Читать книгу: «The Lazy Minstrel», страница 3

ON BOARD THE "GLADYS."

 
LOUNGING at ease in the laziest attitude,
Fresh briny breezes are blowing so free;
Never once thinking of longi – or lati – tude,
Whilst our swift schooner skims over the sea.
 
 
Smart little sailor-girls, laughing deliciously,
Soften the skipper with maidenly wiles;
Climb where they oughtn't to, pouting capriciously,
Vanquish the boatswain with sunniest smiles.
 
 
If a squall blows – as it will most unluckily —
Dear little damsels, the best of A. B.'s,
Face the salt spray, reef their petticoats pluckily,
Laugh at wet jackets and sing in the breeze!
 
 
Note them, ye maidens so silly and finical,
See the brown hands of each nautical dear;
Hear them discourse on a bobstay or binnacle,
Watch their delight when permitted to steer!
 
 
Dinners on deck are divinely delectable —
Under the awning, well screened from the sun —
Some folks would dine à la Russe and respectable;
Give us the laughing, the quaffing, and fun!
 
 
Dreaming when heats of the noontide so hazily
Shimmer around our becalmed little craft;
Smoking and mooning, so languidly lazily,
Whilst some one reads 'neath the awning abaft.
 
 
Dreaming in soft summer night so mysterious,
Watching the waves as they dash from the bows;
Prattle becoming first sober, then serious,
Laughter soon softened to tremulous vows.
 
 
Drifting from chaff into "something particular,"
Though you intended but simply to "spoon:"
Starlight is good for confession auricular,
Lunatics thrive in the light of the moon!
 
 
Down in the cabin at night, you most willingly
Cluster to hear, round the small pianette,
Sweet voices warble low, tender and thrillingly,
Syren-like songs that you fain would forget.
 
 
Far from the boredom of vapid society,
Leaving all care and all worry at home,
Swift speed the days in an endless variety,
While the trim Gladys flies over the foam!
 

CIGARETTE RINGS

 
HOW it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night:
I'm too sleepy to read, and too lazy to write;
So I'll watch the blue rings, as they eddy and twirl,
And in gossamer wreathings coquettishly curl.
In the stillness of night and the sparseness of chimes
There's a fleetness in fancy, a frolic in rhymes:
There's a world of romance that persistently clings
To the azurine curving of Cigarette Rings!
 
 
What a picture comes back from the past-away times! —
They are lounging once more 'neath the sweet-scented limes:
See, how closely he watches the Queen of Coquettes,
As her white hands roll deftly those small cigarettes!
He believes in her smiles and puts faith in her sighs,
While he's dazzled by light from her fathomless eyes:
Ah! the dearest of voices delightfully sings
Through the weird intertwining of Cigarette Rings!
 
 
How sweet was her song in the bright summer-time,
When winds whispered low, 'neath the tremulous lime!
How sweet too that bunch of forget-me-nots blue —
The love he thought lasting, the words he thought true!..
Ah! the words of a woman concerning such things
Are weak and unstable as Cigarette Rings!
 

AT CHARING CROSS

 
A BUSY scene, I must confess,
The Continental Mail Express!
The babbling of boys and porters,
The shouting of the luggage-sorters.
Indeed a vast and varied sight,
Beneath the pale electric light;
The roll of trucks, the noise, the hustle,
The bawling "By yer leave!" and bustle.
While anxious tourists blame and bless
The Continental Mail Express!
 
 
Though wanting minutes ten to Eight,
Still people hurry through the gate:
Now London's dull, the Season over,
They flit from Charing Cross to Dover;
They take their tickets, pay their fare,
They're booked right through to everywhere!
To lead a life of hopeless worry,
With Bradshaw, Baedeker, and Murray.
And yet they hail with eagerness
The Continental Mail Express!
 
 
I think of toil by rail and boat,
And cackle at the table d'hôte;
Of coin of somewhat doubtful mintage,
And wine of very gruesome vintage;
Of passes steep that try the lungs,
And chattering in unknown tongues.
Of Rhenish hills, Italian fountains,
Of forests dark, and snowy mountains —
To start, I'd give all I possess,
By Continental Mail Express!
 
 
'Tis Eight o'clock, save minutes two —
Here comes a stout, fur-capped Mossoo;
He's in a fluster at the wicket
Because he cannot find his ticket;
And over there may be espied
A pretty little two days' bride.
How bored she'll be with six weeks' spooning,
How wearied with the honeymooning.
Yet lots go, leaving no address,
By Continental Mail Express!
 
 
Eight-five! The luggage is complete,
The last arrival in his seat;
The porters' labours almost ended,
The latest evening paper vended.
We wish departing friends "Good-night!"
A whistle blows, the Guard says "Right!"
We watch the red-light's coruscation,
Then slowly, sadly, leave the station.
All London's gone, say more or less,
By Continental Mail Express!
 

THE MUSIC OF LEAVES

 
THE chesnuts droop low by the river,
And shady are Ankerwycke trees;
The dragon-flies flash and they quiver
To somnolent humming of bees!
But here is a spot of the past time —
I'm many a mile from the Weir —
I'll rest and think over the last time
I ventured to meditate here.
O, chesnuts are shady, and golden are sheaves,
And sweet is the exquisite music of leaves!
 
 
I pause in this quaint little harbour,
Quite out of the swirl of the stream;
With leaves overhead like an arbour,
I smoke, and I ponder, and dream.
The bank, with its rough broken edges,
Exists as in days now remote;
There's still the faint savour of sedges
And lilies fresh crushed by the boat.
O, breezes are soft, and the dreamer receives
The rarest refrain from the music of leaves!
 
 
A brown-eyed and trustful young maiden
Then steered this identical skiff,
Her lap with forget-me-nots laden.
I now am forgotten; but if? —
No matter! I see the sweet glory
Of love in those fathomless eyes;
I tell her an often-told story —
They sparkle with light and surprise!
O, rivers are rapid, and Syrens were thieves,
Their music was naught to the music of leaves!
 
 
Ah, Love, do you ever remember
The stream and its musical flow?
The story I told in September,
The song of the leaves long ago?
Our love was a beautiful brief song,
As sweet as your voice and your eyes;
But frail as a lyrical leaf-song,
Inspired by the short summer sighs!
O, summer is short, and the sculler still grieves,
His sorrow is echoed in music of leaves!
 

CASUAL CAROLS

IN A BELLAGIO BALCONY

 
The Lazy Minstrel hastes to own he
Prefers the "o" long in "Balcōny!"
 

 
I'LL dream and moon, O will I not?
My views just now are somewhat hazy;
I fancy I am very hot,
I'm certain I am very lazy!
I cannot read, I dare not think,
I'm idle as a lazzarone;
So in the sunshine I will blink —
In this Balcōny.
 
 
Mama o'er Tauchnitz takes a nap,
Papa is reading Galignani,
And Loo is conning Murray's map,
And humming airs from Puritani.
There's Tom-boy Ten in shortened skirts —
Which just reveal her frilled calzoni—
And Sweet-and-Twenty, Queen of Flirts,
In this Balcōny!
 
 
I've nothing in the world to do,
I like the dolce far niente;
I love the eyes of peerless blue,
And nameless grace of Sweet-and-Twenty!
I've lunched with dainty Violet
Off nectarines and fried agoni;
And now I'll smoke a cigarette,
In this Balcōny.
 
 
I do not think I care to talk,
I am not up to much exertion;
I'm not inclined to ride or walk,
I loathe the very word excursion!
Now shall I heated effort make,
And climb the hill to Serbelloni?
I'd rather gaze upon the lake —
From this Balcōny.
 
 
Or rather gaze on Violet,
This sunny day in sweet September:
Her eyes I never can forget,
Her voice I always shall remember!
P'r'aps lazy lovers oft are slow —
I whispered con espressione—
And what I meant to say I know,
In this Balcōny!
 
 
Alas! that Murray dropped by Loo,
Mama awakens in a minute!
Papa has read his paper through,
And finds, of course, there's nothing in it!
And Tom-boy Ten is full of fun,
She's off somewhere to ride a pony,
And Vi has gone! So fades the sun —
From this Balcōny!
 

A RIVERAIN RHYME

 
BESIDE the river in the rain —
The sopping sky is leaden grey —
I watch the drops run down the pane!
 
 
Assuming the Tapleyan vein —
I sit and drone a dismal lay —
Beside the river in the rain!
 
 
With pluvial patter for refrain;
I've smoked the very blackest clay;
I watch the drops run down the pane.
 
 
I've gazed upon big fishes slain,
That on the walls make brave display,
Beside the river in the rain.
 
 
It will not clear, 'tis very plain,
The rain will last throughout the day —
I watch the drops run down the pane.
 
 
I almost feel my boundless brain
At last shows signs of giving way;
Beside the river in the rain.
 
 
O, never will I stop again —
No more will I attempt to stay,
Beside the river in the rain,
To watch the drops run down the pane!
 

THE LITTLE REBEL

 
PRINCESS of pretty pets,
Tomboy in trouserettes;
Eyes are like violets —
Gleefully glancing!
Skin, like an otter sleek,
Nose, like a baby-Greek,
Sweet little dimple-cheek —
Merrily dancing!
 
 
Lark-like her song it trills,
Over the dale and hills,
Hark how her laughter thrills!
Joyously joking.
Yet, should she feel inclined,
I fancy you will find,
She, like all womankind,
Oft is provoking!
 
 
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"?)