus, with laughter--_
LET others wear, upon the Spa, The "Rubens" hat or bonnet; The "Gainsborough," the Tuscan straw, With _marguerites_ upon it-- The "Pamela," of quaint design, The "Zulu," or the "Planter"-- But as for me, I much incline To wear my Tam o' Shanter!