Part 2
Let others sport the fluffy hat, The "Sailor Boy," or "Granny;" The "Bargee," or some other that Is anything but canny. If petticoats be short or long, Or fuller be or scanter, Or if you think it right or wrong-- I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter!
I'll wear it if it's hot or cold, Let weather what it may be! Will this Child do "what she is told"? Or is she _quite_ a baby? I do not care for my Mama, Or Cousin Charlie's banter; Despite the chaff of dear Papa, I'll wear my Tam o' Shanter!
You ask me if I'll tell you why I cannot do without it? Because it keeps me cool and dry-- You seem inclined to doubt it? The reason why? There, pray don't tease! I'll tell you that instanter. The reason is--_Because I please_ To wear my Tam o' Shanter!
A STREET SKETCH.
UPON the Kerb, a maiden neat-- Her hazel eyes are passing sweet-- There stands and waits in dire distress: The muddy road is pitiless, And 'busses thunder down the street!
A snowy skirt, all frill and pleat; Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feet Peep out, beneath her kilted dress, Upon the Kerb!
She'll first advance and then retreat, Half frightened by a hansom fleet. She looks around, I must confess, With marvellous coquettishness!-- Then droops her eyes and looks discreet, Upon the Kerb!
A TINY TRIP.
THE BILL OF LADING.
SHE was cargo and crew, She was boatswain and skipper, She was passenger too, Of the _Nutshell_ canoe; And the eyes were so blue Of this sweet tiny tripper! She was cargo and crew, She was boatswain and skipper!
THE PILOT.
How I bawled, "Ship, ahoy!" Hard by Medmenham Ferry! And she answered with joy, She would like a convoy, And would love to employ A bold pilot so merry: How I bawled, "Ship, ahoy!" Hard by Medmenham Ferry!
THE VOYAGE.
'Neath the trees gold and red, In that bright autumn weather, When our white sails were spread, O'er the waters we sped-- What was it she said? When we drifted together! 'Neath the trees gold and red, In that bright autumn weather!
THE HAVEN.
Ah! the moments flew fast, But our trip too soon ended! When we reached land at last, And our craft was made fast, It was six or half-past-- And Mama looked offended! Ah! the moments flew fast, But our trip too soon ended!
A STUDY.
MADE IN "BRADSHAW" AT CARNFORTH JUNCTION.
MISS DIMPLECHEEK, Your winsome face, Your figure full of girlish grace, Is quite unique! Your pretty, poutful, childlike charm, All criticism must disarm, Miss Dimplecheek!
Miss Dimplecheek, Ah! well-a-day, I watch your pretty roses play At hide and seek! While York to Lancaster gives place, And sweeter grows your pretty face-- Miss Dimplecheek!
Miss Dimplecheek, I wonder if You ever revel in a tiff, Or pout in pique Or droop those pretty eyelids down, Or shake your shoulders, stamp, or frown, Miss Dimplecheek?
Miss Dimplecheek, I gaze, and then-- The most cantankerous of men Grows mild and meek. Your faults? Perchance you _may_ have some-- But to your faults I'm blind and dumb-- Miss Dimplecheek.
Miss Dimplecheek, If I but knew Who was the proud papa of you I'd quickly speak: And get an introduction, so Eventually I might know Miss Dimplecheek.
Miss Dimplecheek, I leave you here, For I am off to Windermere, To stay a week: I p'r'aps may ne'er see you again-- But--there's the bell, and here's my train-- Miss Dimplecheek!
DOCTOR BRIGHTON.
"_One of the best physicians our city ever knew is kind, cheerful, merry, Doctor Brighton._"--THE NEWCOMES.
SCENE.--King's Road, Brighton.
THE COLONEL. BERYL (_His Niece_).
THE COLONEL.
THOUGH long it is since Titmarsh wrote; His good advice we still remember, When bad catarrh and rugged throat Are rife in town in grey November! So, if your temper's short or bad, Or of engagements you are full, man; Or if you're feeling bored or sad, Make haste and get aboard the Pullman And throw all physic to the dogs-- If life's sad burden you would lighten-- Run quick away from London fogs And call in cheerful Doctor Brighton!
BERYL.
Good Doctor Brighton, a mighty magician is, See him at once, howe'er bad you may be! Take his advice--there no better physician is-- Naught is his physic but Sunshine and Sea! Come down at once then! Leave London in hazy time, Leave it enshrouded in yellow and brown! Come here and revel in exquisite lazy time, Flee from the turmoil and taint of the town! Blue is the sky and the sunshine is glorious, Charged is the air with delicious ozone: Gay is the cliff and most gentle is Boreas, Come down at once and recover your "tone!"
THE COLONEL.
Though many years have passed away, And countless cares to not a _few_ come, The place is bright as in the day Of Ethel, Clive, and Colonel Newcome: The East Street shops are just as gay, The turtle still as good at Mutton's; The buns at Streeter's--so they say-- As well-beloved by tiny gluttons! You still can gallop o'er the Down, Or swim at Brill's just like a Triton. A smile will supersede your frown When you consult kind Doctor Brighton!
BERYL.
Here is Mama looking anxious and serious: List to the patter of smartly shod feet! Dainty young damsels, whose faces ne'er weary us, Tailor-made dresses delightfully neat! Angular ladies in gloomy æsthetic coats, Maudle and dawdle the afternoon through; Graceful girlettes in the shortest of petticoats, Flutter their frills as they walk two-and-two. Fur-coated beauties in carriages roll about, Jaded M.P.'s try to trot away cares, Dandies and poets and loungers here stroll about, Dignified dowagers bask in Bath-chairs!
THE COLONEL.
Though cynics swear all pleasures fade, And cry, _O tempora mutantur_! The bonny laughing Light Brigade, Still on the King's Road gaily canter! And yet upon the Lawns and Pier, Do lots of pleasant folk commingle: While still the old, old song we hear-- The lullaby of surf on shingle! Then let's remain to laugh and laze, Where light and air enjoyment heighten-- Too short the hours, too few the days, We pass with merry Doctor Brighton!
LIZZIE.
PAINTED BY LESLIE.
O, WHO can paint the picture of my pet? As 'mid the grey-green hay she childlike kneels, Who shows a dainty slipper, then conceals 'Neath tangled grass its celadon rosette. A soft white robe, a broidered chemisette Scarce veils her rounded bosom, as it steals A subtle charm it only half reveals-- As sweet and modest as the violet!
A gipsy hat casts shadows, pearly grey, Across the golden sunshine of her smile. Her glance e'en cynics dare not disobey, Her dimples even iron hearts beguile-- A dainty despot on a throne of hay, Who conquers all by magic girlish wile!
A MARLOW MADRIGAL.
O, BISHAM BANKS are fresh and fair, And Quarry Woods are green, And pure and sparkling is the air, Enchanting is the scene! I love the music of the weir, As swift the stream runs down, For, O, the water's deep and clear That flows by Marlow town!
When London's getting hot and dry, And half the Season's done, To Marlow you should quickly fly, And bask there in the sun. There pleasant quarters you may find-- The "Angler" or the "Crown" Will suit you well, if you're inclined To stay in Marlow town.
I paddle up to Harleyford, And sometimes I incline To cushions take with lunch aboard, And play with rod and line. For in a punt I love to laze, And let my face get brown; And dream away the sunny days By dear old Marlow town!
I go to luncheon at the Lawn, I muse, I sketch, I rhyme; I headers take at early dawn, I list to All Saints' chime. And in the River, flashing bright, Dull Care I strive to drown-- And get a famous appetite At pleasant Marlow town!
So when, no longer, London life You feel you can endure; Just quit its noise, its whirl, its strife, And try the "Marlow-cure"! You'll smooth the wrinkles on your brow And scare away each frown-- Feel young again once more, I vow, At quaint old Marlow town!
Here Shelley dreamed and thought and wrote, And wandered o'er the leas; And sung and drifted in his boat Beneath the Bisham trees. So let _me_ sing, although I'm no Great poet of renown-- Of hours that much too quickly go, At good old Marlow town!
IN ROTTEN ROW.
AWAY with all sorrow, away with all gloom, Now may is in blossom, and lilac in bloom; The golden laburnum in gardens is gay, The windows are bright with their floral display; The air is delightful, and warm is the sun, The chesnuts are snowy, the Derby is won. Piccadilly is pleasant from daylight to dark, And Bond Street is crowded, and gay is the Park-- So now is the time when you all ought to go, And sit on a Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!
For only a penny I sit in the shade, And gaze with delight on the gay cavalcade! While countless romances I read if I please, In the people I see from my Chair 'neath the trees. 'Tis better by far than an Opera-stall, A crowded At-home or a smart fancy ball; Or gazing at pictures, or playing at pool, Or playing the banjo, or playing the fool-- When soft summer breezes from Kensington blow, 'Tis pleasant to sit on a Chair in the Row!
What studies of man and of woman and horse Here pass up and down on the tan-trodden course! The Earl and the Duke and the Doctor are there, The author, the actor, the great millionaire; The first-season beauties whose roses are red, The third-season beauties whose roses have fled! M.P.'s, upon cobs, chatting pleasantly there, And pets, upon ponies, with long sunny hair-- I note them all down, as they pass to and fro, And muse in my Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!
What countless fair pictures around may be seen, How colours flash bright on their background of green! A bouquet of figure, of fashion, of face, And dainty devices in linen and lace! The triumphs of Worth and of Madame Elise You see as you wonder and moon 'neath the trees. What sweet scraps of scandal afloat in the air, And gossip you hear sitting silently there!-- But folks are going lunchwards; I'll join them, and so I ponder no more in my Chair in the Row!
A PORTRAIT.
IN sunny girlhood's vernal life She caused no small sensation; But now the modest English wife To others leaves flirtation. She's young still, lovely, debonair, Although sometimes her features Are clouded by a thought of care For those two tiny creatures.
Each tiny, toddling, mottled mite Asserts with voice emphatic, In lisping accents, "Mite is right"-- Their rule is autocratic: The song becomes, that charmed mankind, Their musical narcotic, And baby lips, than Love, she'll find, Are even more despotic!
Soft lullaby, when singing there, And castles ever building-- Their destiny she'll carve in air, Bright with maternal gilding: Young Guy, a clever advocate-- So eloquent and able! A powdered wig upon his pate, A coronet for Mabel!
SYMPHONIES IN FUR.
COMPOSED DURING THE FROST.
_In these rough rhymes I string together Portraits of each pretty face-- Which, in this rough and rimy weather, Surely can't be out of place._
LADY SEALSKIN.
A DAINTY young damsel is Pearl, Beclad in the softest of sealskin: I'm told her papa is an Earl;-- Just watch her most gracefully twirl, A lovely and lissom young girl, Whose jersey is tight as an eelskin; A dainty young damsel is Pearl, Beclad in the softest of sealskin.
MISS OTTER.
You never, I'm certain, saw such A lithe little learner in otter! She's ready to fall at a touch; Behold how she's anxious to clutch Her ebony-stick with a crutch By which she's enabled to totter. You never, I'm certain, saw such A lithe little learner in otter.
PRINCESS ERMINE.
Pray, who is the pretty Princess, Who is robed in the royalest ermine? And exquisite velveteen dress, With bangles that ring more or less; I'm sure you're unable to guess, And 'tis hardly for me to determine! Pray, who is this pretty Princess, Who is robed in the royalest ermine?
MISS SILVER-GREY RABBIT.
Here comes that big baby called Bee, Who is clad in the coat of a bunny! A romping young rebel is she-- Her skirts only reach to her knee, Her life's full of mischief and glee, And a "spill" she thinks screamingly funny. Here comes that big baby called Bee, Who is clad in the coat of a bunny!
THE HON. MABEL SABLE.
O, had I ten thousand a year I'd marry Miss Mabel in sable! A dainty, divine little dear, She's out of my reach though she's near-- I'd woo her to-day without fear, And wed her at once, were I able! O, had I ten thousand a year I'd marry Miss Mabel in sable!
MISS BEARSKIN.
And this is our sweet little Flo, A bonny young beauty in bearskin! How glibly she'll glide to and fro, And sweet sunny glances bestow, While a lovely carnational glow Just flushes her exquisite fair skin. And this is our sweet little Flo, A bonny young beauty in bearskin!
DRIFTING DOWN.
DRIFTING down in the grey-green twilight, O, the scent of the new-mown hay! The oars drip in the mystic shy light, O, the charm of the dying day! While fading flecks of bright opalescence But faintly dapple a saffron sky, The stream flows on with superb quiescence, The breeze is hushed to the softest sigh. Drifting down in the sweet still weather, O, the fragrance of fair July! Love, my Love, when we drift together, O, how fleetly the moments fly!
Drifting down on the dear old River, O, the music that interweaves! The ripples run and the sedges shiver, O, the song of the lazy leaves! And far-off sounds--for the night so clear is-- Awake the echoes of bygone times; The muffled roar of the distant weir is Cheered by the clang of the Marlow chimes. Drifting down in the cloudless weather, O, how short is the summer day! Love, my Love, when we drift together, O, how quickly we drift away!
Drifting down as the night advances, O, the calm of the starlit skies! Eyelids droop o'er the half-shy glances, O, the light in those blue-grey eyes! A winsome maiden is sweetly singing A dreamy song in a minor key; Her clear low voice and its tones are bringing A mingled melody back to me. Drifting down in the clear calm weather, O, how sweet is the maiden's song! Love, my Love, when we drift together, O, how quickly we drift along!
TOUJOURS TENNIS.
BY A WILFUL LAWNTENNISONIENNE.
O BRING me, O bring me, my stout mackintosh, I care not a feather for slime or for slosh! The sky it is leaden, the lawn sopping wet, And sodden the balls are, and slack is the net! I've done it before and I'll do it again, I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the rain!
I'll don my sou'-wester, then what do I care If weather be foul or if weather be fair? I'll put on my furs, and I'll shorten my clothes, I'll wear my galoshes and thick woollen hose: I care not a pin for the storm or the flood, I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the mud!
I laugh as the hailstones come pattering down, I'm spattered all over from sole unto crown! In thunder and lightning I'll play all the same-- I _won't_ be debarred from my favourite game! Though weak-hearted lasses may quiver and quail, I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the hail!
In summer 'tis pleasant, but you ought to know 'Tis capital fun in the winter also: When nets are all frozen and balls can't rebound, When chilly the air is and snow's on the ground! Though lazy folks shiver, and say 'tis "no go," I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the snow!
What pleasure can equal, what exercise vies This winter Lawn-Tennis, with snow in your eyes? You trip and you tumble, you glance and you glide, You totter and stumble, you slip and you slide! With two ancient racquets strapped fast to my feet, I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the sleet!
In autumn, as well as in summer or spring, In praise of Lawn-Tennis I heartily sing! Though good at each season, and better each time, I'm certain in winter the game's in its prime! You doubt it? No matter! Whate'er may befall, I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of you all!
TARPAULINE.
A SKETCH AT RYDE.
A PRETTY picture is it not, Beneath the awning of the yacht? A beauty of Sixteen, She wears a trim tarpaulin hat, So now you know the reason that I call her Tarpauline.
A taut serge dress of Navy blue, A boatswain's silver whistle, too, She wears when she's afloat; An open collar, and I wot, A veritable sailor's knot Around her pretty throat.
She has a glance that pleads and kills; And 'mid her shy and snowy frills A little foot appears; She has the softest sunny locks, The compass she knows how to box, And, when it's needful--ears!
The smartest little sailor-girl, Who'll steer or "bear a hand" or furl, And I am told she oft Quite longs to reef her petticoats, And gleefully to "girl the boats," Or glibly go aloft!
But now how lazily she lies! And droops those tender trustful eyes Unutterably sweet! While snugly 'neath the bulwark curled, Forgetting all about the world, The _World_ is at her feet!
With tiny, dimpled, sunburnt hand, She pats the solemn Newfoundland Who crouches at her side. She's thinking--not of me nor you, When smiling as she listens to The lapping of the tide.
O, were I pressed, aboard that ship, How joyfully I'd take a trip, For change of air and scene! I'd soon pack up a carpet-bag, And gladly sail beneath the flag, Of bonny Tarpauline!
THE KITTEN.
A SWEET, short-skirted, pouting pet, A winsome, laughing, glad, girlette; She's ten-and-thoughtless, and as yet, By falsity unsmitten! A merry young misogynist, Few boyish games can she resist-- The Kitten!
She hates a doll and girlish toys, She's fond of whips, and dogs, and boys, For, truth to tell, she finds no joys In crewel-work or tatting: But see how smiling is her face, Indeed, a pretty gleeful Grace-- When batting!
She bowls with marvellous success, And keeps her wicket, I confess-- Despite her graceful girlish dress-- As well as any Briton! She's saucy, silly, and self-willed, The smartest longstop ever frilled-- The Kitten!
She's erudite in "wides" and "byes," And I will venture to surmise, She'll vanquish any boy her size At games of single-wicket! And yet, no doubt, she's good as gold, For I'll go bail she's only bold-- At cricket!
But like her namesake, clad in fur, No mischief comes amiss to her; To me it seems it should occur, To leave her faults unwritten. She'll make a score, I'm sure of that, And loves to carry out her bat-- The Kitten!
TUNBRIDGE WELLS, _August_.
IN THE TEMPLE.
_The danger that lurks in Chrysanthemum Shows, You'll see in this letter from Milly to Rose!_
DEAR ROSE, I never shall forget-- That is, I always shall remember-- The very brightest day, my pet, We had throughout this dull November! I went last Monday, you must know, With Tina, Mrs. S., and Clarry, To see the Temple flower-show, And, best of all, to lunch with Harry!
We saw the gardens--'twould be sport To make the Benchers play lawn-tennis-- And chambers in a dingy court Where Fanny Bolton nursed Pendennis: The rooms where Goldsmith lived and died, The sycamore where Johnson prated; The house where Pip did once reside, The Fountain where sweet Ruth Pinch waited.
We grasped a massive balustrade-- The date, they said, was Sixteen Thirty-- The way was dark, and I'm afraid We found the staircase rather dirty. Those grim old stairs to Harry's Den-- We clomb them gaily, nothing daunted-- They still by Warrington and Pen, And other pleasant ghosts are haunted!
Ah, what a spot, my dearest Rose, To muse upon this queer old Den is! To catalogue its curios I'm sure unable quite my pen is! But from its panes we gaze upon The misty midday sun a-quiver; The red-sailed barges drifting on, The sparkle of the dear old River!
Then mingling sweetly one perceives-- 'Mid laughter light and girlish gabble-- The sighing of the autumn leaves, And singing of the Fountain's babble! How quick my thoughts drift back again To those bright happy days at Hurley-- A pleasure strongly dashed with pain-- (O, Harry's locks are brown and curly!)
But, Rose, the luncheon! It was grand-- The oak you know, my love, was sported-- And all the speeches, understand, Were much too good to be reported. There's Clarry and big Charlie Clough-- It is a case! I think they'll marry-- I wonder who is good enough For handsome, grey-eyed, laughing Harry?
It soon grew dark, but I could see That clearly no one did desire light; For Tina and young Freddy B. Were spooning by the fitful firelight. We stayed till late, for Mrs. S. The most enduring chaperone is. And Harry sang! I must confess His voice the richest baritone is.
Ah, how the moments quickly flit In song and talk and playful banter! The motto on the sundial writ Is _Pereunt et imputantur_. I'm rather sad! Ah, what's the use? I know you'll think I'm very silly; Although I am a little goose, I always am, your loving Milly.
AN UNFINISHED SKETCH.
A SYMPHONY IN WHITE.
_Too fair for prose, too sweet for rhyme, A laughing lass beneath the lime!_
ONE sunny day in glorious July I lazed upon the verdant tennis lawn! And smoking there an idle cigarette I watched a maid who gazed upon the game, Clad in a simple snowy cambric frock, And all the budding beauty of Sixteen! And as she held her racquet banjo-wise, While dreamily she trifled with its strings, I sketched the merry maiden as she stood, And sang a lazy lay beneath the lime.