Chapter VI: Preface (6)

In 1867, Mr. Locker published “Lyra Elegantiarum,” containing a collection of the best English _vers-de-société_, with an introduction in which he enumerated the qualifications which should be possessed by any poet who aspired to produce perfect specimens of _vers-de-société_.

Mr. Locker-Lampson has also written a few humorous parodies, one of which, “Unfortunate Miss Bailey,” was given p. 47, Vol. I., _Parodies_.

It only remains to be said that in the following pages the extracts from his poems are inserted by the kind permission of Mr. Locker-Lampson.

One of his best known poems, “St. James’s Street,” was published in 1867. This was stolen, and spoiled in the stealing, by a piratical editor, the two versions are here given side by side:――

ST. JAMES’S STREET.

St. James’s Street, of classic fame,
The finest people throng it.
St. James’s Street? I know the name,
I think I’ve passed along it!
Why, that’s where Sacharissa sigh’d
When Waller read his ditty;
Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died,
And Alvanley was witty.

A famous street! To yonder Park
Young Churchill stole in class-time;
Come, gaze on fifty men of mark,
And then recall the past time.
The _plats_ at White’s, the play at _Crock’s_,
The bumpers to Miss Gunning;
The _bonhomie_ of Charlie Fox,
And Selwyn’s ghastly funning.

The dear old street of clubs and _cribs_,
As north and south it stretches,
Still seems to smack of Rolliad squibs,
And Gillray’s fiercer sketches;
The quaint old dress, the grand old style,
The _mots_, the racy stories;
The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile――
The hate of Whigs and Tories.

At dusk, when I am strolling there,
Dim forms will rise around me;――
Lepel flits pass me in her chair,
And Congreve’s airs astound me!
And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young sprite,
Look’d kindly when I met her;
I shook my head, perhaps,――but quite
Forgot to quite forget her.

The street is still a lively tomb
For rich, and gay, and clever;
The crops of dandies bud and bloom,
And die as fast as ever.
Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes,
And slang that’s rather scaring,――
It can’t approach its prototypes
In taste, or tone, or bearing.

In Brummell’s day of buckle shoes,
Lawn cravats and roll collars,
They’d fight, and woo, and bet――and lose
Like gentlemen and scholars:
I’m glad young men should go the pace,
I half forgive _Old Rapid_;
These louts disgrace their name and race,――
So vicious and so vapid!

Worse times may come. _Bon ton_, indeed,
Will then be quite forgotten,
And all we much revere will speed
From ripe to worse than rotten:
Let grass then sprout between yon stones,
And owls then roost at Boodle’s,
For Echo will hurl back the tones
Of screaming _Yankee Doodles_.

I love the haunts of old Cockaigne,
Where wit and wealth were squander’d;
The halls that tell of hoop and train,
Where grace and rank have wander’d;
Those halls where ladies fair and leal
First ventured to adore me!
Something of that old love I feel
For this old street before me.

1867. FREDERICK LOCKER.

ST. JAMES’S STREET.

OLD BALLAD.

St. James’s-Street, of classic fame,
The finest people throng it!
St. James’s Street? I know the name!
I think I’ve passed along it!
Why, that’s where Sacharrissa sighed
When Waller read his ditty;
Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died,
And Alvanley was witty.

A famous street. It skirts the Park
Where Rogers took his pastime;
Come, gaze on fifty men of mark,
And then call up the fast time.
The _plâts_ at White’s, the play at Crock’s,
The bumpers to Miss Gunning;
The _bonhomie_ of Charlie Fox,
And Selwyn’s ghastly funning.

The dear old street of clubs and cribs,
As north and south it stretches,
Still smacks of William’s pungent squibs,
And Gilray’s fiercer sketches;
The quaint old dress, the grand old style,
The _mots_, the racy stories;
The wine, the dice; the wit, the bile,
The hate of Whigs and Tories.

At dusk, when I am strolling there,
Dim forms will rise around me;
Old Pepys creeps past me in his chair,
And Congreve’s airs astound me,
And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young sprite,
Looked kindly when I met her;
I shook my head, perhaps――but quite
Forgot to quite forget her.

The street is still a lively tomb
For rich and gay and clever;
The crops of dandies bud and bloom,
And die as fast as ever.
Now gilded youth loves cutty-pipes
And slang that’s rather rancid,
It can’t approach its prototypes
In tone――or so I’ve fancied.

In Brummel’s day of buckle-shoes,
Starch cravats, and roll collars,
They’d talk, and woo, and bet――and lose
Like gentlemen and scholars,
But now young nobles go the pace
With blacklegs, grooms, and tailors;
And scions soon of noblest race
May pass the night with jailors.

Worse times may come, _Bon ton_, alas,
Will then be quite forgotten,
And all we much revere will pass
From ripe to worse than rotten;
Rank weeds will sprout between yon stones,
And owls will roost at Boodle’s,
And shame will echo back the tones
Of Coachington, Lord Noodle.

F. L.

_The Queen’s Messenger._ August 12, 1869.

――――

ST. GILES.

A London poet sang of late
In exquisitely tender verses,
How in their whirl the wheels of Fate,
Changed cars of triumph into hearses.
He said St. James’s wit and smiles
Were trodden under foot by shoddy――
Bah! let me sing about St. Giles,
And chronicle the sin of toddy.

Long years ago, St. Martin’s Fields
Were ripe with grain and purple clover
Where grisly thieves the kitchen shields,
And yellow ’busses topple over.
The very spot, where rose the lark
To sing its song to all creation,
Is given over after dark
To deathly deeds and desolation.

Just where the parson from his door
Relieved the sorrows of the humble,
The workhouse shields the houseless poor,
Who execrate the mighty Bumble.
A thousand nightingales in song
Have warbled melodies for ages,
Where now canary-sellers throng,
And linnets chirp in tiny cages.

Where Strephon sighed and sighed to win,
And dainty Phyllis churned her butter,
The costermonger shrieks for gin,
And helpless rolls about the gutter;
Where Sacharissa ’neath her fan
Was smiling at his lordship’s raving,
The ragged wife adores the man,
Who beats her head against the paving.

There’s not a spot and not a stone,
But spoke a poem when we met it,
That does not echo to the moan
Of poverty――do we regret it?
If we have sorrow for St. James,
And sing about its loss of swelldom,
We needs must weep St. Giles’s shames,
Although we think about them seldom.

HENRY S. LEIGH.

_Fun._ November 16, 1867.

――――:o:――――

TEMPORA MUTANTUR!

Yes, here, once more a traveller,
I find the Angel Inn,
Where landlord, maids and serving-men
Receive me with a grin:
Surely they can’t remember Me,
My hair is grey and scanter;
I’m changed, so changed since I was here――
_O tempora mutantur!_

* * * * *

The curtains have been dyed; but there,
Unbroken, is the same,
The very same crack’d pane of glass
On which I scratch’d her name.
Yes, there’s her tiny flourish still;
It used to so enchant her
To link two happy names in one――
_O tempora mutantur!_

FREDERICK LOCKER.

――――

TEMPORA MUTANTUR!

No pea-shooters upon the way
No careless chaff and banter
No passing blows to take and pay!
_O Tempora mutantur!_

The traps go soberly along,
Scarce one is in a canter,
The language even isn’t strong――
_O Tempora mutantur!_

The times were very different when
I went with my enchanter;
Young men in those days were young men;
_O Tempora mutantur!_

Of course you’ll say its for the best
(My Boy, pass the decanter!)
But now your Derby’s lost its zest
_O Tempora mutantur!_

CATULLUS of Fleet Street.

――――:o:――――

BRAMBLE-RISE.

What changes meet my wistful eyes
In quiet little Bramble-Rise,
The pride of all the shire;
How alter’d is each pleasant nook;――
And used the dumpy church to look
So dumpy in the spire?

This village is no longer mine;
And though the Inn has changed its sign,
The beer may not be stronger;
The river, dwindled by degrees,
Is now a brook, the cottages
Are cottages no longer.

The mud is brick, the thatch is slate,
The pound has tumbled out of date,
And all the trees are stunted:
Surely these thistles once grew figs,
These geese were swans, and once these pigs
More musically grunted.

Where boys and girls pursued their sports
A locomotive puffs and snorts,
And gets my malediction;
The turf is dust――the elves are fled――
The ponds have shrunk――and tastes have spread
To photograph and fiction.

Ah! there’s a face I know again,
There’s Patty trotting down the lane
To fill her pail with water;
Yes, Patty! but I fear she’s not
The tricksey Pat that used to trot,
But Patty,――Patty’s daughter!

* * * * *

FREDERICK LOCKER.

――――

A SONG AT SIXTY.

My boyhood’s home! How clearly rise
Thy varied scenes before mine eyes
In fair perspective.
I hear the bull-frogs in the pond――
The whippoorwill’s weird notes respond
To thoughts reflective.

Again I see the old “worm fence,”
Around the pasture-lot from whence
The cows lowed over
At milking time, as if they smelled
The many-windowed barn, that held
The corn and clover.

I see, beyond the garden-gate
The gray bull-calf, that used to wait
To “hook” that gate off――
And flower-beds, where browsed the bees
’Neath overhanging cherry-trees
Whose twigs he ate off.

’Twas there, above the hollyhocks,
The blue birds thronged the martin-box
That wrongly housed them.
There too, from out the red oak grove,
Their brother bandits came and strove
In vain to oust them.

And there, a flock of noisy geese
Down to the brimming pond in peace
Would oft meander――
To come again when day declined,
Wide-waddling homeward, strung behind
Their valiant gander.

All’s past――I only thought to spin
Gold thread of sunny dreams within
This cushioned “rocker.”
My blood’s too slow――too weak my nerves
For poaching on the choice preserves
Of Frederick Locker.

C. H. L.

_The Philadelphia Evening Bulletin._

――――:o:――――

HIS GIRL.

Oh, she wears a sealskin sacque,
When it snows;
And her stunning suit is black
As a crow’s;
Short; and thinks it is a pity,
Charming, jolly, wise, and witty:
Has a retroussé――so pretty――
Little nose.

In her basket phaeton,
When it blows,
With her striking glasses on,
Out she goes;
And she’s just as sweet as stately,
And she sits there so sedately,
With her cheeks and lips so greatly
Like a rose.

She plays Chopin, Liszt, and Spohr
For her beaux.
And she speak of “Pinafore”――
Heaven knows!
With a naughty “D” and “Never!”
But she’s awful nice and clever;
If she liked me, I’d endeavour
To propose.

_Detroit Free Press._ 1882.

――――

AN INVITATION TO ROME

Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place
Your London sun is here, and smiling brightly;
The Briton, too, puts on his cheery face,
And Mrs. Bull acquits herself politely.
The Romans are an easy going race,
With simple wives, more dignified than sprightly;
I see them at their doors, as day is closing,
Prouder than duchesses, and more imposing.

* * * * *

1863. FREDERICK LOCKER.

――――

MR. GLADSTONE IN ROME.

“_Caffè-latte!_ I call to the waiter,――_Non c’e latte_.
This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of a battle.”

CLOUGH in 1848.

1.

Old Rome in December. Take out your umbrella
For we picnic no more with CÆCILIA METELLA,
While flirtation is wholly unheard in the sheeny
And shadowy paths of the Aldobrandini.
MR. LOCKER, to Rome a poetical rover,
Has, sketched us the flirts, and the croquet moreover,
He’ll smile as he sees, in the shade of St. Peter’s
How coolly we’ve stolen his phrases and metres.

2.

But though English are few on the Pincian Hill,
One grave politician is lingering still;
From Montorio looks down on the Tiber, and thinks
That the problem of Rome beats the _crux_ of the Sphinx;
That no one can tell us the ultimate bias
Of the city of CÆSAR, and PASQUIN, and PIUS;
That the milk of the She Wolf meant bloodshed and sorrow;
And――will there be milk at the Caffè to-morrow?

_The Globe._ London.

――――:o:――――

FROM THE CRADLE.

They tell me I was born a long
Three months ago,
But whether they are right or wrong
I hardly know.
I sleep, I smile, I cannot crawl,
But I can cry――
At present I am rather small――
A babe am I.

The changing lights of sun and shade
Are baby toys;
The flowers and birds are not afraid
Of baby-boys.
Some day I’ll wish that I could be
A bird and fly;
At present I can’t wish――you see
A babe am I.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

――――

FROM THE CRADLE.

They tell me I was calved a long
Three weeks ago;
But whether they are right or wrong
I hardly know.
I sleep, I suck, I cannot bawl,
But I can cry;
At present I am rather small――
A calf am I.

With changing food from swede to blade,
My mammy toys,
Nor she nor I are yet afraid
Of butcher-boys.
Some day I’ll wish that I could be
A bird, and fly.
At present I can’t wish, you see――
A calf am I.

_Funny Folks_, May 15, 1880.

――――:o:――――

A GALLERY OF FAIR WOMEN.
_Mrs. Golightly._

Her piles of hair are ultra-blonde;
Her tints are ultra-splendid;
Her eyes are shallow, brilliant, fond,
And belladonna――friended.
An air of langorous command
About her always lingers.
She has a very shapely hand,
With long, bejewelled fingers.

Her foot is neat――not oversmall,
But exquisitely booted.
Her figure, faulty after all,
Is admirably suited.
Her teeth are good, and if her lip
Glow with a warmer crimson
Than lovers care to see or sip,
Why, blame her woman, Simson.

A bishop’s daughter, born to dare,
She made a reckless marriage.
She has a cottage in Mayfair,
No children, and a carriage,
And is an universal pet,
An innocent Bohemian,
A Dian feigning to forget
The legalised Endymion.

With many a bachelor she plays
A dainty little whimsy,
Like Musset’s acts, or Locker’s lays,
Brief, elegant, and flimsy.
She loves to woo, to win, to part;
Forsaken and forsaking,
Her heart――she says she has a heart――
Will bear a deal of breaking.

She shines in all things strange and new――
Plays, pictures, Prince’s, polo.
She gives the odds on either Blue,
She never answers “Nolo.”
To-day she raves of Rubinstein,
To-morrow of Albani;
To-day “Aïda” is divine,
To-morrow “Don Giovanni.”

But dress is, after all her dream,
Her veritable passion.
Her costume’s always an extreme,
A nightmare of the fashion.
The style that now-a-days we know,
Has from the first revealed her
As ruthlessly as long ago
Its opposite concealed her.

She waltzes well, she does not sing,
She loves to chatter, chatter
Of anything and everything――
It really doesn’t matter!
She skims a novel now and then
To get at the sensations,
And thinks Invention made the pen
To answer invitations.

Her little head’s so vain and light
It whirls in all directions,
And yet you smile on her, despite
Her host of imperfections.
Her heaven is one of summer skies,
And dreams that bloom to wither,
And like a love bird, when she dies,
Her little soul will thither.

_London_, 1877.

――――:o:――――

SOMETHING PRAEDESQUE.

I’ve many sweethearts; which shall I
Make just a pretty bit of rhyme to,
Now as the midnight moments fly,
And I have the caprice and time to?
“Be,” says my editor, “Praedesque:
That is, omit the fiery particle.”
He thinks my heart is in my desk――
Indeed, I have not such an article.

And of my sweethearts, one or two
Would almost fly into a passion,
If I desired their lips to woo
In that old easy worn-out fashion.
Praed, though no poet, had some power;
He is defaced by many a mocker:
I’m criminal this very hour,
And so is Dobson, so is Locker.

“O give us something new and fresh!”
The girls exclaim, they’re right, the beauties,
To catch their hearts in merrier mesh
Is chiefest of a lover’s duties.
How easy is this rambling rhyme!
Eight syllables, with rhymes that double;
It makes one fancy at the time
That neither rhyme nor love’s a trouble.

No trouble ’tis to scribble off
Verse to the girls you little care for;
To flatter, satirize, or scoff,
Amused, and hardly knowing wherefore.
But love――or hate――or be afraid
Of any woman … when you greet her,
It won’t be in the rhythm of Praed;
You’ll have to find Peculiar Metre.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

――――:o:――――

LONDON’S ‘SUEZ CANAL.’

What pretty girls one sees about
At rink and race, at ball and rout,
At drums and dinners!
In books, where Ænids find Geraints,
In pictures Mr. Millais paints
In church――I’m fond of such young saints
And sinners.

A score at least one’s sure to meet
From Charing Cross to Oxford Street,
Or climbing hilly
St. James’s, where of clubdom sick,
Old fogeys voted at old nick,
Fond glances turn at four towards Pic-
――cadilly.

Muse-favored haunt of all that’s gay!
Whose every stone has had its day
Of loves and graces!
Your triumphs many a bard can tell,
Fred Locker sings them passing well――
I know you bear away the bell
For faces.

Along your Strand converging flow
The social tides to Rotten Row,
Beloved and shady;
Old Gouty trundles with his pair,
De Bootle saunters, cane in air――
I’m wondering, who’s that golden hair-
’d young lady?

What fools we are!――_Le Follets’_ page
Makes yellow ringlets all the rage,
And willy nilly,
Poor ebon poles must cut their stick
And silver change its ‘plaiting’ quick,
Now only ‘gold’ is picked in Pic-
――cadilly!

But whether black or gold or grey
Fashion declares her slaves shall say
The _dernier goût_ is
You bear your motley freightage well,
And East and West your convoys swell――
A sort of Cockneyfied canal
Of Suez!

A neutral ‘cut’ where every man’s
A vessel bound to pay the trans-
――it dues and duty,――
Dues stricter than e’er Lesseps took――
Love’s tribute levied on a look,
And duly noted in the Book
Of Beauty.

* * * * *

And now whilst ice enwraps you still,
And snow’s on Constitution Hill――
Like some old Pharaoh,
Sun shaded ’mid the fervent rays
I bask away the balmy days,
And write these verses to your praise
In Cairo.

Across the desert ridges high
Long lines of camels track the sky,
The pink lights flicker,――
The day has run its golden race――
The Mussulman kneels in his place――
The pilgrim turns his patient face
To Mecca.…

All here’s aglow with summer sun;
_There_ hugs black frost his mantle dun
In winter chilly:
Yet could I stand on “Simla’s” deck
And Westward――ere this watch’s tick
Old England ho! for me, and Pic-
――cadilly!

H. CHOLMONDELEY PENNELL.

_Temple Bar_, January, 1876.

――――:o:――――

SONGSTERS OF THE DAY.
_The Bard of Society._

There, pay it, James! ’tis cheaply earned;
My conscience! how one’s cabman charges!
But never mind, so I’m returned
Safe to my native street of Clarges.
I’ve just an hour for one cigar
What style these Reinas have, and _what_ ash!),
One hour to watch the evening star,
With just one Curaçao-and-potash.

Ah me! that face beneath the leaves
And blossoms of its piquant bonnet!
Who would have thought that forty thieves
Of years had laid their fingers on it!
Could you have managed to enchant
At Lord’s to-day old lovers simple,
Had Robber Time not played gallant,
And spared you every youthful dimple!

That robber bold, like courtier Claude,
Who danced the gay coranto jesting,
By your bright beauty charmed and awed,
Has bowed and passed you unmolesting.
No feet of many-wintered crows
Have traced about your eyes a wrinkle;
Your sunny hair has thawed the snows
That other heads with silver sprinkle.

I wonder if that pair of gloves
I won of you you’ll ever pay me!
I wonder if our early loves
Were wise or foolish, cousin Amy!
I wonder if our childish tiff
Now seems to you, like me, a blunder!
I wonder if you wonder if
I ever wonder if you wonder!

I wonder if you’d think it bliss
Once more to be the fashion’s leader!
I wonder if the trick of this
Escapes the unsuspecting reader!
And as for him who does or can
Delight in it, I wonder whether
He knows that almost any man
Could reel it off by yards together!

I wonder if――What’s that? A knock?
Is that you, James? Eh? What? God bless me!
How time has flown! Its eight o’clock,
And here’s my fellow come to dress me.
Be quick, or I shall be the guest
Whom Lady Mary never pardons;
I trust you, James, to do your best
To save the soup at Grosvenor-gardens.

FRITTERIC LACQUER.

_Time_, June, 1880.

――――:o:――――

ON FREDERICK LOCKER.

Of Locker what? Apollo in the fashion.
Humour and pathos suits, no touch of passion.
From Suckling, Lovelace, Prior, Luttrell, Praed,
Locker inherits his inspiring Maid:
Not nude and passionate, not fast and flighty,
Like Swinburne’s rosy-bosomed Aphrodite;
Not icy-cold, as Parian sculpture is,
Like Tennyson’s blue-stockingéd Artemis:
Not erudite and sapient, grimly frowning,
Like the Athena that’s adored by Browning:
But just the Period’s girl, a pretty creature,
Of dainty style, though inexpressive feature,
Who carefully reserves her choice opinions
For length of petticoats and bulk of chignons,
In whom no tragic impulse ever rankles,
Who always says her prayers, and shows her ankles.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

The proverb that “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” is somewhat the worse for wear, and perhaps Mr. Austin Dobson was not altogether inclined to agree with it when he heard that the Puzzle Editor of _Truth_ had published the following notification:

“TRUTH” PUZZLE, NO. 472.

Thanks to the efforts of Messrs. Austin Dobson, Andrew Lang,
and others, Triolets, Ballades, Rondeaux, Vilanelles, and
other metrical devices used by Villon and other French poets
of the past, have been freely adapted to English
verse-writing, and I am assured that I shall be setting
numerous competitors an agreeable task in asking them to
write a rhyming composition on one of the revived French
models now so fashionable.

The Prize of Two Guineas will accordingly be given for the
_Best Ballade_, written on any Social Subject, in accordance
with the following rules:――The _Ballade_ in its normal type,
consists of three stanzas of eight lines each, followed by a
verse of four lines, which is called the “envoy”――or of
three verses of ten lines, with an “envoy” of five lines,
each of the stanzas and the “envoy” closing with the same
line, known as the “refrain.” In this instance, a _Ballade_
of the former length is asked for――viz.; one with three
eight-lined stanzas and a four-lined “envoy.” But it will
be, perhaps, a better guide for competitors if I print here
a _Ballade_ as a model on which they are to form the ones
they compose. Here, then, is a well-known _Ballade_ by Mr.
Austin Dobson, which must be followed so far as the
arrangement of rhymes goes. The metre, though, of the
_Ballade_ often varies, and competitors are not bound to use
the same metre as that employed in the subjoined specimen.

ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR.

Chicken-skin, delicate, white,
Painted by Carlo Vanloo,
Loves in a riot of light,
Roses and vaporous blue;
Hark to the dainty _frou-frou_!
Picture above, if you can,
Eyes that could melt as the dew,
This was the Pompadour’s fan.

See how they rise at the sight,
Thronging the _Œil de Bœuf_ through.
Courtiers as butterflies bright.
Beauties that Fragonard drew,
_Talon-rouge_, falbala, queue,
Cardinal, Duke――to a man,
Eager to sigh or to sue――
This was the Pompadour’s fan.

Ah! but things more than polite
Hung on this toy, _voyez vous_!
Matters of state and of might,
Things that great Ministers do;
Things that, may be, overthrew
Those in whose brain they began,
Here was the sign and the cue,
This was the Pompadour’s fan!

_Envoy._

Where are the secrets it knew
Weavings of plot and of plan?
But where is the Pompadour too?――
_This_ was the Pompadour’s fan?

AUSTIN DOBSON.

A very large number of replies were sent in, and examples were printed in _Truth_, February 23, and March 8, 1888. Although they cannot be called true parodies, yet two of the _Ballades_ are so interesting as imitations that they are inserted. The first being that to which the prize was awarded, written by Mr. J. C. Woods, of Swansea, and the second written by Mr. F. B. Doveton, of Eastbourne.

A BALLADE OF THE GROSVENOR GALLERY.

Art, fled from earth, Sir Coutts and Co.
Lured back to hold her state benign,
With all the newest masters know
Of magic colour, nude design,
Set in soft shade or mellow shine
Of dexterous curtain, clouded pane,
And tricked men so to deem, in fine,
Restored her grand Saturnian reign.

Thus passed ten grey-green years, when, lo!
What gurgling as from flasks of wine;
What whirl of revellers to and fro;
What lust of eight per cent., or nine,
Or ninety, broke her dream divine,
Her reverie of æsthetic pain.
Musing――can any care of mine
Restore the grand Saturnian reign?

Then said she; “Shall they flout me so?
Shall mortals in my presence dine,
Nor heed, for molluscs and clicquot,
The masterpieces on the line?
Forth from the temple, Philistine!
Fling out the banner――Art, not gain!
Carr, Hallé, and Burne-Jones combine;
Restore my grand Saturnian reign!”

_Envoy._

Priest of the desecrated shrine,
Which drum and rout and dance profane,
Drive hence the Bacchant bands malign;
Restore the grand Saturnian reign!

ALLTIAGO (J. C. Woods.)

――――

A BALLADE OF FIVE O’CLOCK TEA.

Served in most delicate ware,
Dresden or Sévres――where you spy
Dainty devices and rare,
Hues that enrapture the eye:
Hands that are shapely and white,
Pour out the fragrant Bohea,
Beauty presides at this rite――
This is your Five O’clock Tea.

Perched in the midst of the fair,
Masher resplendent, yet shy,
Awkwardly shifts in his chair,
He will gain courage by and bye.
Beaux so antique, most polite,
Prattle in garrulous glee,
Here in their element quite――
This is your Five O’clock Tea.

Characters melt into air;
Good reputations must die;
Think you “My Lady” will spare
For all that you murmur, “Oh Fy?”
Colloquies vapid and trite,
Slanderous tongues running free,
Small emanations of spite――
This is your Five O’clock Tea.

_Envoy._

Sugar and cream can excite
Envy and malice, we see;
Satirists cry with delight――
“This is your Five O’clock Tea!”

ORCHIS (F. B. Doveton).

――――

BALLADE OF PÔT-POURRI.

Oriental, and fragile, and old
Is the pôt-pourri bowl you see there;
Dreamy odours――romances untold
It confides to this latter-day air.

Ghosts of laughter, of love, and despair,
Dim strains of a quaint minuet
And a gallant’s low words to his fair――
“Our Lady of Roses――Coquette!”

* * * * *

_Truth._ March 8, 1888. PREMIER PAS.

Of the other examples that were printed it must suffice to mention the titles:――

Ballade of Five o’clock Tea――(Five thus).
Ballade of the Amateur Reciter.
Ballade of Leap year――(Two thus).
Fashion’s Fig-leaf.
Our Whistling Drawing-room Man.
Ballade of an Axe――(The G. O. M.’s Axe).
On the modern method of shaking hands.
Our grand Fancy Fair.
Pat the Patriot.
Ballade of a Primal cigar.
Ballade of a Programme.
A “Blue” Ballade――(“These are the ’Varsity Crews”).
Ballade of Pôt-Pourri.
Ballade for Diogenes.
A Ballade of Girls and Wedding.
Girls’ Gossip.

――――:o:――――

TU QUOQUE.

_An Idyll in the Conservatory._
(Inserted with the Author’s permission.)

_Nellie._ If I were you, when ladies at the play, Sir,
Beckon and nod, a melodrama through,
I would not turn abstractedly away, Sir,
If I were you!

_Frank._ If I were you, when persons I affected,
Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew,
I would at least pretend I recollected,
If I were you!

_Nellie._ If I were you, when ladies are so lavish,
Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two,
I would not dance with _odious_ Miss McTavish,
If I were you!

_Frank._ If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer
Whiff of the best,――the mildest “honey dew,”
I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer,
If I were you!

_Nellie._ If I were you, I would not, Sir, be bitter,
Even to write the “Cynical Review;”――

_Frank._ No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter.
If I were you!

_Nellie._ Really! You would? Why, Frank, you’re quite delightful,――
Hot as Othello, and as black of hue;
Borrow my fan. I would not look so _frightful_,
If I were you!

_Frank._ “It is the cause.” I mean your chaperon is
Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu!
I shall retire. I’d spare that poor Adonis,
If I were you!

_Nellie._ Go, if you will. At once! And by express, Sir;
Where shall it be? To China――or Peru?
Go. I should leave inquirers my address, Sir,
If I were you!

_Frank._ No――I remain. To stay and fight a duel
Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do――
Ah, you are strong,――I would not then be cruel,
If I were you!

_Nellie._ One does not like one’s feelings to be doubted,――

_Frank._ One does not like one’s friends to misconstrue,――

_Nellie._ If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted?

_Frank._ I should admit that I was _piqué_, too.

_Nellie._ Ask me to dance. I’d say no more about it,
If I were you!

(Waltz. _Exeunt._)

AUSTIN DOBSON.

――――

AN IDYLL OF THE LOBBY.

_Liberal Seceder._

If I were you, when friends electioneering
Wish to preserve consistency of view,
I would forewarn when Hawarden gales are veering――
If I were you.

_Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone._

If I were you, when issuing addresses,
I would observe the simple rule of two
Meanings in a sentence――tip for safe successes――
If I were you.

_L. S._ If I were you, when older friends reveal a
Freedom in spending time and money too,
I would not rush to dance a jig with Healy――
If I were you.

_W. E. G._ If I were you, who swear you cannot suffer
Plutocrat and peer, landlord and Jew,
I would not tilt against the people like a duffer――
If I were you.

_L. S._ I would not go at such an awful rate, or
Friends may forsake you――thing they’re apt to do――

_W. E. G._ I would remember the fate of such a traitor――
If I were you.

_L. S._ Surely you never――call a party meeting;
Try to arrange that each may get his due;
Keep the dear Irish; I’d avoid a beating,
If I were you.

_W. E. G._ No, I depart, I must consult the people,
Chamberlain’s coming――Randolph with him too――
I wouldn’t pray ’neath Chamberlainic steeple,
If I were you.

_L. S._ Go, if you will; my faith is not so flabby;
Cowards in midlands happily are few.
Stay! I would take that little trick from Labby――
If I were you.

_W. E. G._ Done! I remain――Brummagem to pound well.
Leave it till autumn――now, of course, you’re true?
Wouldn’t smash the party (surely doesn’t sound well)
If I were you.

_L. S._ One does not like that Caucus-pressure leaning.

_W. E. G._ Yes, I was sorry――had to use the screw.

_L. S._ If I confess that I mistook your meaning――

_W. E. G._ I will allow ’twas fair to misconstrue.

_Late L. S._ Ask me to vote. You’ve got to put the green in,
And cannon off the blue: I’d chalk my cue
If I were you.

K.

_The Pall Mall Budget._ June 3, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE PRODIGALS.

(_After Mr. Austin Dobson’s famous ballade._)

[Dedicated to Mr. Chaplin, M.P., and Mr. Richard Power, M.P., and 223 who followed them.]

Ministers!――you, most serious,
Critics and statesmen of all degrees,
Hearken awhile to the motion of us,――
Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!
Nothing we ask of posts or fees;
Worry us not with objections pray!
Lo,――for the Speaker’s wig we seize
Give us――ah! give us――the Derby Day.

Scots most prudent, penurious!
Irishmen busy as humblebees!
Hearken awhile to the motion of us,――
Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!
For Sir Joseph’s sake, and his owner’s, please!
(Solomon raced like fun, they say)
Lo for we beg on our bended knees,――
Give us――ah! give us――the Derby Day.

Campbell-Asheton be generous!
(But they voted such things were not the cheese)
Sullivan, hear us, magnanimous!
(But Sullivan thought with their enemies.)
And shortly they got both of help and ease
For a mad majority crowded to say――
“Debate we’ve drunk to the dregs and lees;
Give us――ah! give us――the Derby Day.”

_Envoi._

Prince, most just was the motion of these
And many were seen by the dusty way,
Shouting glad to the Epsom breeze
Give us――ah! give us――the Derby Day.

W. E. HENLEY.

Ballades, Rondeaus and Villanelles.

The revival of the taste for these curious old French forms of poetry has received a great impetus from the delightful examples produced by Austin Dobson, Edmund Gosse, W. E. Henley, Andrew Lang, R. Le Gallienne, J. Ashby-Sterry, A. C. Swinburne, C. H. Waring and Oscar Wilde.

The composition of all poetry in the English language is governed by clearly defined rules, and although a man ignorant of these rules, if gifted with a fine ear, and original conceptions, may produce a pretty song or ballad, it is very rare indeed that any truly great work is composed, which is not written in accordance with certain regulations as to metre and rhyme.

In ordinary poetry these restrictions allow of great variations in style and treatment, but it is far otherwise when any of the old French poetical fashions are selected; then the rules are exact and peremptory, and for each of the following varieties, the form is clearly defined, and perfectly distinct. They are the _Ballade_, _Chant Royal_, _Kyrielle_, _Pantoum_, _Rondeau Redoublé_, _Rondel_, _Rondeau_, _Sicilian Octave_, _Triolet_, and _Villanelle_, with a few minor forms.

It is quite beyond the scope of this collection to formulate the rules governing the composition of these poetic trifles, nor indeed is it necessary, for Mr. Gleeson White’s charming little book on the subject is readily accessible, and contains nearly all that can be said about it. It is entitled _Ballades and Rondeaus_, selected, with a chapter on the various forms, by Gleeson White. London, Walter Scott, 1887.

The editor’s name is sufficient to indicate that the selections are the best that could be chosen, and the introductory essay is, in itself, a distinct gain to our literature, treating as it does, of a somewhat exotic branch of poetry. Mr. Gleeson White is very much in earnest, and although he inserts a few burlesques it is evident that he regards them as desecrations of his favourite metres.

To the Parodist nothing is sacred, but whilst some of the following parodies are quoted from Mr. White’s collection, those who would wish to read the originals must refer to the work itself.

In _Punch_ (October 22, 1887) there was a set of verses (in honour of Mr. White’s book) written in the various metres described, and one of each of these may fitly lead the several varieties here dealt with.

THE MUSE IN MANACLES.

(_By an Envious and Irritable Bard, after reading “Ballades and Rondeaus,” just published, and wishing he could do anything like any of them._)

Bored by the Ballade, vexed by Villanelle,
Of Rondeau tired, and Triolet as well!

THE BALLADE.
(_In Bad Weather_).

Oh! I’m in a terrible plight――
For how can I rhyme in the rain?
’Tis pouring from morn until night:
So bad is the weather again,
My language is almost profane!
Though shod with the useful galosh,
I’m racked with rheumatical pain――
I think that a Ballade is bosh

I know I am looking a fright;
That knowledge, I know, is in vain;
My “brolly” is not water-tight,
But hopelessly rended in twain
And spoilt by the rude hurri_cane_!
Though clad in a stout mackintosh,
My temper I scarce can restrain――
I think that a Ballade is bosh!

Oh, I’m an unfortunate wight!
The damp is affecting my brain;
My woes I would gladly recite,
In phrases emphatic and plain,
Your sympathy could I obtain.
I don’t think my verses will wash,
They’re somewhat effete and inane――
I think that a Ballade is bosh!

_Envoy._

I fancy I’m getting insane,
I’m over my ankles in slosh;
But let me repeat the refrain――
I think that a Ballade is bosh!

――――

A BALLADE OF OLD METRES.

When, in the merry realm of France,
Bluff Francis ruled and loved and laughed,
Now held the lists with knightly lance,
Anon the knightly beaker quaffed;
Where wit could wing his keenest shaft
With Villon’s verse or Montaigne’s prose,
Then poets exercised their craft
In ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

O quaint old times! O fitting chants!
With fluttering banners fore and aft,
With mirth of minstrelsy and dance,
Sped Poesy’s enchanted craft;
The odorous gale was blowing abaft
Her silken sails, as on she goes,
Doth still to us faint echoes waft
Of ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

But tell me with what countenance
Ye seek on modern rhymes to graft
Those tender shoots of old Romance――
Romance that now is only chaffed?
O iron days! O idle raft
Of rhymesters! they are ‘_peu de chose_,’
What Scott would call supremely “saft”
_Your_ ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

_Envoy._

Bards, in whose vein the maddening draught
Of Hippocrene so wildly glows,
Forbear, and do not drive us daft
With ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

_The Century._

――――

A YOUNG POET’S ADVICE.

You should study the bards of to-day
Who in England are now all the rage;
You should try to be piquant and gay;
Your lines are too solemn and sage.
You should try to fill only a page,
Or two at the most with your lay;
And revive the quaint verse of an age
That is fading forgotten away.

Study Lang, Gosse, and Dobson, I pray――
That their rhymes and their fancies engage
Your thought to be witty as they.
You must stand on the popular stage.
In the bars of an old fashioned cage
We must prison the birds of our May,
To carol the notes of an age
That is fading forgotten away.

Now this is a ‘Ballade’――I say,
So one stanza more to our page,
But the “Vers de Société,”
If you can are the best for your ‘wage.’
Though the purists may fall in a rage
That two rhymes go thrice in one lay,
You may passably echo an age
That is fading forgotten away.

_Envoy._

Bard――heed not the seer and the sage,
‘Afflatus’ and Nature don’t pay;
But stick to the forms of an age
That is fading forgotten away.

C. P. CRANCH.

――――:o:――――

In an amusing little collection of poems quite recently published, there are several parodies and three ballades, all on legal topics, from which the following extracts are quoted by the kind permission of Messrs. Reeves and Turner. The title of the book is _The Lays of a Limb of the Law_, by the late John Popplestone, Town Clerk of Stourmouth, edited by Edmund B. V. Christian. London: Reeves and Turner, 1889. It contains Law Reports in the shape of parodies of Cowper’s “Alexander Selkirk;” of Pope’s translation of Homer, “The Splendid Shilling,” and of other poems in a manner somewhat similar to those contained in Professor Frederick Pollock’s well-known, but scarce little work, “Leading Cases Done into English.”

Of the three ballades perhaps the following is the best:――

BALLADE OF OLD LAW BOOKS.

_“I am improving my legal knowledge, Master Copperfield, said Uriah. ‘I am going through Tidd’s Practice. Oh, what a writer Mr. Tidd is, Master Copperfield.’”_

The law books are standing in dingy array,
They fill every shelf from ceiling to floor,
Old guides to a silent and grass-covered way
Which never a traveller now shall explore,
Save delvers for antiquarian lore,
Who painfully search where their treasures lie hid,
In pages that else had been closed evermore,
Forgotten for aye, like the wonderful TIDD!

Great Blackstone is put up aloft, far away
(The Whig, first edition, in calf, volumes four);
The Doctor and Student alike are at play;
And Perkins is now but a profitless bore.
Old Viner’s abridgment is over the door
’Mid dust-begrimed wines that fetch never a bid;
Even Fearne on Remainders we vainly deplore
Forgotten for aye, like the wonderful TIDD!

Oblivion has fallen on the frequent _Ca. sa._,
And Cursitor Street is untrod as of yore;
We turn not the leaves of Les Termes de la Ley,
Or these ancient Reports, ah, many a score,
Of a dulness as deadly as dread hellibore,
Of their Latin and law we are joyfully rid.
Let them stand, as we peacefully slumber and snore,
Forgotten for aye, like the wonderful Tidd.

_Envoy._

How quickly the summers and winters are o’er!
They linger not now as in childhood they did.
Soon _we_ shall be treading yon shadowy shore,
Forgotten for aye like the wonderful TIDD!

The first verse of each of the other two ballades will suffice:――

BALLADE OF THE HONEST LAWYER.

The “noble savage” of long ago
Within a hundred tomes we find;
The foreigner acute we know,
And “general readers,” looks resigned;
The “law of nature,” left behind
By a simpler age, has ceased to be
Aught but examination grind;
“The honest lawyer,” where is he?
* * * * *

BALLADE OF LEADING CASES.

When August crowns the legal year,
When clients leave an hour for play,
But――your examination near――
You’re doomed in London town to stay;
When, tired of our prosaic day,
You’d catch a glimpse of old-world faces,
Put statutes, text-books, all, away――
Read, mark, and learn the Leading Cases.
* * * * *

――――

BALLADE OF THE TIMID BARD.
(_To Angelica, who bids him publish._)

In Memory’s mystical hazes
I see a vast Gander and grey,
I see the small boy that he chases
At the head of a hissing array:
How I wept when they brought me to bay,
How I pleaded in vain for a truce!
Too frightened too shoo them away,
I could never say Boh to a Goose!
* * * * *

_Punch_, October 22, 1887.

――――:o:――――

THE VILLANELLE.

(_With Vexation._)

I do not like the Villanelle,
I think it somewhat of a bore――
This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

The reason why I cannot tell;
Each day I fancy, more and more,
I do not like the Villanelle!

It makes me stamp and storm and yell,
It makes me wildly rage and roar:
This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

I look upon it as a sell,
Its use I constantly deplore;
I do not like the Villanelle!

Poetic thoughts it must dispel,
It very often tries me sore:
This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

For this I know, and know full well――
Let me repeat it o’er and o’er――
I do not like the Villanelle,
This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

Such was _Mr. Punch’s_ opinion of this delicious form of verse, which must be complete in nineteen lines, arranged as above. The accepted model is the following old French _Villanelle_ by Jean Passerat:

_J’ay perdu ma tourterelle;
Est-ce-point ells que i’oy?[2]
Je veux aller après elle._

_Tu regrettes ta femelle;
Hélas! aussy fay-je moy:
J’ay perdu ma tourterelle._

_Si ton amour est fidèle,
Aussy est ferme ma foy;
Je veux aller après elle._

_Ta plainte se renouvelle?
Toujours plaindre je me doy:
J’ay perdu ma tourterelle._

_En ne voyant plus la belle
Plus rien de beau je ne voy:
Je veux aller après elle._

_Mort, que tant de fois j’appelle
Prens ce qui se donne à toy:
J’ai perdu ma tourterelle,
Je veux aller après elle._

Of modern English specimens one of the most beautiful is that by Mr. Austin Dobson “When I saw you last, Rose,” which is given in Mr. White’s book, together with a French translation of it by M. J. Boulmier.

――――

A VILLANELLE.
(_After Mr. Oscar Wilde._)

Commissioner of Lunacee!
An _inquirendo_ come and hold;
For Oscar Wilde hath need of thee!

Flings to the world in wild frenz_ee_
A poem on “a wattled fold,”
Commissioner of Lunac_ee_.

In his strange verse none sense can see;
He raves of “limbs and beards of gold”;
He really hath great need of thee!

Anon he says, “A hell I see!”
And talks of satyrs dead and cold:
Commissioner of Lunac_ee_.

And many an untold idioc_ee_,
With little meaning, is enrolled:
He verily hath need of thee,

A Bedlamite as mad as he
No open doors should ever hold.
Commissioner of Lunac_ee_,
You see he has great need of thee!

FRANK DANBY.

_The Whitehall Review_, September 30, 1880.

――――

THE STREET SINGER.
(_Villanelle from my window._)

He stands at the kerb and sings.
’Tis a doleful tune and slow,
Ah me, if I had but wings!

He bends to the coin one flings,
But he never attempts to go,――
He stands at the kerb and sings.

The conjurer comes with his rings.
And the Punch-and-Judy show.
Ah me, if I had but wings!

They pass like all fugitive things――
They fade and they pass, but lo!
He stands at the kerb and sings.

All the magic that Music brings
Is lost when he mangles it so――
Ah me, if I had but wings!

But the worst is a thought that stings!
There is nothing at hand to throw!
He stands at the kerb and sings――
Ah me, if I had but wings!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

――――

CULTURE IN THE SLUMS.

Now ain’t they utterly too-too
(She ses, my missus mine,[3] ses she),
Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Joe, just you kool ’em――nice and skew
Upon our old meogginee,
Now ain’t they utterly too-too?

They’re better than a pot ’n’ a screw,
They’re equal to a Sunday spree,
Them flymy little bits of Blue!

Suppose I put ’em up the flue,
And booze the profits, Joe? Not me.
Now ain’t they utterly too-too?

I do the ’Igh Art fake, I do.
Joe, I’m consummate; and I _see_
Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Which, Joe, is why I ses te you――
Æsthetic-like, and limp, and free――
Now _ain’t_ they utterly too-too,
Them flymy little bits o’ Blue?

W. E. HENLEY.

――――

IN WAIN!

(_A Villanelle of Vexations. By B * * * y P * * g._)
Addressed to all true Jingoes.

In wain would I the British Lion wake!
In wain I’d rouge the brute to wilent springing;
His tail won’t wag, his mane declines to shake.

In wain my daily ’larum-bell I take,
Till his ears tingle with its brazen ringing
In wain would I the British Lion wake!

In wain I warn him of that Northern snake,
Who midst our Injun grass will soon be stinging;
His tail won’t wag, his mane declines to shake.

* * * * *

He sleeps as placid as a windless lake;
Cold water on my fire his calm is flinging.
His tail _won’t_ wag, his mane declines to shake;
In wain would I the British Lion wake!

_Punch._ August 11, 1877.

――――:o:――――

THE TRIOLET.

(_In a Temper._)

A Triolet’s scarcely the thing――
Unless you would carol in fetters!
If lark-like you freely would sing,
A Triolet’s scarcely the thing:
I miss the poetical ring,
I’m told that it has, by my betters!
A Triolet’s scarcely the thing――
Unless you would carol in fetters!

_Punch._

The _Triolet_, which should consist of eight lines, but only two rhymes, is more often met with in French literature than in our own; the following old specimen was christened by Ménage _le roi des Triolets_:――

_Le premier jour du mois de mai
Fut le plus heureux de ma vie:
Le beau dessein que je formai,
Le premier jour du mois de mai!
Je vous vis et je vous aimai.
Si ce dessein vous plut, Sylvie,
Le premier jour du mois de mai
Fut le plus heureux de ma vie._

JACQUES RANCHIN.

――――

A TRIOLET,
(After Mr. Dobson’s “I intended an Ode”)

I wished to sing my love;
I cannot do so now.
(As I remarked above)
I wished to sing my love,
But Kate crossed with her cow
And gave my love a shove.
I wished to sing my love;
I cannot do so now.

JOHN TWIG.

――――

HOW TO FASHION A TRIOLET.

As triolets are now the “go,”
A charming one I’ll write,
Their little niceties to show,――
As triolets are now the “go,”――
I’m writing one (and _àpropos_,
By Webster, I am right);
As triolets are now the “go,”
A charming one I’ll write.

The dictionary teaches me
The triolet receipt:――
The verses of eight lines must be;
The dictionary teaches me
The first line, by the recipe,
Three times I must repeat.
The dictionary teaches me
The triolet receipt.

The second line must reappear
To form the final line;
No matter if it soundeth queer.
The second line must reappear;
When poetry is far from clear
It is considered fine!
The second line must reappear
To form the final line.

Now, do you like the triolet?
Your true opinion say.
It puts me in a horrid pet;
Now, do you like the triolet?
I wish your real thought to get,
So do be candid, pray.
Now _do_ you like the triolet?
Your true opinion say.

W. BEST.

_Detroit Free Press_, 1888.

――――:o:――――

THE RONDEAU.

(_In a Rage._)

Pray tell me why we can’t agree
To bid the merry Muse run free?
Pray tell me why we should incline
To see her in a Rondeau pine,
Or sigh in shackled minstrelsy?
Why can’t she sing with lark-like glee,
And revel in bright _jeux d’esprit_?
Where form can’t fetter or confine――
Pray tell me why?

Pray tell me why that frisky gee,
Called Pegasus, should harnessed be?
Why bit and bridle should combine
To all his liveliness consign,――
To deck the Rondeau’s narrow line――
Pray tell me why?

_Punch._

_RONDEAU._

_Ma foi, c’est fait de moi, car Isabeau
M a conjuré de lui faire un rondeau.
Cela me met en peine extrême
Quoi! treize vers, huit en_ eau, _cinq en_ eme!
_Je lui ferais aussitôt un bateau._

_En voilà cing pourtant en un monceau.
Faisons-en huit en invoquant Brodeau,
Et puis mettons, par quelque stratagème:
Ma foi, c est fait._

_Si je pouvais encor de mon cerveau
Tirer cinq vers l’ouvrage serait beau;
Mais cependant je suis dedans l’onzième;
Et ci je crois que je fais le douzième;
En voila treize ajustés au niveau.
Ma foi, c’est fait._

――VOITURE.

The following humorous paraphrase was written, some years since, by Mr. Austin Dobson:――

You bid me try, BLUE-EYES, to write
A Rondeau. What! forthwith?――to-night?
Reflect. Some skill I have, ’tis true;
But thirteen lines!-and rhymed on two!――
“Refrain,” as well. Ah, hapless plight!
Still there are five lines――ranged aright.
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright
My easy Muse. They did, till you――
_You_ bid me try!

“That makes them eight.――The port’s in sight:
Tis all because your eyes are bright!
Now just a pair to end in “oo,”――
When maids command, what can’t we do!
Behold! The RONDEAU――tasteful, light――
You bid me try!”

――――

A RONDEAU.
(After Voiture’s “_Ma foy c’est fait_.”)

Why do I wander wildly to and fro?
My tyrant bade me twist her a rondeau.
Methinks ’twas deleterious to my brain!
I loved her (though her name was Mary Jane):
She died of D. T. many years ago.
A Rondeau? Humph! Ha, hum! Egad, just so!
“Five rhymes in ain and eight remain in O.”
Eh, no, Voiture! For they be all inane.
Why do I wander?

White though the head be, red’s the nose below――
(Bright beams a light-house spite a roof of snow)――
“Why wander goose-like?” doth my love complain?
Ah, dear, dead love! Ah, Marie! Ah, ma reine!
(Meaning M. J. of course.) Hullo! Gee Wo!
Why do I wander?

――――

CULTURE IN THE SLUMS.
(_Inscribed to an Intense Poet._)

“O Crikey, Bill!” she ses to me, she ses.
“Look sharp,” ses she, “with them there sossiges.
Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree!
For lo!” she ses, “for lo! old pal,” ses she,
“I’m blooming peckish, neither more nor less.”

Was it not prime――I leave you all to guess
How prime!――to have a jude in love’s distress
Come spooning round, and murmuring balmilee,
“O crikey, Bill!”

For in such rorty wise doth Love express
His blooming views, and asks for your address,
And makes it right, and does the gay and free.
I kissed her――I did so! And her and me
Was pals. And if that ain’t good business,
O crikey, Bill!

W. E. HENLEY.

――――

A RONDEL.
(After Mr. Dobson’s “_Too hard it is to sing_.”)

Too hard it is to pipe
To an untuneful herd!
And berries, while unripe,
Repel the _prudent_ bird!
The wildly warbling snipe
You may, perhaps, have heard――
(Too hard it is to pipe
To an _untuneful_ herd!)
It rarely fed on tripe
But mushroom much preferred
Lest folk its tail should gripe
And salt (which were absurd!)
Too hard it is to pipe
To an untuneful herd!

――――

RONDEL.
(_Adapted, for the use of the Order of Our Lady of Pain._)

Kissing the Heir, I saw him at my feet,
Wound round my finger, found him soft and sweet;
Made fast his feeble hands, dazzled his eyes,――
Like fishes’ optics, no ways clear or wise.
With my best dresses made him find me fair――
Kissing the Heir!