Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Often she stands on chairs,
Sometimes she unawares
Slyly creeps up the stairs,
Secretly hiding:
Then will this merry maid--
She is of nought afraid--
Come down the balustrade,
Saucily sliding!

Books she abominates,
But see her go on skates,
And over five-barred gates
Fearlessly scramble!
Climbing up apple-trees,
Barking her supple knees,
Flouting mama's decrees--
Out for a ramble.

Now she is good as gold,
Then she is pert and bold,
Minds not what she is told,
Carelessly tripping.
She is an April miss,
Bounding to grief from bliss,
Often she has a kiss--
Sometimes a whipping!

Naughty but best of girls,
Through life she gaily twirls,
Shaking her sunny curls--
Careless and joyful.
Ev'ry one on her dotes,
Carolling merry notes,
Pet in short petticoats--
Truly tomboyful!

CANOEBIAL BLISS.

_My Pegasus won't bear a bridle,
A bit, or a saddle, or shoe:
I'm doing my best to be idle,
And sing from my bass-wood canoe!_

O, SUMMER is sweet, and its sky is so blue--
The days are so long, and my heart is so light,
When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

Where am I? No matter! It's nothing to you--
The breeze is so pleasant, the sun is so bright--
O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!

I glory in thinking there's nothing to do.
I moon and I ponder from morn until night,
When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

My face and my hands are of tropical hue.
In spotless white flannel my limbs are bedight.
O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!

But O, it is pleasant to dream the day through,
Half-hidden by rushes, and well out of sight,
When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

I crush the white lilies, 'tis almost "too too;"
I dream to the song of the dragon-flies' flight--
O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!

Somewhere on the Thames, I can't give you a clue,
Be able to find me, you possibly might,
When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

And if you are pleasant, and I'm in the cue,
Through azurine smoke you may hear me recite--
O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue,
When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!

ROSIE.

DRAWN BY LEECH.

DOWN on the sands there strolls a merry maid,
Aglow with ruddy health and gladsome glee;
She breasts the breezes of the summer sea,
And lets each zephyr trifle with each braid;
Laughs gaily as her petticoats evade
Her girlish grasp and wildly flutter free,
As, bending to some boisterous decree,
The neatest foot and ankle are displayed.

Her youthful rounded figure you may trace
Half pouting, as rude Boreas unfurls
A wealth of snowy frillery and lace,
A glory of soft golden rippled curls.
Comes, blushing with a rare unconscious grace,
The bonniest of England's bonny girls!

SKINDLE'S IN OCTOBER.

OCTOBER is the time of year;
For no regattas interfere,
The river then is fairly clear
Of steaming "spindles,"
You then have space to moor your punt,
You then can get a room in front
Of Skindle's.

When Taplow Woods are russet-red,
When half the poplar-leaves are shed,
When silence reigns at Maidenhead,
And autumn dwindles,
'Tis good to lounge upon that lawn,
Though beauties of last June are gone
From Skindle's.

We toiled in June all down to Bray,
And yarns we spun for Mab and May;
O, who would think such girls as they
Would turn out swindles?
But _now_ we toil and spin for jack,
And in the evening we get back
To Skindle's.

And after dinner--passing praise--
'Tis sweet to meditate and laze,
To watch the ruddy logs ablaze;
And as one kindles
The big post-prandial cigar,
My friend, be thankful that we are
At Skindle's.

IN MY EASY CHAIR.

'TIS simply detestable weather!
At home I'm determined to stay;
A fortune I've spent in shoe-leather,
And ruined three hats ev'ry day!
Umbrellas I've borrowed and broken,
And angered their owners no doubt:
These things I consider a token,
'Tis not the least use to go out!
But let the weather be foul or fair,
I'll sit and smile in my Easy Chair!

The morning's uncertain and hazy--
I can't be quite sure of the time--
I'm feeling exhausted and lazy,
Not equal to reason or rhyme!
While streets still are muddy and sloppy,
While bitter the easterly breeze,
I'll maunder and nod like a poppy,
And take forty winks at mine ease!
My dreams are pleasant, so _I_ don't care.
I'll sit and snooze in my Easy Chair!

There's nothing of note in the papers,
There's nothing to do or to say:
We suffer extremely from "vapours"--
The fog and the damp of each day.
Though cities be frozen or flooded,
'Tis useless to fume or to fret;
Though friends are bespattered and mudded--
I'll smoke a serene cigarette!
And all the burdens I have to bear,
I'll smoke away in my Easy Chair!

Within it is snug and quiescent,
Without it persistently pours;
My chair is well-cushioned and pleasant,
Though life's full of angles and bores!
My room is deliciously torrid,
By frost or by rain I'm unvext;
The world is decidedly horrid--
So call me the month after next!
The world may roll and may tear its hair,
I'll roll and laugh in my Easy Chair!

BLANKTON WEIR.

'TIS a queer old pile of timbers, all gnarled and rough and green,
Both moss-o'ergrown and weed-covered, and jaggèd too, I ween!
'Tis battered and 'tis spattered, all worn and knocked about,
Beclamped with rusty rivets, and bepatched with timbers stout;
A tottering, trembling structure, enshrining memories dear,
This weather-beaten barrier, this quaint old Blankton Weir.

While leaning on those withered rails, what feelings oft come back,
As I watch the white foam sparkling and note the current's track;
What crowds of fleeting fancies come dancing through my brain!
And the good old days of Blankton, I live them o'er again;
What hopes and fears, gay smiles, sad tears, seem mirrored in the
mere,
While looking on its glassy face by tell-tale Blankton Weir!

I've seen it basking 'neath the rays of summer's golden glow,
And when sweetly by the moonlight, silver ripples ebb and flow;
When Nature starts in spring-time, awakening into life;
When autumn leaves are falling, and the yellow corn is rife;
'Mid the rime and sleet of winter, all through the live-long year,
I've watched the water rushing through this tide-worn Blankton Weir.

And I mind me of one even, so calm and clear and bright,
What songs we sang--whose voices rang--that lovely summer night.
Where are the hearty voices now who trolled those good old lays?
And where the silvery laughter that rang in bygone days?
Come back, that night of long ago! Come back, the moonlight clear!
When hearts beat light, and eyes were bright, about old Blankton Weir.

Was ever indolence so sweet, were ever days so fine,
As when we lounged in that old punt and played with rod and line?
'Tis true few fish we caught there, but the good old ale we quaffed,
As we chatted, too, and smoked there, and idled, dreamed, and laughed:
Then thought we only of to-day, of morrow had no fear,
For sorrow scarce had tinged the stream that flowed through
Blankton Weir.

Those dreamy August afternoons, when in our skiff we lay,
To hear the current murmuring as slow it swirled away;
The plaintive hum of dragon-fly, the old weir's plash and roar,
While _Some-one's_ gentle voice, too, seems whispering there once
more;
Come back, those days of love and trust, those times of hope and fear,
When girls were girls, and hearts were hearts, about old Blankton Weir!

Those brilliant sunny mornings when we tumbled out of bed,
And hurried on a few rough clothes, and to the river sped!
What laughing joyaunce hung about those merry days agone,
We clove the rushing current at the early flush of dawn!
Tremendous headers took we in the waters bright and clear,
And splashed and dashed, and dived and swam, just off old
Blankton Weir.

Then that pleasant picnic-party, when all the girls were there,
In pretty morning dresses and with freshly-braided hair;
Fair Annie, with those deep-blue eyes, and rosy, laughing Nell,
Dark Helen, sunny Amy, and the stately Isobel;
Ah! Lizzie, 'twas but yesterday--at least 'twould so appear--
We plighted vows of constancy, not far from Blankton Weir.

Those flashing eyes, those brave true hearts, are gone, and few remain
To mourn the loss of sunny hours that ne'er come back again:
Some married are--ah! me, how changed--for they will think no more
Of how they joined our chorus there, or helped to pull the oar:
One gentle voice is hushed for aye--we miss a voice so dear--
Who cheered along with evensong our path by Blankton Weir.

Amid the whirl of weary life--I hear it o'er and o'er,
That plaintive well-loved lullaby--the old weir's distant roar:
It gilds the cloud of daily toil with sunshine's fitful gleams,
It breaks upon my slumber, and I hear it in my dreams:
Like music of the good old times, it strikes upon mine ear--
If there's an air can banish care, 'tis that of Blankton Weir!

I know the river's rushing, but it rushes not for me,
I feel the morning blushing, though I am not there to see;
For younger hearts now live and love where once we used to dwell,
And others laugh, and dream, and sing, in spots we loved so well;
Their motto "_Carpe diem_"--'twas ours for many a year--
As show these rhymes of sunny times about old Blankton Weir.

DIFFERENT VIEWS.

A CHRISTMAS DUET.

O, CHRISTMAS comes but once a year!
(_And even that is once too many;_)
Hurrah for all its right good cheer!
(_I wish I had my share of any!_)
What flavour of the good old times!
(_What hopeless and egregious folly!_)
What evergreens and merry chimes!
(_What prickles ever lurk in holly!_)

Indeed it is a merry time;
(_But O! those countless Christmas numbers!_)
For now we see the pantomime,
(_And now the waits disturb our slumbers._)
We've kisses 'neath the mistletoe--
(_I hate such rough, unseemly capers!_)
And hearty welcomes, frost and snow;
(_Yes, in the illustrated papers._)

Around the groaning Christmas board,
(_Which never equals expectations,_)
Where old and young are in accord--
(_I hate the most of my relations!_)
I view the turkey with delight,
(_A tough old bird beyond all question!_)
The blazing pudding--what a sight!
(_'Tis concentrated indigestion!_)

Laugh on, ye merry girls and boys!
(_Each year the Christmas boxes strengthen,_)
Each year brings with it countless joys;
(_The Christmas bills each year they lengthen._)
To all we pledge the brimming glass!
(_What days of gorging and unreason!_)
Too quick such merry moments pass--
(_Why can't we skip the "festive season"?_)

TWO NAUGHTY GIRLS.

A SCULLER'S SKETCH.

AS I go slowly drifting by,
Two lazy lasses I espy;
Two pretty pets who lounge and moon,
Who dream and take their ease,
And chatter through the afternoon,
Beneath the trees.

The one is Beatie, t'other Bell,
No pow'r on earth will make me tell
The surname of each lovely flow'r--
This pair of busy B's,
Who _don't_ improve each shining hour,
Beneath the trees!

Ah! why should one sweet damsel frown,
And droop her pretty eyelids down?
Or quickly hush her merry notes,
And clasp her pliant knees?
A pouting pet in petticoats,
Beneath the trees!

Has Bell at Beatie dared to sneer,
Or Beatie chanced at Bell to jeer?
Has either vented girlish spite,
Because she likes to tease?
Or loves, like dogs, to bark and bite,
Beneath the trees!

Has either called the other "flirt"?
Does Bell object to Beatie's skirt?
Or Bella's sweet forget-me-nots,
Miss Beatrix displease?--
I'd like to read them Doctor Watts,
Beneath the trees.

I drift and leave each dainty maid,
Still sweet and sulky in the shade,
With all their sunny laughing curls
A-flutter in the breeze:
Two nice but very naughty girls,
Beneath the trees!

I said unto myself, Ha! ha!
My dears, if I were your mama,
Most quickly I'd pack off to bed
Two naughty busy B's--
Who quarrel and make eyelids red,
Beneath the trees!

COULEUR DE ROSE.

A SIX MONTHS' COURTSHIP.

HER soft sables, you must know,
Kept off winter's frost and snow,
And the cruel wind did blow
When we met:
The demurest little nun,
Though she'd sometimes change in fun,
Like a snowflake in the sun,--
Little pet!

Pray what meant those frequent sighs,
When those fathomless brown eyes
Sometimes gazed with glad surprise
Into mine?
It was joy to be alone,
With my arm around her zone,
And to claim her for my own
Valentine!

'Fore the romping wind of March
Was she bending like a larch,
As her glance seemed yet more arch
Through her curls;
Came in view the ankles neat,
Were revealed the dainty feet,
And the _chaussure_ of my sweet
Girl of girls!

Ah! my brightest fay of fays
Was most fickle in her ways,
In chameleon April days--
Sun and rain!
She would sometimes be put out,
She would laugh or cry and pout;
Smiling through her tears in doubt,
Joy and pain!

But in May so freshly fair
She would cull its blossoms rare,
Just to twine them in her hair--
Gay and wild:
A sweet pæan of perfume,
A gay sunny song of bloom,
She would chase away all bloom--
Laughing child!

Ah! her cheek will shame the rose,
With the tint that comes and goes,
And more radiantly glows,
When it's prest!
Whilst her loving eyes flash bright,
With a sweet and sparkling light,
And white roses scarce look white
In her breast!

In the balmy summer time,
With gay roses in their prime,
No one deems it is a crime
Then to "spoon"!
Ah! how quick the time then sped,
Now I wonder what we said,
'Neath the roses white and red--
Once in June?

O! when summer skies were blue,
And we fancied hearts were true,
While the long day loving through--
Who'd suppose?
Our grand castles built in Spain,
Or that love could ever wane,
And its fragrance but remain,
Like the rose?

IN STRAWBERRY TIME.

HOT, hot glows the sunshine in laughing July.
Scarce flutter the leaves in the soft summer sigh:
The rooks scarcely swing on the tops of the trees,
While river-reeds nod to the lime-scented breeze:
A roseleaf, a-bask in the sunshiny gleam,
Half sleeps in the dimples that chequer the stream;
The dragon-fly hushes his day-dreamy lay,
The silver trout sulks in his sedge-shaded bay--
While our thoughts sweetly run in a soft singing rhyme,
As we lazily loiter in strawberry time!

Sweet, sweet is the scent of the newly-mown hay,
Light borne by the breeze on a bright summer's day;
And cool is the sound of the musical plash,
As bright bubbles fall in the fountain and flash.
'Tis joy then to wander in gay golden hours,
And dream 'mid the hues of the bright-tinted flow'rs;
When the velvety lawn is most soft to the tread,
And ruddy fruit hangs in the leaf-covered bed--
Then the roundest, the sweetest, the best of the prime,
Will we gather together in strawberry time!

Joy, joy 'tis to whisper and laugh in the shade,
And pluck the ripe fruit for my hazel-eyed maid;
To watch her delight as she eagerly clips
A pink British Queen with her soft pouting lips!
While lovingly gazing I'm apt to compare
The warm blushing berries with lips of my fair;
I'm doubtful, indeed, if the fruit of the South
Could equal the charm of her ripe little mouth--
'Tis so round and so soft, 'twould be scarcely a crime
All my doubts to dispel in sweet strawberry time!

Light, light is the laughter that carelessly rings,
And sweet is the carol she tenderly sings!
I murmur a story we all of us know--
Her soft dainty dimples, they come and they go;
Her eyelids droop down o'er those sweet little eyes,
Her laughter is hushed in a tumult of sighs:
Those pretty, plump fingers, red-stained to the tips,
All tremble, while pouting are rosy-red lips.
Then the bard whispers low, 'neath the tremulous lime,
"Lips sweeter than fruit are in strawberry time!"

NUMBER ONE.

PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG LADY.

"_No._ 1," _in a collection of one thousand five hundred and eighty-three works of art, at the Exhibition of the Royal Academy._

MY favourite, you must know,
In the Piccadilly Show,
Is the portrait of a lass
Bravely done.
'Mid the fifteen eighty-three
Works of art that you may see,
There is nothing can surpass--
"Number One"!

Very far above the line
Is this favourite of mine;
You may see her smiling there
O'er the crowds.
If you bring a good _lorgnette_,
You may see my dainty pet;
Like the Jungfrau, pink and fair,
'Mid the clouds.

My enchanting little star,
How I wonder what you are,
With your rosy laughing lips
Full of fun.
Have you many satellites,
Do you shine so bright o' nights,
That there's nothing can eclipse
"Number One"?

Are you constant in your loves?
Do you change them with your gloves?
Pray does Worth pervade your train--
Or your heart?
Are you fickle, are you leal,
Are your sunny tresses real,
Or your roses only vain
Works of art?

I sincerely envy him
Who the fortune had to limn
Your bewitching hazel eyes
With his brush:
Who could study ev'ry grace
In your winsome little face,
And the subtle charm that lies
In your blush.

I am sure it is a shame
That your pretty face and frame,
Ruthless hangers out of view
Seek to hide:
But no doubt Sir Frederick L----,
And his myrmidons as well,
Fancy angels such as you,
Should be "skyed"!

Ah! were I but twenty-two,
I would hinge the knee to you,
And most humbly kiss your glove
At your throne:
Thrice happy he whose sighs
Draw this sweet Heart Union prize
In the lottery of Love
For his own!

If I knew but your papa,
Could I only "ask mama,"
It is clear enough to me
As the sun,
That all through this weary life,
'Mid its pleasure, pain, and strife,
All my care and love should be
"Number One."

AFTER BREAKFAST.

THE ruddy ripe tomata,
In china bowl of ice;
And grouse worth a sonata,
Undoubtedly are nice!
A pint of sound Hocheimer,
A dainty speckled trout,
Suffices for the Rhymer,
To break his fast no doubt!
I watch the busy bees on
The leaf beneath the lime:
It's much too hot for reason,
And far too warm for rhyme!

'Tis hot as in the tropics--
Too hot to ride or walk--
I have no store of topics,
I do not care to talk!
No matutinal journal
Has reached me--Do I fret?
'Neath leafy shade supernal,
I smoke a cigarette!
I care not for the Season,
Trade, Politics, or Crime:
It's much too hot for reason,
And far too warm for rhyme!

Pray, who would wear a tall hat?
Or buttoned in frock coat,
Would countless places call at,
When he might moon in boat?
Exploring river reaches,
And doing naught at all,
But plucking juicy peaches
That ripen on the wall!
I put just what I please on,
I take no heed of time:
It's much too hot for reason,
And far too warm for rhyme!

My thoughts all run together,
Regretfully I find;
They're melted by the weather,
To shapeless mass of mind!
It's much too hot for thinking,
Too sultry 'tis to chaff;
For eating or for drinking,
Too torrid e'en to laugh!
I know this sounds like treason--
I do not care one dime--
It's much too hot for reason,
And far too warm for rhyme!

IN AN OLD CITY CHURCH.

ONE dull, foggy day in December,
When biting and bleak was the air,
I once lost my way, I remember,
And paused in a quaint City square.
Though lacking all splendour or gladness,
The flavour of good long ago
Clung close to the place in its sadness,
And grave-yard half covered with snow;
While the black, puny branches, all leafless and bare,
Seemed to add to the gloom of this dull City square!

The railings were rusty and rimy,
The church looked so mouldy and grim;
The houses seemed haunted and grimy,
The windows were gruesome and dim.
The iron gate scrooped on its hinges,
The clock struck a querulous chime,
As though it were feeling some twinges
'Twas almost forgotten by Time.
But I opened the door, and the picture was fair,
In the fine ancient church, in this sad City square!

A fair little lass, holly-laden--
With eyes of cerulean blue--
Is helping a sweet dark-eyed maiden
Twine ivy with laurel and yew;
How busy the deft taper fingers!
What taste and what art they display!
How lovingly each of them lingers,
Adjusting a leaf or a spray!----
I close the door softly, I've no business there,
And drift out in the fog of the grim City square.

A LITTLE LOVE-LETTER.

O PRETTY pet with the tangled hair,
Down by the sighing summer sea--
O dimpled darling with checks so fair,
Tell me, O dearest, when musing there,
Will you think of me?

O sweetest sweet, when the salt breeze sighs
'Mid silken locks ever flowing free,
While gulls glint white against sleepy skies,
Will looks of those bright brown loving eyes
E'er be turned to me?

Ah, laughing child, when your eyes beam bright,
And lips are parted in girlish glee;
When the shore is glad in still summer night,
With your sweet soft smile, and your laughter light,
Do you smile on me?

When the moon is up, and sleeps the land
To tender music in minor key;
When the silver-ripples hush the strand
And scarcely dimple the golden sand,
Will you dream of me?

Poor little heart! when your cheeks are wet
With tears that sadden one's heart to see,
Your moist lips tremble--you can't forget
Sometimes the sun through the rain shines, pet,
When you weep for me!

STRAY SUNBEAMS.

AWAY with great-coats and umbrellas!
Put all furry garments away!
Let glossiest hats--all you fellas--
Gleam bright in the light of to-day!
The air it is balmy and vernal,
We feel a new life has begun:
For gone is the weather hibernal--
And here is the Sun!

The genial sunbeams, in-streaming,
Flash bright on my pen as I write!
The paper is glowing and gleaming--
My eyes are quite dazed with the light!
No longer I growl or I shiver,
Nor each fellow-creature I shun:
I dream of the joys of the River--
For here is the Sun!

For England, the atmosphere's splendid,
We live and we breathe now again!
We fancy our trouble is ended,
For gone is the fog and the rain:
I laugh and I sing and I chuckle,
I rhyme and I dance and I pun!
I knock on the pane with my knuckle--
For here is the Sun!

What portents of pleasure I fancy
Return with these bright sunny rays!
What visions of lazing I _can_ see,
Of languorous, sweet Summer days;
Of yachting and sea-side diversions,
And getting as brown as a bun:
Of rambles and Alpine excursions--
For here is the Sun!

I think of long days at lawn-tennis,
Of dreams in my bass-wood canoe,
Of gondola-lounging at Venice,
And skies sempiternally blue!
I muse o'er the pleasures of playtime,
Of laziness, laughter, and fun;
Of lime-scented zephyrs and haytime--
But _where_ is the Sun?

[_Sun retires behind clouds, rain patters on the pane, and the Lazy One goes to bed._

PEARL.

PEARL, O Pearl!
Naught but a lissom English girl,
So sweet and simple;
Naught but the charm of golden curl,
Of blush and dimple--
Pearl, O Pearl!

Sweet, ah, sweet!
'Tis pleasant lolling at your feet
In summer playtime;
Ah, how the moments quickly fleet
In sunny hay-time--
Sweet, ah, sweet!

Dream, ah, dream!
The sedges sing by swirling stream
A lovely brief song;
The poplars chant in sunny gleam
A lulling leaf-song--
Dream, ah, dream!

Stay, O stay!
We cannot dream all through the day,
Demure and doubtful:
When shines the sun we must make hay,
When lips are poutful--
Stay, O stay!

A NUTSHELL NOVEL.

VOL. I.

A WINNING wile,
A sunny smile,
A feather:
A tiny talk,
A pleasant walk,
Together!

VOL. II.

A little doubt,
A playful pout,
Capricious:
A merry miss,
A stolen kiss,
Delicious!!

VOL. III.

You ask mama,
Consult papa,
With pleasure:
And both repent,
This rash event,
At leisure!!!

THE PINK OF PERFECTION.

_With manly step and stalwart stride,
The Minstrel paced the pier at Ryde!
And as he shook those hoary locks,
He gazed upon the pink, pink frocks!_

WITH frocks and their wearers to dazzle my eyes,
Their glories, I scarce dare to sing 'em:
I timidly gaze and I glance in surprise,
At beauties in cambric and gingham!
A Paris I feel in this Garden of Dress,
And, had I to make a selection--
The Apple of Gold, I most freely confess,
I'd give to the Pink of Perfection!

It must not remind you of raspberry ice,
Nor cheek of a milkmaid or cotter;
A lobster-like redness is not at all nice,
Nor feverish glow of the blotter;
It should not recall a Bardolphian nose,
Nor yet a pomegranate bisection--
Throughout the whole garden you'll scarce find a rose,
A match for the Pink of Perfection!

A strawberry crushed, almost smothered in cream,
Nearly matches the colour it may be;
The Jungfrau just flushed with the earliest beam,
The hue of the palm of a baby:
The faint ruddy tone you may see in a shell,
The rose in a young girl's complexion--
All or any of these, it is easy to tell,
Will pass for the Pink of Perfection!

This frock when it's made with most exquisite taste,
And fits like a glove on the shoulder;
With yoke and full pleats and a band at the waist,
Will gladden the passing beholder!
With lace and with buttons of mother o' pearl--
You'll say, on maturest reflection,
The best of all garbs for a pretty young girl,
No doubt is the Pink of Perfection!

Then if such a dress you meet down by the sea,
And find, when you've carefully eyed it,
In make and in fashion 'tis good as can be,
With a neat little figure inside it;
And a sweet little face peeping over a ruff,
Which laughs at your lengthy inspection,
I think you'll admit I have said quite enough--
You've found out the Pink of Perfection!

THE IMPARTIAL.

A BOAT-RACE SKETCH.

IN sorrow and joy she has seen the beginning--
Her lightness of spirit half dashed by the "blues"--
With cheers in her heart for the crew who are winning,
While tears fill her eyes for those fated to lose.

If you'll narrowly watch, 'mid the noise and contention,
You'll note, as her Arab paws proudly the dust,
A deftly-twined bouquet of speedwell and gentian
Beneath her white collar half carelessly thrust!

The tint of a night in the still summer weather
Her tight-fitting habit just serves to unfold,
While delicate cuffs are scarce fastened together
By dainty-wrought fetters of turquoise and gold.

Ah! climax of sweet, girlish, neutral devices--
What smiles for the winners, for losers what sighs!--
She has twined her fair hair with the colours of Isis,
While those of the Cam glitter bright in her eyes!

A TRAVELLER'S TARANTELLA.

_Written in "Murray's Handbook," while the band in the Piazza San
Marco was playing the Tarantella, from Masaniello._

ALL that the tourist can dream of or hear about,
Crowds on your sight as you carelessly peer about,
Quaint water streets you so carefully steer about,
See the Rialto, and Square of St. Mark!
Floating in gondolas, laughing and jollity,
Cyprian wine of the very best quality,
At Florian's _caffè_--mid fun and frivolity--
Venice delightful from daylight to dark!
Musicians in plenty,
Play "_Ecco ridente_,"
Or "_Com e gentil_," in the still summer night;
If you're in a hurry,
Pray look in your _Murray_--
You'll find his description is perfectly right!

Albergo Reale and English society,
_Bric-à-brac_ shops in their endless variety,
Plenty of pigeons not fearful of pie-ety,
Flutter and peck 'neath the bluest of skies.
Dreaming in Venice? Ah, wildest of fallacies--
Bronzes and sculpture, mosaics and chalices,
Convents and churches, and prisons and palaces,
See as you stand on the grim Bridge of Sighs!
The ballads of Byron,
You'll find will environ
The Doges and dodges and Brides of the Sea.
Don't get in a flurry,
But read it in _Murray_--
If you don't care about it, then listen to me!

Thousands of thirsty mosquitoes are biting one,
Silvery moonlight is ever delighting one,
Music and mirth every moment inviting one--
Dreary old London we quickly forget!
Shylock and Portia--in short, the whole kit of 'em,
Readers of Shakespeare recall ev'ry bit of 'em;
Troublesome guides, you can never get quit of 'em--
Pictures by Titian and old Tintoret!
The sock and the buskin,
With Rogers and Ruskin,
Are mixed in a muddle with palace and sight!
It may be a worry,
But don't forget _Murray_,
He'll throw on your darkness some excellent light!

CAFFÈ FLORIAN, VENEZIA.

IN A MINOR KEY.

I'M sick of the world and its trouble,
I'm weary of pleasures that cloy,
I see through the bright-coloured bubble,
And find no enjoyment in joy.

Is all that we earn worth the earning?
Is all that we gain worth the prize?
Is all that we learn worth the learning?
Is pleasure but pain in disguise?

Is sorrow e'er worth our dejection?
Is fame but a flatterer's spell?
Is love ever worth our affection?
_Le jeu vaut-il, donc, la chandelle?_

O, where are the eyes that enthralled us,
And where are the lips that we kissed?
Where the syren-like voices that called us,
And where all the chances we missed?

We know not what mortals call pleasure--
For clouded are skies that were blue;
To dross now has melted our treasure,
And false are the hearts that were true.

The flowers we gathered are faded,
The leaves of our laurels are shed;
Our spirit is broken and jaded,
The hopes of our youth are all dead.

We feel life is hopeless and dreary,
Now night has o'ershadowed our day;
Bright fruits of this earth only weary,
They ripen--to fall and decay!

I'm sick of the world and its trouble,
For rest and seclusion I thirst;
I'm tired of the gay tinted bubble,
That brighteneth only to burst!

A SHOWER-SONG.

MY heart was light and whole aboard--
As I sculled swift by Harleyford
The rain began to patter--
But when I saw in Hurley Lock
That Naiad in a gingham frock,
'Twas quite another matter!
The banks are soft with mud and slosh,
And shiny is each mackintosh,
Each hat and coat well soaken:
My spirits droop, and as I scan
That Beauty in a trim randan,
I fear my heart is broken!
She hath a graceful little head,
Her lips are ripe and round and red,
Her teeth are short and pearly;
And on a rosy sun-kissed cheek
Her dimples play at hide-and-seek,
Within the lock at Hurley!

I strive to make a mental note,
The while she lounges in her boat
Beneath the big umbrella.
I wonder if she's Gwendoline,
Or Gillian, or Geraldine,
Or Sylvia, or Stella?
Is she engaged to Stroke or Bow?
I would they could assure me now
She loves to flirt with others!
Will stalwart Sculls e'er claim her hand?
How gladly would I understand
Her Crew are naught but brothers!
Her hat with lilies is bedight,
Her voice is low, her laugh is light,
Her figure slight and girly.
How cheerfully I'd take a trip,
With such a Pilot for my ship,
And sail away from Hurley!

I wonder if her heart is true?
I know her eyes are peerless blue,
Long lashes downward sweeping;
A snow-white ruff around her throat,
Beneath her pouting petticoat
A little foot out-peeping.
O, is she wooed and is she won,
Or is she very fond of fun?
I make a thousand guesses!
A sweet young face, so full of hope,
A dainty hand on tiller-rope,
And raindrops in her tresses.
Three tiny rosebuds lightly rest
Within the haven of her breast--
Her locks are short and curly.
The sun is gone! Down comes the rain!
I leave my heart cleft well in twain
Within the Lock at Hurley!

HURLEY LOCK, _June_.

THE SOCIAL ZODIAC.

JANUARY.

UPON the Ice, 'tis nice to glide,
A merry maiden by your side!
The air is keen, the day is fine,
You think the sport is most divine,
When skimming o'er the frozen tide.

To Miss Chinchilla you confide,
How proud you are to be her guide;
Then try to cut some quaint design
Upon the Ice.

With measured motion, rhythmic stride,
You put on speed and put on side:
You cut the figures Eight and Nine--
And sometimes on your back recline!
Such falls will sometimes come to pride,
Upon the Ice.

FEBRUARY.

SAINT VALENTINE! The post is late!
No letters come--'tis long past Eight!
But on this bright auspicious day
Frivolity holds laughing sway,
And sober people have to wait!

The burdened postmen moan their fate,
This Festival they reprobate;
And often think they'd like to flay
Saint Valentine!

But in these views you'll find Miss Kate
Does not at all participate;
And Beryl, Baby, Minnie, May,
With Gertie, Ethel, Lily, Fay,
Right gleefully commemorate--
Saint Valentine!

MARCH.

O WIND of March! O biting breeze!
It nips the nose and nips the trees;
It whirls with fury down the street,
It makes us flee in quick retreat,
And gives us cold and makes us sneeze!

It makes us cough and choke and wheeze,
With painful back and aching knees;
With dire discomfort 'tis replete,
O Wind of March!

Our hands we're glad enough to squeeze,
In cuffs and muffs and muffatees;
'Tis charged with blinding, cutting sleet,
It spoils our temper, chills our feet,
And brings the Doctor lots of fees--
O Wind of March!

APRIL.

AN April Day, so fresh and bright--
(_'Twill rain, I'm sure, before the night!_)
We've done with Winter blasts unkind--
(_Don't leave your mackintosh behind,
'Twould be a fatal oversight!_)

In Spring-like garb we'll go bedight--
(_'Tis sure to rain, just out of spite!
And most perplexing you will find,
An April Day!_)

The sky is blue, the clouds are light--
(_I trust your Gamp is water-tight!_)
To sing and laugh we feel inclined--
(_Here comes a storm of rain and wind!
And hail, that's quite enough to blight,
An April Day!_)

MAY.

A PRIVATE View? 'Tis plain to you,
'Tis neither "private" nor a "view"!
And yet for tickets people rush,
To mingle in the well-dressed crush,
And come and wonder who is who.

The beauties, poets, actors, too,
With patrons, painters--not a few,
Are elements that help to flush
A Private View.

The pictures, you can't hope to do;
You're angered by the "precious" crew,
And pallid maids who flop and gush.
While carping critics who cry "Tush!"
And wildly wrangle, make you rue
A Private View.

JUNE.

IN Rotten Row, 'tis nice, you know,
To see the tide of Fashion flow!
Though hopeless cynics carp and croon--
I do not care one macaroon--
But love to watch the passing show!

You'll find it anything but slow,
To laugh and chaff with those you know;
And pleasant then to sit at noon,
In Rotten Row!

When Summer breezes whisper low,
And countless riders come and go;
Beneath the trees in leafy June,
I love to sit and muse and moon--
While beauties canter to and fro--
In Rotten Row!

JULY.

ON Henley Bridge, in sweet July,
A gentle breeze, a cloudless sky!
Indeed it is a pleasant place,
To watch the oarsmen go the pace,
As gasping crowds go roaring by.

And O, what dainty maids you spy,
What tasteful toilets you descry,
What symphonies in frills and lace,
On Henley Bridge!

But if you find a luncheon nigh--
A _mayonnaise_, a toothsome pie--
The chance you'll hasten to embrace!
You'll soon forget about the Race,
And take your Giesler cool and dry--
On Henley Bridge!

AUGUST.

BESIDE the Sea, upon the strand
The sun is hot, the day is grand:
I think you will agree with me,
Upon the shore 'tis nice to be,
Amid the shingle and the sand.

Your hands get brown, your face is tanned,
You bathe or noddle to the band;
Or slowly ride a solemn "gee"
Beside the Sea.

You pace the pier, you idle and
The offing never leave unscanned:
And study, 'neath some grateful lee,
The "blue, the fresh, the ever free"!
The air is pure, your lungs expand,
Beside the Sea!

SEPTEMBER.

A FOREIGN Tour? I apprehend
A hand-bag I should recommend;
A roll of useful notes from Coutts,
A pocketful of good cheroots,
And _Murray_ for your faithful friend.

Some French, on which you can depend,
A chosen chum, you can't offend;
Are things to make--with tourist-suits--
A Foreign Tour.

You'll visit "lions" without end;
And all the snowy peaks ascend;
With _alpenstocks_ and hob-nailed boots:
Or ride on mules--the sullen brutes--
There's lots of sport, if you intend
A Foreign Tour!

OCTOBER.

ONCE more at Home! We've ploughed the main,
We've gone by _diligence_ and train;
Endured the oft-repeated snub,
Of insolent official cub--
In Switzerland, in France, and Spain.

For weeks we've struggled, all in vain,
Some toilet comforts to obtain;
But _now_ we hail our roomy "tub"
Once more at Home.

Though back we come to fog and rain
And chills and bills, we don't complain!
We've heaps of friends, a quiet "rub,"
A pleasant dinner at the Club--
True happiness we now regain,
Once more at Home!

NOVEMBER.

A LONDON Fog, 'tis always here
At this inclement time of year!
When people hang themselves or drown,
And Nature wears her blackest frown,
While all the world is dull and drear.

All form and colour disappear
Within this filthy atmosphere:
'Tis sometimes yellow, sometimes brown,
A London Fog!

It chokes our lungs, our heads feel queer,
We cannot see, can scarcely hear:
So when this murky pall drops down--
Though dearly loving London town--
We feel we cannot quite revere
A London Fog!

DECEMBER.

'NEATH Mistletoe, should chance arise,
You may be happy if you're wise!
Though bored you be with Pantomime
And Christmas fare and Christmas rhyme--
One fine old custom don't despise.

If you're a man of enterprise
You'll find, I venture to surmise,
'Tis pleasant then at Christmas-time
'Neath Mistletoe!

You see they scarcely can disguise
The sparkle of their pretty eyes:
And no one thinks it is a crime,
When goes the merry Christmas chime,
A rare old rite to exercise
'Neath Mistletoe!

IDLE SONGS.

MOTHER O' PEARL.

O, PEARL is the sweetest creation
E'er shod with the tiniest boots--
I wish she had ne'er a relation,
I wish I'd a balance with Coutts!
They say Pearl is so like her mother;
Was she like my pet when a girl?
Will pet become just such another
Some day as the Mother o' Pearl?

My Pearl is the prettiest kitten,
She laughs--will she ever grow fat?
Or e'er, with mad jealousy smitten,
Develop the mind of a cat?
Her figure get round as a bubble?
Her hair lose its exquisite curl?
Her chin get undimpled and double,
Like that of the Mother o' Pearl?

Will Pearl become pert and capricious,
And haughty and give herself airs?
(I thought, when she looked so delicious
Last night when we sat on the stairs.)
Will she patronise _me_ in her bounty,
And boast of her uncle the Earl?
Or talk with cold pride of the county,
As often does Mother o' Pearl?

Will Pearl ever sneer at her betters,
Or e'er act the amateur spy?
And try to read other folk's letters,
Or listen at doors on the sly?...
If boy to the man be the father,
Mama to the woman is--girl--
As daughter-in-law I would rather
Not father the Mother o' Pearl!

A LAY OF THE "LION."

_At the "Red Lion," Henley-on-Thames, Shenstone scratched the
following well-known lines upon the window-pane:_

"_Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think that he has found
His warmest welcome at an inn!_"

'TIS joyful to run from the turmoil of town,
To flee from its worry and bustle;
To put on your flannels and get your hands brown
Is good for the mind and the muscle.
When Goodwood is done and the Season is o'er,
'Tis pleasant the river to ply on,
Or lounge on the lawn, free from worry and bore,
At the "Lion"!

'Tis a finely toned, picturesque, sunshiny place,
Recalling a dozen old stories;
With a rare British, good-natured, ruddy-hued face,
Suggesting old wines and old Tories:
Ah, many's the magnum of rare crusted port,
Of vintage no one could cry fie on,
Has been drunk by good men of the old-fashioned sort
At the "Lion"!

O, sweet is the exquisite lime-scented breeze
Awaft o'er the Remenham reaches!
What lullaby lurks in the music of trees,
The concert of poplars and beeches!
Shall I go for a row, or lounge in a punt,
The stream--half asleep--throw a fly on?
Or watch pretty girls feed the cygnets in front
Of the "Lion"!

I see drifting by such a smart little crew,
Bedight in most delicate colours,
In ivory-white and forget-me-not blue--
A couple of pretty girl-scullers.
A pouting young puss, in the shortest of frocks--
A nice little nautical scion--
The good ship she steers, like a clever young "cox,"
Past the "Lion"!

I lazily muse and I smoke cigarettes,
While rhymes I together am stringing;
I listen and nod to the dreamy duets
The girls on the first-floor are singing.
The sunshine is hot and the summer-breeze sighs,
There's scarcely a cloudlet the sky on--
Ah! were it but cooler, how I'd moralize
At the "Lion"!

But who can be thoughtful, or lecture, or preach,
While Harry is flirting with Ella,
Or the red lips of Rosie pout over a peach,
Half hid by her snowy umbrella?
The Infant is drifting down in her canoe,
The Rector his cob canters by on;
The church clock is chiming a quarter-past two,
Near the "Lion"!

Shall I drop off to sleep, or moon here all day,
And drowsily finish my ballad?
No! "Luncheon is ready," I hear some one say;
"A lobster, a chicken, a salad:"
A cool silver cup of the beadiest ale,
The white table-cloth I descry on--
So clearly 'tis time I concluded my tale
Of the "Lion"!

JENNIE.

SKETCHED BY GAINSBOROUGH.

AH! thrice happy the crumpled red rose leaves
Asleep on her bosom so warm and white!
And the turquoise ribbon half lost to sight,
In the silken tresses it interweaves!
Thrice happy the mortal who once receives,
From her fathomless eyes so brown and bright,
The radiant glances of inner light,
That glitter and gleam 'neath their drooping eaves.

Ah! sweet are those eloquent lips a-pout,
Whose pleadings a stoic could scarce resist,
Now rounded in rapture, now drooped in doubt,
But daintily red as if newly kist.
'Tis joy to believe in the truth that lies
Far down in the depths of those sweet brown eyes!

A FAVOURITE LOUNGE.

THE Season is now at its height,
And crowded each street and each square;
At nightly receptions we fight,
And pant for a place on the stair!
If you're getting as cross as a bear,
If life you consider a bore,
If not quite the man that you were--
O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!

The scene is bewitching and bright,
The street is beyond all compare;
The shops are all richly bedight,
The jewellers' windows are rare.
If money you've plenty to spare,
And want to buy presents galore,
Or wish to burk trouble and care--
O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!

In Art if you take a delight,
Of pictures you'll find plenty there;
And stalls you may get for to-night,
Or visit your artist in hair.
If dulness you hope to forswear,
And wish to meet friends by the score,
Or revel in sunshine and air--
O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!

If driven by duns to despair,
If snubbed by the girl you adore;
If feeling quite out of repair,
O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!

SPRING CLEANING.

ALL peace and all pleasure are banished:
Abroad now I gladly would roam,
My quiet and comfort have vanished,
A desolate wreck is my home!
The painters are all in possession,
And charwomen come by the score;
The whitewashers troop in procession,
And spatter from ceiling to floor.
I own I must make a confession--
Spring Cleaning's a terrible bore!

They come in the morning at daybreak,
Just when I'm forgetting my cares,
And into my slumbers how _they_ break!
With bustle and tramp on the stairs.
They laugh, and they whistle, and chatter;
They paint, and they varnish, and size;
They thump, and they wrangle, and clatter,
And drive away sleep from my eyes.
They make me as mad as a hatter,
And cause me quite early to rise!

The staircase is all barricaded,
The handle removed from each door;
My own sacred Den is invaded--
My papers all strewn on the floor!
My books and my letters are scattered,
My pens are nowhere to be found;
My blue-and-white china is shattered,
My songs have no space to resound;
My hat with pink priming's bespattered,
My Banjo is crushed on the ground!

I dare not complain, notwithstanding--
I'm faint with the fumes of whitelead;
And trip over pails on the landing,
And paint-pots fall down on my head!
When right through my hall I go stumbling--
I'm sick, and I'm sorry, and sore;
O'er planks and o'er ladders I'm tumbling,
And get my great-coat painted o'er.
To myself I can scarcely help mumbling--
Spring Cleaning's a terrible bore!

TAKEN IN TOW.

_How blithely the beauties break into a canter,
And over the sward how their feet pit-a-pat!
The limber young lass in a white Tam o' Shanter,
The pouting young puss in a sailor-boy hat!_

O, PANGBOURNE is pleasant in sweet Summertime,
And Streatley and Goring are worthy of rhyme:
The sunshine is hot and the breezes are still,
The River runs swift under Basildon Hill!
To lounge in a skiff is delightful to me,
I'm feeling as lazy as lazy can be;
I don't care to sail and I don't care to row--
Since I'm lucky enough to be taken in tow!

Though battered am I, like the old _Teméraire_,
My tow-ers are young and my tow-ers are fair:
The one is Eleven, the other Nineteen,
The merriest maidens that ever were seen.
They pull with a will and they keep the line tight,
Dimpled Dolly in blue and sweet Hetty in white;
And though you may think it is not _comme il faut_,
'Tis awfully nice to be taken in tow.

I loll on the cushions, I smoke and I dream,
And list to the musical song of the stream;
The boat gurgles on by the rushes and weeds,
And, crushing the lilies, scroops over the reeds.
The sky is so blue and the water so clear,
I'm almost too idle to think or to steer!
Let scullers delight in hot toiling, but O!--
Let _me_ have the chance to be taken in tow!

The dragon-fly hums and the skiff glides along,
The leaves whisper low and the stream runneth strong:
But still the two maidens tramp girlfully on,
I'll reward them for this when we get to the "Swan;"
For then shall be rest for my excellent team,
A strawberry banquet, with plenty of cream!--
Believe me, good people, for _I_ ought to know,
'Tis capital fun to be taken in tow!

THROWN!

_If letters ne'er were written,
Or never were received!
If postmen were confounded,
And postage stamps impounded,
Throughout the whole of Britain,
What peace would be achieved!
If letters ne'er were written.
Or never were received!_

'TIS the dullest of days,
And my heart it is sad,
So I make the logs blaze,
For the weather is bad;
I have half done the _Times_,
And have quite done my toast;
While I'm reading of crimes
Comes the Ten O'clock post.
There's a merry rat-tat,
And a letter from You;
'Tis so temptingly fat,
That I quickly undo
All its seals in a trice,
And the blossoms release--
It is awfully nice
To have flowers from Nice!

What a dainty perfume
Do your messengers bring,
And they scare away gloom
With their savour of Spring;
There's the violet blue,
The pale lily, the rose--
But a letter from You
They all fail to disclose!
It puzzles me quite,
And I fail to divine
Why you did not just write
Just one brief little line?
While the ponds are all ice,
And East winds never cease--
It is awfully nice
To have flowers from Nice!

Ah! your cheek all a-flush
Most undoubtedly shows
Both the pallor and blush
Of the lily and rose;
And your eyes are as blue
As the sweet violet;
They are trustful and true,
And you never forget--
Ah! I now understand;
Here's your portrait complete,
In a floral short hand
Is your _carte de visite_!
A most dainty device
Is this charming conceit--
It is awfully nice
To have flowers from Nice!

Stop a moment, for I--
The most luckless of bards--
Neath _fleur d'orange_ spy
Two absurd little cards!
Had I only been wise,
And have finished my _Times_,
'Twould have opened my eyes,
And have spared you my rhymes!
One can't always depend
On the word of a Rose.
My poem's at an end,
And my life's full of prose!
Here's a handful of rice
For a couple of geese--
_Is_ it awfully nice
To have flowers from Nice?

BAGGAGE ON THE BRAIN.

A LUGGAGERIAL LYRIC.

_Sung by a Victim at a Foreign Custom House._

O, WOULD you know the perplexity of travelling
With ladies and their luggage on a railway train?
Stay while my lay I am rapidly unravelling,
The sad effects of Baggage on the human Brain!
Powerful portmanteaux here, all brazen-bound and leathery,
Porters hate, for in their weight they're anything but feathery;
Bursting bags, so very full, you'll never get to snap at all,
Fat and frequent boxes quite impossible to strap at all.

Stay--what display, both of quantity and quality,
These rummaging _douaniers_ oft bring to light;
Ev'ry description of feminine frivolity,--
They rumple it and crumple it in fiendish spite!
Coloured bows and silken hose, with snowiest of petticoats,
Little loves of tiny gloves, and bugle-broidered jetty coats,
Morning caps and evening wraps, with handkerchiefs and quillery,
Dinner dresses, golden tresses, ribbon, lace, and frillery!

Here you may peer at a galaxy of tiny boots,
Of every kind of cobblery, exposed to view;
Shoes you may choose, and infinity of shiny boots,
And coverings for little feet in bronze and blue;
Bonny little Balmorals, to shoe a fair pedestrian,
Some with furs, and some with spurs, for exercise equestrian;
Slipperettes, with smart rosettes and ornament bombastical,
Snowy kid to lightly trip upon the toe fantastical!

There you may stare, at her brushes backed in ivory,
In dressing-bag--all monogram and silver top,
Combery, and scissory, and tweezery, and knivery,
Enough to stock the window of a cutler's shop!
_Ess. Bouquet_, and _Eau des Fées_, and Jockey Club, in handy flask,
Powder-puff, and rouge enough; a silver baby brandy-flask;
Besides a thousand articles a lady's sure to bring about,
I haven't time to put in rhyme, nor leisure now to sing about!

HAYTIME.

BRIGHT is the sunshine, the breeze is quiescent--
Leaves whisper low in the Upper Thames reaches--
Blue is the sky, and the shade mighty pleasant,
Under the beeches:
Midsummer night is, they say, made for dreaming;
Better by far are the visions of daytime--
Pink and white frocks in the meadow are gleaming--
Helping in Haytime!

Sunshine, I'm told, is productive of freckles--
Sweet are the zephyrs, hay-scented and soothful--
Work is, of all things, so says Mr. Eccles,
Good for the youthful!
Here let me lounge, 'neath the beeches umbrageous;
Here let me smoke, let me slumber, or slay time,
Gazing with pleasure on toilers courageous--
Working in Haytime!

Fair little _faneuses_ in pretty pink dresses,
Merry young maidens in saucy sun-bonnets,
Dainty young damsels with hay in their tresses--
Worthy of sonnets!
Lazy the cattle are, red are the rowers,
Making a toil of the sweet summer playtime;
Hot are the hay-makers, weary the towers,
Thirsty in Haytime!

Under the beech, round a flower-decked table,
Pouring the cream out and crushing the berry,
Georgie and Gracie and Milly and Mabel
Gladly make merry!
Laughing young labourers, doubtless judicious,
Come for reward when they fancy it's paytime;
Splendid the cake is, the tea is delicious--
Grateful in Haytime!

PET'S PUNISHMENT.

O, IF my love offended me,
And we had words together,
To show her I would master be,
I'd whip her with a feather!

If then she, like a naughty girl,
Would tyranny declare it,
I'd give my pet a cross of pearl,
And make her always bear it.

If still she tried to sulk and sigh,
And threw away my posies,
I'd catch my darling on the sly,
And smother her with roses!