Chapter I: Preface

The following trifles have already made their appearance in various periodicals. The limit of their pretension is obvious from their individual brevity and collective title; with few exceptions, they were intended simply as drawing-room songs. Without aspiring to the high level of the days when Praed, Bayly, Hood, Fitzgerald, Theodore Hook, and the two Smiths wrote for music, may I flatter myself that these Carols are at least equal in point of taste (if not in point of humour) to certain light and lively ballads that are at present popular through the medium of the music-halls?

Some readers will probably think the name of this book suspiciously similar to that of Mr Frederick Locker's charming _London Lyrics_. Let me anticipate a charge of plagiarism by observing that Mr. Locker himself was kind enough to send me the suggestion for my present title.

To those gentlemen who have given me permission to republish various verses in this collection, I am sincerely obliged.

H. S. L.

CAROLS OF COCKAYNE.

THE TWINS.

N form and feature, face and limb,

I grew so like my brother

That folks got taking me for him

And each for one another.

It puzzled all our kith and kin,

It reach'd an awful pitch;

For one of us was born a twin

And not a soul knew which.

One day (to make the matter worse),

Before our names were fix'd,

As we were being wash'd by nurse,

We got completely mix'd.

And thus, you see, by Fate's decree,

(Or rather nurse's whim),

My brother John got christen'd _me_,

And I got christen'd _him_.

This fatal likeness even dogg'd

My footsteps when at school,

And I was always getting flogg'd--

For John turn'd out a fool.

I put this question hopelessly

To every one I knew,--

What would you do, if you were me.

To prove that you were _you?_

Our close resemblance turn'd the tide

Of my domestic life;

For somehow my Intended bride

Became my brother's wife.

In short, year after year the same

Absurd mistakes went on;

And when I died--the neighbours came

And buried brother John!

(Published with music by Messrs Cramer.)

UN PAS QUI COÛTE.

I'VE a genius or a talent--I perceive it pretty clearly

In pursuing an ambition or in climbing up a tree--

For never quite attaining, but attaining very nearly

To my aspiration's altitude, whatever it may be.

Tis a faculty that haunts me with an obstinate persistence,

For I felt it in my boyhood, and I feel it in my prime,--

All the efforts and endeavours I have made in my existence

Have invariably ended "but a step from the sublime."

As a boy I made a tender of my tenderest affection,

In a lovely little sonnet to the fairest of the fair:

(Though nothing but a youngster, I've preserved the recollection

Of her tyranny, her beauty, and the way she did her hair.)

She was married, I remember, to a person in the City,--

I consider'd him remarkably obtrusive at the time;

So I quitted my enslaver with a lofty look of pity,

For I felt my situation "but a step from the sublime."

Being confident that Cupid was a little gay deceiver,

I forgot my disappointment in a struggle after Fame;

I had caught the rage of writing as a child may catch a fever,

So I took to making verses as a way to make a name.

When I publish'd a collection of my efforts as a writer--

With a minimum of reason and a maximum of rhyme--

I am proud to say that nobody could well have been politer

Than the critics, for they, call'd it "but a step from the

sublime."

I was laudably ambitious to extend my reputation,

And I plann'd a pretty novel on a pretty novel plan;

I would make it independent both of sin and of "sensation,"

And my villain should be pictured as a persecuted man.

For your Bulwers and your Braddons and your Collinses

may grovel

In an atmosphere of horror and a wilderness of crime;

Twas for me to controvert them, and I did so in a novel

Which was commonly consider'd "but a step from the

sublime."

I have master'd metaphysics--I have mounted on the pinions

Both of Painting and of Music--and I rather think I know

Ev'ry nook and ev'ry corner of Apollo's whole dominions,

From the top of Mount Parnassus down to Paternoster Row.

I have had my little failures, I have had my great successes--

And Parnassus, I assure you, is a weary hill to climb;

But the lowest and the meanest of my enemies confesses

That he very often thinks me "but a step from the sublime."

THE GIFT OF THE GAB.

A LECTURE ON ELOCUTION.

OU have read how Demosthenes walk'd

on the beach,

With his mouth full of pebbles, rehears-

ing a speech--

Till the shell-fish and sea-gulls pro-

nounced him a bore,

And the sea met his gravest remarks

with a roar.

In fact, if you ever learnt Greek, you 'll confess

That it's hardly the right kind of tongue to impress

An intelligent lobster or well-inform'd crab,

With the deepest respect for the Gift of the Gab.

Still Eloquence gives men a wonderful power,

And it often strikes me, after sitting an hour

At a lecture on something I don't understand,

That the Gift of the Gab is decidedly grand.

Indeed, I am frequently heard to declare,

If the Queen of the Fairies would answer my prayer,

I should instantly drop on my knees to Queen Mab,

Crying, Grant me, oh grant me, the Gift of the Gab.

If you 'd hear the true summit of Eloquence reach'd

Go to church when a charity-sermon is preach'd;

Where, with hands in his pockets and tears in his eyes,

Ev'ry soft-hearted sinner contributes and cries.

I think, if you look in the plate, you'll opine

That the sermon you heard was uncommonly fine,

And that ev'ry Oxonian and ev'ry Cantab

Ought to cultivate early the Gift of the Gab.

But it's after a dinner at Freemasons' Hall

That the orator's talent shines brightest of all;

When his eye becomes glazed and his voice becomes thick,

And he's had so much hock he can only say hie!

So the company leave him to slumber and snore

Till he's put in a hat and convey'd to the door;

And he finds, upon reaching his home in a cab,

That his wife rather shines in the Gift of the Gab.

Then there's Gab in the senate and Gab at the bar,

But I fear their description would lead me too far;

And (last but not least) there is Gab on the stage.

Which I couldn't exhaust if I sang for an age.

But, if there are matters that puzzle you still,

You may take up an Enfield and go through a drill,

Which will teach you much more than a hurried confab

With regard to that art call'd the Gift of the Gab.

BEHIND THE SCENES.

LONG, long ago I had an aunt

Who took me to the play:

An act of kindness that I shan't

Forget for many a day.

I was a youngster at the time,

Just verging on my teens,

And fancied that it must be "prime"

To go _behind the scenes_.

I ventured to express the same

In quite a candid way,

And shock'd my aunt--a sober dame,

Though partial to the play.

'Twas just the moment when Macbeth

(Whose voice resembled Kean's)

Had finished planning Duncan's death,

And rushed _behind the scenes_.

I recollect that evening yet,

And how my aunt was grieved;

And, oh! I never shall forget

The lecture I received.

It threw a light upon the class

Of knowledge that one gleans

By being privileged to pass

His time _behind the scenes_.

The Heroine I worshipp'd then

Was fifty, I should think;

My Lord the commonest of men,'

My Lover fond of drink.

The Fairies I believed so fair

Were not by any means

The kind of people one would care

To meet _behind the scenes_.

I cannot boast that I enjoy

The stage-illusion still;

I'm growing far too old a boy

To laugh or cry at will.

But I can cast a critic's eye

On mimic kings and queens,

And nothing ever makes me sigh

To get _behind the scenes_.

Ah! shallow boastings--false regrets!

The world is but a stage

Where Man, poor player, struts and frets

From infancy to age;

And then leaps blindly, in a breath,

The space that intervenes

Between our stage-career and Death,

Who lurks _behind the scenes!_

"WITH MUSICAL SOCIETY."

LOOK'D for lodgings, long ago,

Away from London's fogs and

fusses;

A rustic Paradise, you know,

Within a walk of trains or 'busses.

I made my choice, and settled down

In such a lovely situation!--

About a dozen miles from town,

And very near a railway-station.

Within my pastoral retreat

No creditor, no care intruded;

My happiness was quite complete

(The "comforts of a home" included).

I found the landlord most polite,

His wife, if possible, politer;--

Their two accomplish'd daughters quite

Electrified the present writer.

A nicer girl than Fanny Lisle

To sing a die-away duet with.

(Say something in the Verdi style,)

Upon my life I never met with.

And yet I waver'd in my choice;

For I believe I'm right in saying

That nothing equall'd Fanny's voice,

Unless it was Maria's playing.

If music be the food of Love,

That was the house for Cupid's diet;

Those two melodious girls, by Jove,

Were never for an instant quiet.

I own that Fanny's voice was sweet,

I own Maria's touch was pearly;

But music's not at all a treat

For those who get it late and early.

The charms that soothe a savage breast

Have got a _vice versâ_ fashion

Of putting folks who have the best

Of tempers in an awful passion:

And, when it reach'd a certain stage,

I must confess I couldn't stand it.

I positively swore with rage

And stamp'd and scowl'd like any bandit.

I paid my rent on quarter-day;

Pack'd up my luggage in a hurry,

And, quick as lightning, fled away

To other lodgings down in Surrey.

I'm fairly warn'd--and not in vain;

For one resolve that I have made is--

Not to be domiciled again

With any musical young ladies.

THINGS THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

IN the twilight of November's

Afternoons I like to sit,

Finding fancies in the embers

Long before my lamp is lit;

Calling Memory up and linking

Bygone day to distant scene;

Then, with feet on fender, thinking

Of the things that might have been.

Cradles, wedding-rings, and hatchments

Glow alternate in the fire.

Early loves and late attachments

Blaze a second--and expire.

With a moderate persistence

One may soon contrive to glean

Matters for a mock existence

From the things that might have been.

Handsome, amiable, and clever--

With a fortune and a wife;--

So I make my start whenever

I would build the fancy life.

After all my bright ideal,

What a gulf there is between

Things that are, alas! too real,

And the things that might have been.

Often thus, alone and moody,

Do I act my little play--

Like a ghostly Punch and Judy,

Where the dolls are grave and gay--.

Till my lamplight comes and flashes

On the phantoms I have seen,

Leaving nothing but the ashes

Of the things that might have been.

THE OLYMPIC BALL.

T'S a classical fact very few know

(If any one knows it at all),

That Jove once prevail'd upon Juno

To issue her cards for a ball.

Olympus, of course, was delighted;

The notion was charming--so

new!

And the whole of the gods were

invited,

The whole of the goddesses too;

Including a few lucky mortals,

Especially well known to fame,

(For Olympus ne'er open'd its portals,

Except to the _crème de la crème._)

At eleven the guests were arriving,

All drest up remarkably grand;

At midnight Apollo came driving

Full pelt, in a neat four-in-hand!

In passing Parnassus he'd popp'd in,

And brought on the Muses inside;

Minerva soon afterwards dropp'd in,

And Vulcan, escorting his bride.

Lovely Venus was quite condescending,

(But chroniclers freely confess,

She was not in the habit of spending

Extravagant sums upon dress.)

The ball-room, one couldn't help feeling,

Was got up regardless of cost;

And the satyrs and nymphs on the ceiling

Were worthy of Etty or Frost.

The band that was hir'd for the dancers

(The best they could possibly get)

Look'd down with disdain on the "Lancers,"

And stuck to the "Court Minuet."

Young Ganymede carried round ices,

And Hebe (a pert-looking minx)

Cut the pineapple up into slices,

While Bacchus took charge of the drinks.

Terpsichore danced like a feather;

In fact, the spectators agreed

That she and young Zephyr together

Made very good partners indeed.

Then Momus began to grow witty;

The Graces oblig'd with a glee;

While Pan sang a pastoral ditty,

And Neptune a song of the sea!

Minerva sat pompously boring

The Muses with blue-stocking talk;

And Bacchus was put to bed snoring,

Completely unable to walk.

An hour before daylight was shining

The prudish Diana had flown

To the spot where Endymion was pining

To meet her by moonlight alone.

The next to depart was Apollo,

Who leapt on his chariot at seven:

No eye in Olympus could follow

The track of his coursers through heaven!

The lamps were beginning to burn out,

And sunshine was flooding the hall,

When the last who thought proper to turn out

Drove homeward from Jupiter's ball.

THE TWO AGES.

FOLKS were happy as days were long

In the old Arcadian times;

When Life seem'd only a dance and song

In the sweetest of all sweet climes.

Our world grows bigger, and, stage by stage.

As the pitiless years have roll'd.

We've quite forgotten the Golden Age,

And come to the Age of Gold.

Time went by in a sheepish way

Upon Thessaly's plains of yore.

In the nineteenth century lambs at play

Mean mutton, and nothing more.

Our swains at present are far too sage

To live as one liv'd of old:

So they couple the crook of the Golden Age

With a hook in the Age of Gold.

From Corydon's reed the mountains round

Heard news of his latest flame.

And Tityrus made the woods resound

With echoes of Daphne's name.

They kindly left us a lasting gage

Of their musical art, we 're told;

And the Pandean pipe of the Golden Age

Brings mirth to the Age of Gold.

Dwellers in huts and in marble halls--

From Shepherdess up to Queen-

Cared little for bonnets, and less for shawls,

And nothing for crinoline.

But now Simplicity is _not_ the rage,

And it's funny to think how cold

The dress they wore in the Golden Age

Would seem in the Age of Gold.

Electric telegraphs, printing, gas,

Tobacco, balloons, and steam,

Are little events that have come to pass

Since the days of that old _régime_.

And, spite of Lemprière's dazzling page,

I 'd give--though it might seem bold--

A hundred years of the Golden Age

For a year in the Age of Gold.

STANZAS TO AN INTOXICATED FLY.

T 'S a singular fact that whenever \

order

My goblet of GUINNESS or bumper of

Bass,

Out of ten or a dozen that sport round

the border

Some fly turns a somersault into my

glass.

Oh! it's not that I grudge him the

liquor he's tasted,

(Supposing him partial to ale or to stout),

But consider the time irretrievably wasted

In trying to fish the small wanderer out.

Ah! believe me, fond fly, 'tis excessively sinful,

This habit which knocks even bluebottles up;

Just remember what CASSIO, on getting a skinful,

Observ'd about "ev'ry inordinate cup!"

Reflect on that proverb, diminutive being,

Which tells us "Enough is as good as a feast;"

And, mark me, there's nothing more painful than seeing

An insect behaving so much like a beast.

Nay, in vain would you seek to escape while I'm talking,

And shake from your pinions the fast-clinging drops,

It is only too clear, from your efforts at walking,

That after your malt you intend to take hops.

Pray, where is your home? and oh! how shall you get there?

And what will your wife and your family think?

Pray, how shall you venture to show the whole set there

That Paterfamilias is given to drink.

Oh, think of the moment when Conscience returning

Shall put the brief pleasures of Bacchus to flight;

When the tongue shall be parch'd and the brow shall be burning,

And most of to-morrow shall taste of to-night!

For the toast shall be dry, and the tea shall be bitter,

And all through your breakfast this thought shall intrude;

That a little pale brandy and Seltzer is fitter

For such an occasion than animal food.

I have known, silly fly, the delight beyond measure--

The blissful sensation, prolong'd and intense--

The rapturous, wild, and ineffable pleasure,

Of drinking at somebody else's expense.

But I own--and it's not without pride that I own it--

Whenever some friend in his generous way

Bids me drink without paying, I simply postpone it,

And pay for my liquor the whole of next day!

(Published, with music, by Messrs Metzler and Co., Great Marlborough Street.)

CHIVALRY FOR THE CRADLE.

NO. I--THE ROMAUNT OF HUMPTY-DUMPTY.

TIS midnight, and the moonbeam sleeps

Upon the garden sward:

My lady in yon turret keeps

Her tearful watch and ward.

"Beshrew me!" mutters, turning pale,

The stalwart seneschal;

"What's he that sitteth, clad in mail,

Upon our castle wall?

"Arouse thee, friar of orders gray;

What, ho! bring book and bell!

Ban yonder ghastly thing, I say;

And, look ye, ban it well.

By cock and pye, the Humptys face!"--

The form turn'd quickly round;

Then totter'd from its resting-place--

That night the corse was found.

The king, with hosts of fighting men,

Rode forth at break of day;

Ah! never gleam'd the sun till then

On such a proud array.

But all that army, horse and foot,

Attempted, quite in vain,

Upon the castle wall to put

The Humpty up again.

NO. 2.--A LEGEND OF BANBURY-CROSS.

Started my lord from a slumber and roar'd,

"Sirrah, go bring me my buckler and sword!

Saddle my steed! Ere he next have a feed,

I fackens, the brute will be weary indeed;

For I and my gray must be off and away

To Banbury-Cross at the dawn of the day."

People came down unto Banbury town,

In holiday doublet and holiday gown;

They muster'd in force, as a matter of course,

To see an old woman ride on a white horse.

Sir Thomas the May'r had been heard to declare

It was likely to prove an exciting affair.

Shouts of acclaim from the multitude came,

And clapping of hands for that elderly dame;

Who, as history goes, had the newest of clothes,

And rings on her fingers and bells on her toes.

Ting-a-ting, ting! Ding-a-ding, ding!

There was never beheld such a wonderful thing.

No. 3.--The Ballad of Babye Bunting.

The Knight is away in the merry green wood,

Where he hunts the wild rabbit and roe:

He is fleet in the chase as the late Robin Hood--

He is fleeter in quest of the foe.

The nurse is at home in the castle, and sings

To the babe that she rocks at her breast:

She is crooning of love and of manifold things,

And is bidding the little one rest.

"Oh, slumber, my darling! oh, slumber apace!

For thy father will shortly be here;

And the skin of some rabbit that falls in the chase

Shall be thine for a tippet, my dear."

CLUMSY SERVANT.

NATURE, Nature! you're enough

To put a quaker in a huff

Or make a martyr grumble.

Whenever something rich and rare-

On earth, at sea, or in the air--

Is placed in your especial care

You always let it tumble.

You don't, like other folks, confine

Your fractures to the hardware line,

And break the trifles they break:

But, scorning anything so small,

You take our nights and let them fall,

And in the morning, worst of all,

You go and let the day break.

You drop the rains of early Spring

(That set the wide world blossoming);--

The golden beams that mellow

Our grain towards the harvest-prime;

You drop, too, in the autumn-time,

With breathings from a colder clime,

The dead leaf, sere and yellow.

You drop and drop;--without a doubt

You 'll go on dropping things about,

Through still and stormy weather

Until a day when you shall find

You feel aweary of mankind,

And end by making up your mind

To drop us altogether.

A NURSERY LEGEND.

listen, little children, to a proper

little song

Of a naughty little urchin who was

always doing wrong:

He disobey'd his mammy, and he

disobey'd his dad,

And he disobey'd his uncle, which

was very near as bad.

He wouldn't learn to cypher, and he wouldn't learn to write,

But he would tear up his copy-books to fabricate a kite;

And he used his slate and pencil in so barbarous a way,

That the grinders of his governess got looser ev'ry day.

At last he grew so obstinate that no one could contrive

To cure him of a theory that two and two made five;

And, when they taught him how to spell, he show'd his wicked

whims

By mutilating Pinnock and mislaying Watts's Hymns.

Instead of all such pretty books, (which _must_ improve the mind,)

He cultivated volumes of a most improper kind;

Directories and almanacks he studied on the sly,

And gloated over Bradshaw's Guide when nobody was by.

From such a course of reading you can easily divine

The condition of his morals at the age of eight or nine.

His tone of conversation kept becoming worse and worse,

Till it scandalis'd his governess and horrified his nurse.

He quoted bits of Bradshaw that were quite unfit to hear,

And recited from the Almanack, no matter who was near:

He talked of Reigate Junction and of trains both up and down,

And referr'd to men who call'd themselves Jones, Robinson, and

Brown.

But when this naughty boy grew up he found the proverb true,

That Fate one day makes people pay for all the wrong they do.

He was cheated out of money by a man whose name was Brown,

And got crippled in a railway smash while coming up to town.

So, little boys and little girls, take warning while you can,

And profit by the history of this unhappy man.

Read Dr Watts and Pinnock, dears; and when you learn to spell,

Shun Railway Guides, Directories, and Almanacks as well!

AN ALLEGORY.

WRITTEN IN DEEP DEJECTION.

NCE, in the gardens of delight,

I pluck'd the fairest, fullest rose;

But (while I prest its petals tight

Against the threshold of my nose)

That loathsome centipede, Re-

morse,

Invaded with a stealthy tread

My nasal organ, and of course

Soon reached the middle of my

head.

That hideous tenant crawls and creeps

About the chambers of my brain,

He never pauses--never sleeps--

Nor thinks of coming out again.

The movements of his hundred feet

Are gentler than the autumn breeze;

But I dislike to feel him eat

My cerebellum by degrees.

With snuff, tobacco, Preston salts,

And various other potent smells,

I strive to fumigate the vaults

In which the devastator dwells.

I pull my hair out by the root--

I dash my head against the door--

It only makes the hateful brute

A trifle noisier than before.

Then tell me not that Joy's bright flow'r

Upon this canker'd heart may bloom,

Like toadstools on a time-worn tow'r,

Or dandelions on a tomb.

I mourn departed Hope in vain,

For briny tears may naught avail;

You cannot catch that bird again

By dropping salt upon its tail!

OVER THE WATER.

LOOK always on the Surrey side

For true dramatic art.

The road is long--the river wide--

But frequent busses start

From Charing Cross and Gracechurch street,

(An inexpensive ride;)

So, if you want an evening's treat,

O seek the Surrey side.

I have been there, and still would go,

As Dr Watts observes;

Although it's not a place, I know,

F or folks with feeble nerves.

Ah me! how many roars I've had--

How many tears I'Ve dried--

At melodramas, good and bad.

Upon the Surrey side.

Can I forget those wicked lords,

Their voices and their calves;

The things they did upon those boards,

And never did by halves:

The peasant, brave though lowly born,

Who constantly defied

Those wicked lords with utter scorn,

Upon the Surrey side?

Can I forget those hearts of oak,

Those model British tars;

Who crack'd a skull or crack'd a joke,

Like true transpontine stars;

Who hornpip'd à la T. P. Cooke,

And sang--at least they tried--

Until the pit and gallery shook,

Upon the Surrey side?

But best of all I recollect

That maiden in distress--

So unimpeachably correct

In morals and in dress--

Who, ere the curtain fell, became

The low-born peasant's bride:

(They nearly always end the same

Upon the Surrey side.)

I gape in Covent Garden's walls,

I doze in Drury Lane;

I strive in the Lyceum stalls

To keep awake--in vain.

There's nought in the dramatic way

That I can quite abide,

Except the pieces that they play

Upon the Surrey side.

AN UNAPPRECIATED CRICHTON.

ONES has a party to-night,

But there's no invitation for me to it.

People are cutting me quite;

I shall pay a few visits and see to it.

True, I've a thousand a-year,

And am reckon'd the pink of propriety;

As to good-looking, look here!

Yet I never get on in Society.

'Tis not as though I were shy,

Or unmanner'd, or not introducible;

Lower-bred people than I

Have triumphantly gone through the crucible.

Many get polish'd in time

At the cost of a little anxiety;

What's my particular crime

That I never get on in Society?

Dance?--Well, I think I may say

I'm as graceful a partner as any one:

Sir, I could caper away

To a whistle--though simply a penny one.

Sing?--I could give you a list

Of enormous extent and variety.

Play?--Let me show you my wrist

Yet I never get on in Society.

Hearing me talk is a treat,

When I take a discourse philosophic up,

During the tea, or repeat

Little anecdotes over my coffee-cup.

If you 've a passion for puns,

I could feed you on them to satiety--

New and original ones;

Yet I never get on in Society.

Two or three glasses of wine

Give a spur to good-humour and merriment;

So that, wherever I dine,

I repeat the delightful experiment.

Not that I drink till I lapse

From the paths of the strictest sobriety;

Still, now and then--why, perhaps--

Yet I never get on in Society!

ONLY SEVEN.

A PASTORAL STORY, AFTER WORDSWORTH.