Chapter I: RECOLLECT a nurse call’d Ann

Who carried me about the grass,
And one fine day a fine young man
Came up and kiss’d the pretty lass.
She did not make the least objection!
Thinks I, “Aha!
When I can talk I’ll tell Mamma”—
And that’s my earliest recollection.
_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

LOULOU AND HER CAT

GOOD pastry is vended
In Cité Fadette;
_Maison Pons_ can make splendid
_Brioche_ and _galette_.

_M’sieu Pons_ is so fat that
He’s laid on the shelf;
_Madame_ had a Cat that
Was fat as herself.

Long hair, soft as satin,
A musical purr,
’Gainst the window she’d flatten
Her delicate fur.

I drove Lou to see what
Our neighbours were at,
In rapture, cried she, “What
An exquisite cat!

“What whiskers! She’s purring
All over. Regale
Our eyes, _Puss_, by stirring
Thy feathery tail!

“_M’sieu Pons_, will you sell her?”
“_Ma femme est sortie_,
Your offer I’ll tell her;
But will she?” says he.

Yet _Pons_ was persuaded
To part with the prize:
(Our bargain was aided,
My Lou, by your eyes!)

From his _légitime_ save him,—
_My_ spouse I prefer,
For I warrant _his_ gave him
_Un mauvais quart d’heure_.

I am giving a pleasant
Grimalkin to Lou,
—Ah, _Puss_, what a present
I’m giving to you!
_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

PICCADILLY

PICCADILLY! Shops, palaces, bustle, and breeze,
The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees;
By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly,
Whatever my mood is, I love Piccadilly.

Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming,
And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming,
And Beauty is whirling to conquest, where shrilly
Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly!

Bright days, when a stroll is my afternoon wont
And I meet all the people I do know, or don’t:
Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie—
No wonder, young Pilgrim, you like Piccadilly!

See yonder pair riding, how fondly they saunter,
She smiles on her poet, whose heart’s in a canter!
Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly,
He envies them both,—he’s an ass, Piccadilly!

Now were I such a bride, with a slave at my feet,
I would choose me a house in my favourite street;
Yes or no—I would carry my point, willy-nilly:
If “no,”—pick a quarrel; if “yes”—Piccadilly!

From Primrose balcony, long ages ago,
“Old Q.” sat at gaze,—who now passes below?
A frolicsome statesman, the Man of the Day
A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay;

Never darling of fortune more manfully trod,
Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod,
Can the thought reach his heart, and then leave it more chilly—
Old P. or old Q.,—“I must quit Piccadilly?”

Life is chequer’d; a patchwork of smiles and of frowns;
We value its ups, let us muse on its downs;
There’s a side that is bright, it will then turn us t’other,
One turn, if a good one, deserves yet another.
These downs are delightful, these ups are not hilly,—
Let us try one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly.
_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

A WORD THAT MAKES US LINGER

(_Written in the visitor’s book at Gopsall_)

KIND hostess mine, who raised the latch
And welcomed me beneath your thatch,
Who makes me here forget the pain,
And all the pleasures of Cockaigne,
Now, pen in hand, and pierced with woe,
I write one word before I go—
A word that dies upon my lips
While thus you kiss your finger-tips.

When Black-eyed Sue was rowed to land
That word she cried, and waved her hand—
Her lily hand!
It seems absurd,
But I can’t write that dreadful word.
_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

MY MISTRESS’S BOOTS

THEY nearly strike me dumb,
And I tremble when they come
Pit-a-pat:
This palpitation means
That these Boots are Geraldine’s—
Think of that!

Oh where did hunter win
So delectable a skin
For her feet?
You lucky little kid,
You perish’d, so you did,
For my sweet!

The faery stitching gleams
On the sides, and in the seams,
And it shows
That the Pixies were the wags
Who tipt these funny tags,
And these toes.

The simpletons who squeeze
Their extremities to please
Mandarins,
Would positively flinch
From venturing to pinch
Geraldine’s.

What soles to charm an elf!
Had Crusoe, sick of self,
Chanced to view
One printed near the tide,
Oh how hard he would have tried
For the two!

For Gerry’s debonair,
And innocent and fair
As a rose:
She’s an angel in a frock,
With a fascinating cock
To her nose.

Cinderella’s lefts and rights
To Geraldine’s were frights;
And, I trow,
The damsel, deftly shod,
Has dutifully trod
Until now.

Come, Gerry, since it suits
Such a pretty Puss (in Boots)
These to don,
Set this dainty hand awhile
On my shoulder, dear, and I’ll
Put them on.
_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

A NICE CORRESPONDENT!

THE glow and the glory are plighted
To darkness, for evening is come;
The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted,
The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.
I’m alone in my casement, for Pappy
Is summon’d to dinner at Kew:
I’m alone, dearest Fred, but I’m happy—
I’m thinking of you!

I wish you were here! Were I duller
Than dull, you’d be dearer than dear;
I’m drest in your favourite colour—
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!
I am wearing my lazuli necklace,
The necklace you fasten’d askew!
Was there ever so rude and so reckless
A darling as you?

I want you to come and pass sentence
On two or three books with a plot;
Of course you know “Janet’s Repentance”?
I’m reading Sir Waverley Scott,
The story of Edgar and Lucy,
How thrilling, romantic, and true!
The master (his bride was a goosey!)
Reminds me of you.

They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning
A Poet whose garland endures;
It was you who first spouted me Browning,—
That stupid old Browning of yours!
His vogue and his verve are alarming,
I’m anxious to give him his due,
But, Fred, he’s not nearly so charming
A Poet as you!

I heard how you shot at the Beeches,
I saw how you rode Chanticleer,
I have read the report of your speeches,
And echoed the echoing cheer.
There’s a whisper of hearts you are breaking,
Dear Fred, I believe it, I do!
Small marvel that Fashion is making
Her idol of you!

Alas for the world, and its dearly
Bought triumph, its fugitive bliss;
Sometimes I half wish I was merely
A plain or a penniless miss;
But perhaps one is best with “a measure
Of pelf,” and I’m not sorry, too,
That I’m pretty, because ’tis a pleasure,
My darling, to you!

Your whim is for frolic and fashion,
Your taste is for letters and art;—
This rhyme is the commonplace passion
That glows in a fond woman’s heart:
Lay it by in a dainty deposit
For relics—we all have a few!
Love, some day they’ll print it, because it
Was written to you!
_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

THERE’S A TIME TO BE JOLLY

THERE’S a time to be jolly, a time to repent,
A season for folly, a season for Lent,
The first as the worst we too often regard;
The rest as the best, but our judgment is hard.

There are snows in December and Roses in June,
There’s darkness at midnight and sunshine at noon;
But, were there no sorrow, no storm-cloud or rain,
Who’d care for the morrow with beauty again.

The world is a picture both gloomy and bright,
And grief is the shadow and pleasure the light,
And neither should smother the general tone:
For where were the other if either were gone?

The valley is lovely; the mountain is drear,
Its summit is hidden in mist all the year;
But gaze from the heaven, high over all weather,
And mountain and valley are lovely together.

I have learned to love Lucy, though faded she be;
If my next love be lovely, the better for me.
By the end of next summer, I’ll give you my oath,
It was best, after all, to have flirted with both.
_Charles Godfrey Leland._

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER