Pegasus re-saddled PEGASUS RE-SADDLED. %^o^ jTour i2'iSi The least little flash under eyelids half shut, The least little beat of the least little foot, Like the thrill of the tigress preparing to spring, — Seem to hint that my Mabel is not quite the thing ? . . I wish I was back in the hansom for choice ! — Shall I fight ? or, like Niobe, lift up my voice ? Own my conduct was vile (but I've done that before,) Pray forgiveness and never offend any more ? To face p. 14. PRETTY PUSS. ii Or brazen it out ? — " Yes, I trifled with Jane, " And I flirted with Fan — and I mean to again ! " — Tableau ! — But I'll keep on this side of the table, There 's certainly something that 's cat-like in Mabel, — If stroked the right way you get plenty of purr, But claws, I've a fancy, lie hid in the fur, And she looks at this moment as prompt to assail As the Celt who begged someone to tread on his tail. . . . It's perplexing — I wish I was back in the cab .... There's something infernally cat-like in Mab. LEASES FOR WIVES; OR, WHAT WE'RE COMING TO. PARTNERSHIP for life— absurd ! How droll — a wedding ring ! . . Somehow we don't perceive the fun ; " For seven, fourteen, or twenty-one " Is now the style of thing. We meet our charmer in the Row ; One glance ! — 'tis love at sight — We meet again at rout or hop, A valse, two ices, and then pop, — Boulogne to-morrow night. LEASES FOR WIVES. 13 No trousseau cumbers up the fair With heaps of costly trash ; No wedding breakfast makes her ill, Nor speeches that won't pay the bill, Nor " settlements " of cash. We register no fees on earth, No vows record in heaven ; A sheet of cream-laid note — 'tis done ! For seven, fourteen, or twenty-one .... Suppose we try for seven ? FORTY-FIVE. EJf^s6?OW i s it that I'm forty-five HBBB a i m <^§ i R\vi m And still so very much unmarried ? Why did I wait so long to wive, Or was it that the ladies tarried ? I rather think that as a boy My notions were not celibatic ; At fourteen I was scarcely coy But dreamt of heav'n in an attic,- With Katy, aetat. thirty-two, And wrote her an amazing ditty ; " My heart for her should still be true"- And she refused it — heartless Kitty ! FORTY-FIVE. I did not weep ! if she'd said " yes" It might have been a theme for laughter ; My suff' rings led me to confess To Mary Jane a fortnight after. Poor Poll ! (I call you so because No sense of injury now rankles — ) I think our casus spooni was You had such very pretty ankles : Pretertza nil! might end the clause But that would be ungenerous, very . . . Lizette had elephantine paws But cheeks as rosy as a cherry. Louisa next, — my little Loo ! — Whose hand I claimed with fervent kisses ; Unluckily these things take two, And one declined becoming Mrs. '5 16 FORTY-FIVE. A time arrives when every man Has fatuous feelings for a cousin, And if the first " draws blank" he can (At least I did) try half a dozen ; — First, second, third, — still no success, — Fourth, fifth, and sixth, the numbers ran on ; Not one my lonely lot would bless, Two were forbidden by the canon. At last, at last ! my pulse still stirs As I recall your vision, Phcebe ! The rose-bud lips that owned me hers — The form suggestive of a Hebe ; I swore that we would never part, Nor time nor change our love make colder, — I clasped her to my beating heart — And ran my breast-pin in her shoulder ! . . . FORTY-FIVE. 17 The temper's warm at " sweet sixteen," We parted more in wrath than sorrow ; And Phoebe 's married Dick since then — It's just ten years ago to-morrow . . . And now love's chords no music wake, I'm getting in the sere and yellow, Is there no womankind will take Compassion on a lonely fellow ? Some Phoebe with less angry eyes ? I think I've still some love to give her— No more breast-pins I'll patronise But stick to rings henceforth for ever. <=^A^ D RINKING REMINISCENCES. Ce liest que le premier pas qui coiite. I ES it's awfully nice, and all that sort of thing, But please take me back to a seat, — Your intentions are excellent, Guy, I am sure, But oh ! may you never be forced to endure The anguish I feel in my feet ! These straps are too tight — or the wheels don't go right — And my ankles have taken a twist, — I've tumbled at least twenty times on my arm, And Bella just gave me a horrible qualm — She fancies I've broken my wrist. RINKING REMINISCENCES. 19 Old Buffers has knocked me down flat on my face And poked in my eye his cigar, — Young Larkins pursues me wherever I go, And "cannons" — it must be on purpose, I know, For he never " collides" with Papa. Bumped battered and bruised, kicked cuffed and ill-used, I'm a " figure for fun," or for " Punch,"— So now that you've taken my skates off, dear Guy, And I feel less immediately likely to die We'll adjourn — an revoir, after lunch ! ECHOES FROM THE SAME. First Echo. Con expressione. ?]OU see me just now on my knees And my elbows, and that's because I arose in my might To immediate light On the spot where I previously was. Second Echo. Agitato. If I don't rise to take off my hat, I beg you won't think me a clown,- On occasions like these One stands at one's ease More easily lying down. ECHOES FROM THE SAME. 21 Third Echo. Suffocato. It's pleasant to tumble at times — (The times when one's ready to drop,) — ■ He felt this as well, The elderly swell Who's floored me and sits on the top. I like to see folks at their ease, Especially fourteen stone — If I asked him to sit Off my head for a bit Do you think it would spoil his fun ? Fourth Echo. Con triumphato. I am stooping my balance to gain ; Anon I shall backward descend ; And that's what I call My Roman fall And alternate Grecian bend. 22 ECHOES FROM THE SAME. Sundry Echoes. Diminuendo. What Splice-bone says is true — ■ The " exercise" is good — But he might have added Get your legs padded, And elbows made of wood. A LITTLE BEAUTY. AUD 'S a naughty little girl, Maudie's locks decline to curl, Spite all sense of duty, But they're frise'd up instead Round her saucy little head, Round her cheeks of white and red — Maud 's a little beauty ! Maud has got a roguish eye, Maud has got a tender sigh, Laughters soft and flutey- " Cherries ripe " her lips, I swear, Did you ever know a pair Say so plainly " If you dare ! " — Maud the little beauty ! A LITTLE BEAUTY. Yet her lip you cannot reach Nor her cheek that's like a peach, Round and ripe and fruity You can only look and sigh, — I can only love, and try To discern the reason why Maud 's my little beauty ? To face p. 24. A FIVE YEARS' CHARACTER. I VE years amie ! five years ago, It seems like yesterday, You whispered that mysterious vow- Love — honour — and obey. And, darling, you have done your part, And kept your promise, sweet, — You have full-filled an empty heart And made a life complete .... I testify that you have been The household sunshine, fairy, queen, — A cool oasis ever green Along life's deserts sandy, — As good as gold, And as true as steel, And as sweet as sugar candy ! E 26 A FIVE YEARS' CHARACTER. We've shared some pleasure and some pain, We've met some ups and downs : And would you tie the knot again Tho' all the smiles were frowns ? . . . Tho' all the joys were griefs, I say, And dimmed each brighter spot, This girl would face them all with me, — You would, love, would you not ? And still would be what you have been, My household fairy, sunshine, queen — A cool oasis ever green Amidst life's deserts sandy, — As good as gold, And as true as steel, And as sweet as sugar candy. "PAINTING THE LILY." UlijAINT my Lily ? you'd be clever ! She is " beautiful for ever " — Beauteous with a stick of cork, Lovely with a coat of chalk ! From the calyx to the stalk — Neck, I mean — and all the rest, To the snow upon her breast, — To the glittering of her hair, Shaking gold-dust out, I swear ; — Every charm in which you revelled Powdered plaistered or bedevilled. . . . All the Flow'r-show dyed ? — Who knows ? Frank declares his blooming Rose Wears a blush that never goes, Never lessens, never grows — 28 PAINTING THE LILY. And sweet Violet's fiance Ascertained the other day That her petals washed away ! (Petals ! — Eye brows, I should say) Leaving only something grey. . . These effects make an adorer Rather dubious of his Flora, With the blushes of Aurora, With the reds and snow-whites o'er her,- Lead him to be shy of Lily — Roses picked in Piccadilly — Make his views of Violet hazy — Predisposed to like a Daisy ? NAUGHTY TWO-SHOES. RETTY naughty Two-shoes Bought a pair of blue shoes, Bought a pair of silken hose all striped with white and red ; Bought a skipping rope for skipping — When they threatened her with whipping Skipt them straightway into kissing her instead. Skipt them into such ecstatics That they thronged from base to attics Peeping out from garret-window, pane, and door ; Skipt the bumpkins out of wits, Skipt their sweethearts into fits, Skipt them higher than was ever seen before. 3o NAUGHTY TWO-SHOES. Basta ! cried the lame schoolmaster- But she only skipt the faster With her beautiful kaleidoscopic feet, From the squire to the clown Skipt the village upside down, — And I doubt if it has ever righted yet ! THE SQUIRE AND THE NEW PARSON'S GIRL. ITH wild locks streaming from the braid That fillets them in vain, Who is this hatless demoisel Comes flying down the lane ? It must be our new parson's girl — I think they call her Jane ? 4 They really shouldn't let her out In such prepost'rous guise — Sixteen ? and in a pinafore, * Suggestive of dirt pies ! Frock'd to the knee ! . . . and what a pair Of great blue saucer eyes ! 32 THE SQUIRE AND The fair Miss Jenny's future lord Will need to have a care ! — Despite the piquant little nose " Tip-tilted " in the air— They glitter like two corn-flow'rs thro' That hayfield of her hair. And then her mouth ! a mile too wide — But arched like Cupid's bow, And strung with pearls — I never saw Such a surprising row: All womankind might " show their teeth If they'd such teeth to show. 'Twould almost be worth while to make The little vixen scold, If but to see the scornful smile Flash out so bright and bold, . . . There isn't such a face for miles, Though half the shire were poll'd. THE NEW PARSON'S GIRL. 33 And face and figure ought to match, Or nature's made a slip ; She seems as flexible and straight As my new riding-whip — Upon my word if she'd a chance I think she'd like to skip. . . . And I should like to hold the rope ! Tho' skipping's not my way. . . . She leads them all a pretty life Up at the Grange, they say. . . . It's really rude not to have called . . . I think I'll go to-day. SOME ONE'S FORGET-ME-NOTS OME one's Forget-me-nots ! " Laid up in lavender ! " Gew-gaws and trash and stuff — Billets-doux — rhymes enough — Love's ritornellas ; — Here's an odd shoe in pink Once in fate's chain a link, So small one fain would think 'Twas Cinderella's. Two lace-trimmed handkerchiefs, Six rosettes ! — fie for shame ! Clearly the youthful flame Went in for slippers ; SOME ONE'S FORGET-ME-NOTS. 35 Three gloves — some locks of hair. . . . I wonder whose they were ? But at least one may swear They were all " clippers." What's this perfume that comes Faint as I close the lid ? Have I lock'd up instead Somebody's posy ? Stay, I believe that it's These crumpled violets, Heartsease and mignonettes — Rosebuds once rosy : Ready-made pot-pourri — (Sweet-scented none the less) Isn't it time all this Rubbish were rotten ? 36 SOME ONE'S FORGET-ME-NOTS. Ribbons and gloves and locks ? — Never mind, shut the box — Lie still in lavender, Some one's Forget-me-nots, Long since forgotten ! REPLY TO A VALENTINE WITH A PORTRAIT. AIR archeress, the shafts you wield Are splintered on a careless shield ; A wandering knight on bootless quest For me there throbs no maiden breast, No lady's favor decks my crest. With pointless spear and silken glove, I tilt not in the lists of love, Tho' beauty's queen bestowed the prize, — And if a smile my heart entice Tis as a sunbeam strikes on ice. 38 REPLY TO A VALENTINE. But yet, methinks, if life were young, And love were all that bards have sung- If you were fond, and I were free, Sweet Valentine — whoe'er you be — I fain would break a lance for thee ! To face p. 58. A GORDIAN KNOT. HANDKERCHIEF— dropt out, you say, From the receptacle allotted ? Not much if that were all, but stay, This pocket-handkerchief is knotted — There at one end — frail souvenir, Hinting the need of mental tonics ; Whence comes the pale preceptor here To give his lesson in mnemonics ? Is it from him whose " un-urned " shade Petitions that, instead of joking, The debt of kinship should be paid To-day at Kensal Green or Woking ? 4 o A GORDIAN KNOT. Poor Tom ! you were not much to me, A cousin, twice removed, by marriage, Removed once more by fate's decree — At any rate I'll send the carriage. . . . Or, query, was it " him" at all ? This true-love knot may be a token Of some fair vision I'd recall — Of faithless vows and promise broken ? Love's tryst unkept by haunted well, Its sweet forget-me-nots forgotten. . . . Perhaps it's only someone's bill I back'd ? — of course it turned out rotten,- Or hint to pay that bet I owe For views about the Derby winner ; I'd rather much it was to go To Greenwich to a whitebait dinner ? . . . A GORDIAN KNOT. 41 Of pay or play may preach this knot — Of death or duns or love's emotion — I tied it yesterday, but what It means, I've not the faintest notion. G WANTED— AN IDEA. , WANT an idea, if you've got it Be pleased to impart on the spot You'll probably think The idea's for a rink Or a bank or bazaar — but it's not. Not at all ! I disclaim all design On your pockets, past, future or present — Then of course you'll suppose It's a poem or prose, Or a sermon or song — but it isn't. WANTED— AN IDEA. 43 You'd say it was something in art Or in science — that should be, or should 'nt — 'Twould be something that's new, Or at least something true — Something somehow, you know — but it wouldn't. No, no! F.R.S. and R.A., My idea isn't what you call savant — Not Tyndall or Phiz — But what the devil it is P'rhaps you've got some idea — for I haven't. ANTI-ANTIQUARIAN. gHg|g§gO I doat upon " desolate towers ?" I really can't say that I do ; They afford no protection from showers But copious cob-webs and dew. These courts (do you ever play tennis ?) Are Norman ? No, Saxon I'm sure : That arch Saracenic ? — at Venice And Cairo I've seen them before. Let them sleep with their founders below them — The sight of a lot of old stones Won't stop an east wind howling thro' them And chilling one into the bones. A NT I- ANTIQUARIAN. 45 My taste doesn't run into gables Or buttresses old as the flood ; I'd rather put faith in " Last Fables" Than the dates of Professor Macmud. " Stone Facts" I believe to be fiction — " Rock Records" afford me no joy, — No, I haven't the least predilection For desolate towers, old boy. FOR SALE, PENSIVE SELIMA. ILL any one bid for a cat ? Whose coat is the softest of silk — Who's sleek and well-liking and fat — And never refuses her milk. Whose mistress no scratch can aver, Whose master has never been bitten, Who's warranted always to purr, And not to have more than one kitten : A cat who will polish off mice And rats till the peep of Aurora — In short who's delightfully nice, A regular first-rate Angora ? A CURL IN A LETTER. LETTER, and a yellow curl, — To call it " sandy " p'raps might rile her- Who's this romantic little girl That's fain to be her own Delilah ? For me ! who never cared a rap For rounded waist or taper ankle, — At whom no spinster sets her cap, No Cupid shoots the shafts that rankle ! " My dear — I grieve to make you pout — But still it is imprudent, very, To show'r your golden gifts about In this way on Dick, Tom, and Harry ; 4 8 A CURL IN A LETTER. " No doubt you've charms you highly prize Or else you'd scarce be Adam's daughter, — There may be death in your blue eyes, But — don't affect promiscuous slaughter." . . Well preach'd ! but somehow don't sound nice ?- And letters lead to tittle-tattle. . . . I think one ought to give advice Vive voix — the tone is half the battle ? . . . 'Twould not be hard to match this curl — But should I like its fellow better ? . . . . . . You very yellow-pated girl Who wrote me this romantic letter? OUTSIDE. UST a gleam thro' the darkness The lift of two eyes from a book — A glance — but some glances are heaven To such eyes 'tis given To make Paradise in a look. Just a face in the lamp-light, A hand and some glittering hair, But hearts have been broken it's said And white steel stained red For faces less faultlessly fair. H 5° OUTSIDE. Just a girl in her beauty Her glory of freshness and youth. But what has earth better to sigh for To live for to die for Than innocence beauty and — Ruth ? Toface p. 50. THE BLOATED BIGGAROON, |d|HE bloated Biggaroon, Was so haughty, he would not repose In a house, or a hall, or ces choses, But he slept his high sleep in his clothes — Neath the moon. The bloated Biggaroon, Thinking scorn of effeminate fops Who use knives to dismember their chops, Ate with hands his proud meats, and his slops Without spoon. 52 THE BLOATED BIGGAROON. The bloated Biggaroon Poured contempt upon waistcoat and skirt, Holding swallow-tails even as dirt — So he puff'd himself out in his shirt, Like a b'loon. The bloated Biggaroon Scorned to pay a ridiculous race Petty cash — so the race, meanly base, Locked him up in a rather ridiculous place Rather soon. UNSUNG SONGS. PARFAIT AMOUR. |OU all knew St. Pierre's, with the star in the blind, And Julie, the love-star, that glittered behind ? Chartreuse, Curacoa, Acqua d'Oro, Russie, Grew dim when compared with the smiles of Julie. One day, with his lute and his long flowing hair, Came a minstrel and played, at the Star of St. Pierre, — " What will you please take?" — stopped the youth in the door- " Oh, give me, dear maiden, some parfait amour ; " He sighed, as he turned him away from the door, " There's no wine that's so sweet as your parfait amour I" Now morn, noon, and eve, for his glass of liqueur To the Star of St. Pierre came that young troubadour ; 54 PARFAIT AMOUR. And ever his cheek it grew pale as the snow, For the love-light burnt up as the life-light burnt low. But Julie smiled on ; not a blush nor a sigh Played tell-tale to Love when Bertrandie was nigh ; And the boy never speaks ; was he rich ? was he poor ?- He asks but a glass of her parfait amour. Ah Julie ! tho' rich, for your sake he is poor, And he dies for one drop of your parfait amour. Months fly — still a youth with his long flowing hair, May be seen drinking wine at the Star of St. Pierre, And Julie-la-belle, whilst his liqueur he sips, Still witches his heart with her eyes and her lips. Such eyes pass not coldly when often they greet — 'Twould be hard that such lips should not manage to meet. . Yet I know not, in sooth, if her young troubadour Still sighs to his lute " Julie, parfait amour ! " — If he pines in despair, or, his anguish to cure, She has given him the glass of her parfait amour. II. BITTER VERMUTH. (by another hand.) H, prate not to me of your Parfait amour! Your old maraschino or dry curacoa ; Such syrupy fluids are not to my taste, Too honied their flavour too oily their flow : But fill me a draught that my temper will suit — A bumper of bitingly bitter Vermuth. I'm sick of the sugary shams that enchant The ignorant palates of girls and of boys, — The chalk-cover'd comfits, half poison half paint, The pleasures that pall and the sweetness that cloys ; Outside they 're as tempting as Dead Sea-shore fruit, Inside — why they 're worse than my bitter Vermuth. Then fill to the brim ! and we '11 drink to the Fates, The cynical trio who parcel our lives, — 56 BITTER VERMUTH. Our creditors pledge in the golden-green gall, And whilst we're about it we'll drink to our wives- Let optimists shudder, cry scandal, and hoot, We'll stand to our liquor : Vive bitter Vermuth ! III. "OH, IF LIFE WERE A BUMPER." H, if life were a bumper of glittering wine And death but the bubble that bursts as it wakes, How gladly the magical draught we should drain Like the goblet that sparkles its best as it breaks, — For there's nothing makes joy sparkle up to the brain Like a glorious bumper of golden champagne ! 'Tis an April-day world that we live in at best, So fleeting the pleasures, so dark are the cares ; "OH, IF LIFE WERE A BUMPER." 57 Like a landscape all chequered with shadows and mist, Where a sunbeam is trying to kiss off its tears, — And the sun that best shines off the mists of the brain Is a glorious bumper of golden champagne. Then fill up with glittering wine to the brim — Let it smile like the smile of sweet beauty around, Like a night-star of pleasure at morning's first beam Some rosy Aurora still waking hath found ; — And the last and best toast that in brimmers we'll drain Is a glorious bumper of golden champagne ! HUNTING A "SLIPPER." $%> S there any one can tell a J? Fellow what 's become of Bella ! (She 's an angel that I 've spotted With a pig-tail) . . . Stay — I 've got it . . . Fifty pardons . . . Why that's not it ? Yet this is the corner where She " inhabits ?" — that's her chair — Here 's her card with my name in it : Ices ? ha, that must have been it, She '11 be back in half a minute : She'll return with all her graces — With the exquisest of faces — HUNTING A "SLIPPER." 59 Would have driven wild a Lawrence, — Figure makes one feel abhorrence, Of the Venuses of Florence. Shames the Venus of Canova, Knocks the Capitolian over, Might have made a Milo jealous — Such a foot and hand are Bella's ! — Twice as nice as Cinderella's. . . . And the last step out I '11 teach her, Beaming Love in every feature, Blushing when soft whispers reach her, Answ'ring shyly " ask my mother" * * * * Jove ! she 's dancing with another ! ! THE BUTTERFLY CHAINED. HEN my years were gay eighteen Rumour says that I 've been seen Oft disporting on the green Mid the bow'rs, Now enraptured with the rose Now entranced by lily's snows Or coquetting with a nose- gay of flow'rs. There are charms I must admit In thus playing the coquette — In this light conter fleurette Everywhere, THE BUTTERFLY CHAINED. 61 From the Pic-nic to the " hop" — At Swan & Edgar's shop, Or sitting on the top Ball-room stair. In those days it 's been averr'd That my giddy pulse was stirr'd By a glance or by a word Shot at me, — Now such beatings are misplaced For my heart is locked and laced And my Daisy at her waist Keeps the key ! QUACK! QUACK!! QUACK!!! First Patient. H, doctor dear make haste ! Give me something nice to taste- I 'm bent like a ball With what you may call A headache in the waist. First Quack. I '11 give you a box of Pills — They cure all earthly ills — Take ten at a time You '11 find it sublime — (If it doesn't cure it kills.) QUACK! QUACK!! QUACK!!! 63 Second Patient. Oh, doctor I shall die ! I 've just poked out my eye — It 's black as a nigger And five times bigger Than the biggest gooseberry pie ! Second Quack. I give you a splendid LOTION, (What it does I haven't a notion) Keep mopping it fast You '11 find out at last The plan of perpetual motion. Third Patient. Help doctor dear, I beg ! I want screwing up a " peg" — I happened to fall From the top of St. Paul And fractured my dexter leg ! 64 QUACK! QUACK!! QUACK!!! Third Quack. I '11 give you an Ointment of power — You '11 rub it in for an hour — (If you fancy it two — It's amusing for you And won't hurt — it's tallow and flour). Chorus of Ouacks and Patients. This world 's all take and give, One dies that t'other may live, And fools for knaves Drop into their graves As sand drops through a sieve ! A FINE OLD BUSTER. [Y neighbour Claptinbank is worth a pot, And naturally feels he sheds a lustre On the whole human family — he 's what I call a fine old Buster. Respectable as even three per cents., Broad as his lands and boundless as his lunches ; His waist was once as slender as his rents — It now resembles Punch's. Madame is round and sound, but cheery most, With pleasant kindly ways good-nature taught her, I would all mother-ladyships could boast As nice a little daughter ! . . . K 66 A FINE OLD BUSTER. I married Maud — about this time last year — And now think Claptinbank can well pass muster ; Why is it, tho', he can't endure to hear Me call him " fine old Buster ?" T^ S-^.. .J. ££. DREI BITTE." ^,LUE flow'r to true love dear By haunted fountain drips, Lend me thy lips That I may whisper into some one's ear. Lonely, my star of night, Lovely pale star that lies Trembling as twilight dies, Give me thine eyes That some one may look into mine for light. 68 "DREI BITTEr And oh ye birds of wood ! And vocal fields and plain, Hymning soft praise in vain For me answering not again, Teach me your strain — I too would sing to some one, Love is good. AN UNINVITED GUEST. ^ggHE supper and the song had died *' m&9 . When to my couch I crept ; %£m£jii I flung the muslin curtains wide And took a first-class place inside — It might have seemed I slept. Yet scarce the drowsy god had woo'd My pillow to befriend, When fancy, how extremely rude ? A fellow evidently screw'd Got in, the other end! 7o AN UNINVITED GUEST. The bolster from my side he took To make his own complete, Then gazed at me with scornful look, — ■ With wrath my very pulses shook And quivered to my feet. I kicked of course — long time in doubt The war waged to and fro ; At last I kicked the rascal out And woke — to find explosive gout Developed in my toe. AT BRINDISI, ON BOARD THE P. & O. CANT say much for " Brindisi the blest," As one poor lady called it who was sick, But yet to English eyes it boasts a charm — A strip of deep green grass, that after sand And olive-tinted fields and groves and trees, Comes with a cool refreshing hope of home. And tranquilly beside the " Pera " lies, As glad to rest after her long sea-strife ; But all upon her deck is bustling life, For last adios wished, hand-shakings past, And civil stewardess " tipped " like Dian's shafts, Each one just now is looking after one, Excepting Benedict, who seeks his spouse, 72 AT B RIND IS /, Not yet emerged from cabin mysteries, And charges up the trunk-encumber'd poop, Regardless of his own or others' neck Or long-backed chairs which bump his faithful legs. There goes our gay grass-widow whom they call The " Stormy Petrel," for she tells her friends There's always some disaster when she sails ; And she has sailed three times with Captain Jack, And every time a damage or a loss — A twisted axle or a broken screw — And when he saw her on the gangway first At Alexandria, crying " Now I've come Captain, look out for squalls !" he was so mad They thought he'd send her back ; but all went well For some one hid a horse-shoe in her berth. . . . And there's the stout Mynheer who always wears A patent air-belt underneath his coat ON BOARD THE P. AND O. 73 And loaded pistols ready primed to shoot The thief, who in the wreck and strain for life Would filch his prize — his belt. And once they made Pretence that we must sink, and this fat man, Too scant of breath t' inflate the saviour bag, Went rushing madly up and down the ship Beseeching every one " Give me von blow ! " . . . Our pets are going too — the pale-faced ape Who look'd so mild but bit me to the bone ; The Colonel's poodle, Mop, and last not least, The cockatoo who called poor Bishop Smith " A (naughty word) old fool," and had to be Removed for laughing, when his Reverence read The prayers on Sunday on the quarter-deck. Going, going, gone! and I'm the last that's left Perched like a Jew amongst a heap of coats : Well good-bye all ! and good-bye too my May, For here comes Gus to say the train is in. L "THE WORLD'S MINE OYSTER." ^^|HE world's mine oyster !" but, alas ! No other oyster's in my reach ; Oh friends, how does it come to pass That you've arrived at threepence each ? Time was — away, bewildering thought ! The fancy sets my pulses thrilling — A dozen " natives " might be bought, With bread and butter, for a shilling . . . But these are glories of the past, We hardly wonder where they've got to ; A generation's coming fast Wont even recollect " the grotto," — THE WORLD'S MINE OYSTER. 75 And when that old New Zealand swell Arrives on London bridge to pose, He'll find the final oyster-shell Suspended from Britannia's nose ! A BRACE OF VALENTINES. TO A LADY, WITH A RING. WEET Valentine, dear lady mine, Love lays an offering at your shrine- Yet mete not by this span of gold That which would reach thro' years untold, Would burn when life itself is cold. Not with the dazzling fitful gleam That gilds the stripling's fever-dream, — (For love — the dream-love of the boy — Is but a glittering summer toy — ) But with the strong and steady glow But with the deep and tender flow, That a man's heart alone can know, A BRACE OF VALENTINES. 77 Pouring his soul out at her feet Whose smile could make all dark things sweet . . . Love undivided close and dear With ready arm to guide and cheer, His breast her shield from every fear : Love changeless still, where change is rife, Thro' storm and calm, thro' peace and strife, For grief for joy, for death for life ! Love breathed in one soft whisper — wife. ^t^j) II. WITH A BUTTERFLY'S WING. [HEN Flora the fair blossomed forth as a rose In the burden of beauty and summer of scent, Is't known that she buried her blushes in snows ? Or waited to scatter her sweets till she went ? 78 A BRACE OF VALENTINES. See the butterfly, burnished with glitter and gold, How he decks himself out for his bridals in June ; If he waited for wooing till autumn was old Don't you think he might find his enchantress had flown ? Then, loiterer, list my advice in your ear — Fly frosts of the winter and showers of spring, Shine out like the sun whilst the summer is here And the tints of the rainbow are all on the wing ! m CONTER FLEURETTE. WiSi OVES me — he loves me not"- Ah, golden Margaret ! ;W*^>£ TeU me> then> has he gQt Truth in his heart or not, Love in his heart or what ? — Conter fleurette. Ah, tell me true, I pray, Gentle white Margaret What does my lover say Now he is far away, Where do his glances stray — Is it at Maud or May ? — Conter fleurette. 8o CONTER FLEURETTE. I have a fear full sore, Weary, my Margaret, — That he has taken more Than he gave ten times o'er, Loit'ring by lattice door, Listing the streamlet's pour, Ling'ring on sunset shore — Conter fleurette ! V\, /"...., A Q„ WITH THE HORSE "WHITE-MIST." 1 ®^HE sequel of to-day dissevers all This fellowship of straight riders, and hard men To hounds — the flyers of the hunt . . . I think- That we shall never more in days to come Hold cheery talk of hounds and horses, each Praising his own the most, — shall steal away Through brake and coppice-wood, or side by side Breast the sharp bullfinch and deep-holding dyke, Sweep through the uplands, skim the vale below, And leave the land behind us like a dream. 1 Lines sent to the late Charles Buxton, M.P., with a favourite horse, on the author giving up hunting owing to an accident in the hunting field. M 82 WITH THE HORSE "WHITE-MIST." Farewell to all ! to the brave sport I loved — Though Paget sware that I should ride again — But yet I think I shall not ; I have done : My hunt is hunted : I have skimmed the cream, The blossom of the seasons, and no more For me shall gallant Scott have cause for wrath, Or injured Smallpiece mourn his wasted crops. Now, therefore, take my horse, which was my pride (For still thou know'st he bore me like a man — ), And wheel him not, nor plunge him in the mere, But set him straight and give his head the rein, And he shall bear thee lightly to the front, Swifter than wind, and stout as truest steel, And none shall rob thee of thy pride of place. MUSICAL UNDERTONES. ERR BELLOWS won't you sing ? f& (Or rather won't you roar ? — ) U I should like so to accompany you- (As far as the street door) . . . Miss Squeals will take her part In that charming duette by Meyer, With Signor Buffo ? (that's two at a go, I wish I could do them " en choir ") . . Lord Whooper sings I know (Too well ! and always flat) What an exquisite air — (for a dirge on the stair ! Assisted by the cat) . . . 84 MUSICAL UNDERTONES. Shan't we hear your voice, madame ? (Be thanked ! she's a cold in the head — ) Pray pity our loss — (what a fool I was ! She's going to " play instead ") . . . " Encore !" (oh, I can't stand this — They're going it, hammer and tongs : Confound them all ! I'll go out in the hall And leather away at the gongs !) A DAISY CHAIN. S^HpHE white-rose decks the breast of May, I The red-rose smiles in June, ^^* Yet autumn chills and winter kills And leaves their stems alone ; Ah, swiftly dies the garden's pride Whose sleep no waking knows, — But my love she is the daisy That all the long year grows. The early woods are gay with green, The fields are prankt with gold, But fair must fade and green be greyed Before the year is old ; 86 A DAISY CHAIN. The blue-bell hangs her shining head, No more the oxslip blows, — But my love she is the daisy That all the long year grows. Still deck, wild woods, your mantle green, All meads bright jewels wear, Let showers of Spring fresh violets bring And sweetness load the air ; Whilst summer boasts her roses red And March her scented snows, — My love be still the daisy, And my heart whereon she grows. ON GHOSTS: By a Materialist. ^ DON'T go much for ghosts — altho' no doubt Humanitarians feel a predilection For such " leave-ticket " gentry, loose about In history and fiction ; — Familiar spirits, loved but never lost ! Like that vex'd shade in Corsica's twin Brothers, Or in Macbeth, Don Juan, Hamlet, Faust, And half a hundred others : Of which, N. B., not half are ghosts at all, But nondescripts defying diagnosis Tho' Mrs. Crowe herself the list should call Of each metempsychosis. 88 ON GHOSTS: Faust's Mephistopheles who filch'd his soul Was just a " psychic " with a kleptomania, (In this resembling Oberon — who stole The changeling of Titania — ) Ondine's a " Nymph," who wanted to be kissed And didn't, both at once, case not uncommon,- And, barring liquids, it must be confessed A rather nice young woman : Ariel's a puzzle, or has always been To me — altho' the part plays neatly, very, — But then it's only fair to add I've seen It acted by Kate Terry : Avenel's White Lady of the Fountain grieved Because the girdle at her waist grew shorter, Proving herself, if Scott's to be believed, No ghost of Adam's daughter : BY A MATERIALIST. 89 Witches arn't ghosts, or ghosts still in the flesh, Altho' they ride on broomsticks over ditches ; And this being thus, the point that's raised afresh Is to know which is witches ? A Sylphide's what — I know not — not a miss — Nor fragile Peri from a rose-leaf sipping, Mermaids and Naiads wear a charming dress But run too much to dripping. Then there's the Dry-ad, just by way of change, Brownie and Banshee, Troll — but he's a wood-fellow, — Fays, Elves, and Sprites who toadstool rings arrange And Puck or Robin Goodfellow ; — Kelpie and lZobold, Wraith, and Spook, and Pix, Hobgoblin, Imp, and things of smaller matter, Not worth invoking — Bogie, Gnome, and Nix, " Hyperion to a Satyr." . . . N 9 o ON GHOSTS. And still they come ! they come before I call — Indeed, I'd no idea so vast their bulk was. Adieu, sweet friends ! give me, if ghosts at all Ghosts solid — as Fitzfulk was. POSTSCRIPT TO GHOSTS. T seems that after all there 've been left out Some "most respectables," to favour brevity- The apparitions mean to make it hot For treating them with levity. A Siren hints I must have lost my eyes, A Harpy kindly lets me know I'm " wanted," A Houri threatens me with Paradise, A Hag with being haunted. If this were all I might p'raps "chance the ducks" But there's a Vampyre making frightful faces ; A Ghoul has routed all my guardian Pucks And offers its embraces. . . . 92 POSTSCRIPT TO GHOSTS. So there, — now, let's make peace ! — But when all's done These kind wont " act " with Edmund Phelps or Fechter, At least your genuine Ghost has got some fun, The real Shakspearian Spectre. The King of Denmark was a gallant soul Fresh run from Styx, and lively as a samlet, ('Twas Hamlet's uncle murder'd the " old mole," And Fechter murder'd Hamlet.) But still the shade was honester than most, And what he owed his brother came and paid him. As for Macbeth — but stay, he's not a ghost, Or Irving would have laid him ! . . . And so adieu, sweet friends — going, going, go fie ! I have enshrined you in a splendid ditty, And wont be haunted more by any one — Unless they're young and pretty. A REPLY TO BIRTHDAY STANZAS. EAR poet of the playful pen, Who fling'st thy rhyme in airy wreath And graceful cadence of sweet breath Upon the graceless sons of men — Be sure the fairy flowers you twine, With bud and bloom and scented sweets, Warm from the kindest heart that beats, Will shed a fragrance over mine. Not often is life's past complete, And seldom can th' auspicious fete That tells him he is thirty-eight To man be altogether sweet. 94 A REPLY TO BIRTHDAY STANZAS. But tho' my sun has well nigh set, One ray across the gathering night Has cast a fair and lingering light That gilds the horizon yet. LADY 'BELL'S CATECHISM. gg^j HAT are your " load-stars," sir?— "My Bella's eyes :" And what's the sweetest of "sweet air?" — "Her sighs :" Where does the "bee suck?" — "From her honied lip, (Wish I'd the luck, just a rewarding sip ! ") Who "smiles and smiles," and not one false? — "My sweet:" What look as if they " dreamt a valse ?" — " Her feet :" What is her arm ? — A " wreath as moonlight fair : " Her hand, "so white, so warm ?" — "A sceptre rare — (The only rule to which I bow, my pet!") Stuff! pay attention now, and don't forget : — Where is the "glass of fashion ?" — " In her eye !" . . . (You'll put me in a passion if you try ! — ) What is the " mould of form," then ?— " Bella's bonnet :" (Good gracious ! Tom, I think you're sitting on it !).... 96 LADY 'BELL'S CATECHISM. What is "each changeful fancy's sport?" — "The moon :" It's nothing of the sort, you know — " A spoon :" What's " changeless yet ; tho' all should turn away "... (Hullo ! this grass is getting damp, I say — ) A " thing of beauty and a joy," what is it, tell ? — "My loved and loving lovely lady Bell !" MAYFAIR ON SKATES. {Recitative. Allegro) \0 you think the ice is safe, Mr. Beard ? — I'm sure I shall never be able to stand — A chair? (he wants to put me off with a chair!) thank you, but I think I should prefer a hand . . . Oh, please don't let me go ! I shall fall — I know I shall — I feel I must — O dear ! . . . I told you so ! — and — oh, Mr. Beard, I'm so ashamed, I really didn't mean to pull your hair ! Chorus. For here we fall And there we sprawl, — O 98 MAYFAIR ON SKATES. This bumping is pernicious ; Yet Charley swears And Blanche declares That skating's quite delicious ! # # # # # Thank you so much — I hope I've not tired you . . . light, am I ? I'm sure I feel like lead ; (It's very kind of him to say he's not a bit tired, but he looks half dead) — Getting on awfully fast ? — Yes, dreadfully ! I feel I couldn't stop myself to save my life — And here's Lord Dash towing Lady D. backwards like a lightning conductor, or a pilot engine with a wife, — He'll be over us in half a minute ! — can't somebody manage to catch me ? — Ada, elf ! . . . Was there ever ! . . . hurt myself did you say, sir ? No, sir, I did not hurt myself ! . . . He'll scatter someone else directly — look, I told you so — there's Constance down and there goes Fanny Flop, MAYFAIR ON SKATES. 99 And Katy, and Ada with her " ice wings," and the three Miss Maypoles, and huge Mrs. MacAnak at the top : Why can't the man look where he's going to, or skate for- wards like other people, I should like to know ? — He's bowling them over like ninepins, and, oh hurrah ! I declare he's bowled himself over at last into a great heap of snow ! Chorus. For here we slip And there we trip In moments too ambitious ; Yet Blanche declares And Charley swears That skating's quite delicious ! # # # * # The Lancers ? What on skates ? Of all things ! — wouldn't it be jolly ? Richard can dance with me, and I'll introduce you to my country cousin Polly : ioo MAY FAIR ON SKATES. Rather have me ? No, would you ? I thought you'd like better to have danced with her ; Only Polly always goes wrong in the Grand Chain and Dick systematically refuses to stir. . . . Can't somebody whistle ? — They'll never get on like this — but we'll finish it in spite of spites, — What's stopping us now ? Oh it's the girl with the pretty feet again wanting her skate straps put to rights ; — And pray what are you about, sir ? New Lancer step ? Nonsense, it's nothing of the sort, I know, Its spread-" addle," or "eagle," or something, but you've fairly settled the " set," and I believe that's what you wanted to do, — So we'll go and cut some " eights," shall we ? or " threes back ? " (Yes, I know your stupid joke about my " back- ward roll,") Or make a voyage of discovery to the furthest ice, like Captain Cook or Franklyn when they got to the top of North Pole ! mayfair on skates. 101 Chorus. For here we slide And there we glide Tho' Ma may look suspicious ; A fall or two Don't matter a sou, And skating IS delicious ! E "MATRIMONIAL NEWS." YEAR ago with pockets full My steps would often range, To do a modest " bear " or " bull " From Grub Street to th' Exchange ; Sometimes my glance was golden-hued — Sometimes I'd got the blues, — But smile or frown Could not put down The " Matrimonial News." " I say, sir ! Marry ! Want a wife ?" " The Devil !"— " Here you are !— "Just only buy the 'News and try" « Be off!"—" a penny !!"..." bah !!! " THE "MATRIMONIAL NEWS." 103 And now, you know, I'm really wed, — Perhaps I took the hint ? — At all events I'm fairly rid Of that obnoxious print ; For since the hour I said " I will," All note the brats refuse, No youthful tout now spreads me out The " Matrimonial News." It can't be in my cut of coats, — I'm not increasing fat, — I still wear Hoby-Humby's boots And Lincoln-Bennett's hat, And thro' a single eye glass squint The most benignant views ; — But frown or smile I can't beguile The " Matrimonial News !" PINCHER. i. ^AREWELL — sleep soft! whilst over mosses grow, Kindest of all thy race was ever seen ; eiSSSI^^ Some tears are thine, some drops of long adieu From hearts where still thy memory shall be green. II. Farewell ! — but oh ! how often did'st thou lay A soft head and brown eyes upon my breast, Nestling and sighing deep, as if to say " I love, I love you — master think the rest !" III. Companion both and terror of my gun, Who all inapt, yet ardent for the chase, PINCHER. 105 Plunged in the crackling marsh when snipe was down Spurr'd by ambitions alien to thy race ; IV. Or else, when bluebells rang thro' woods of May Girt by the winding stream where alders nod, How would'st thou drive th' amphibious foe to bay Dripping and panting like some river god. . . . V. Farewell ! farewell ! and yet one last caress, Old comrade, friend, for truer ne'er can be ; Whose faults were only virtues in excess, Whose virtues faultless — there's a star for thee ! NEXT MORNING. F some one's head's not very bright At least the owner bears no malice . i ^^w€^ Who was it pulled my nose last night, And begged an interview at Calais ? The quarrel was not much, I think, For such a deadly arbitration, — Some joke about the " missing link " And all the rest inebriation. In vino Veritas ! which means A man's a very ass in liquor ; The " thief that slowly steals our brains " Makes nothing but the temper quicker. NEXT MORNING. 107 Next morning brings a train of woes, But finds the passions much sedater — Who was it, now, that pulled my nose ? — I'd better go and ask the waiter. DAISY'S DIGIT. FINGER with the circlet slight, That keeps it warm and cosy, Wee winsome third left-handed doight So white and warm and rosy, — More taper digits there may be, More lips may kiss and cling on, This tiny ringer's best to me — The one I put the ring on. Some fingers may perhaps proclaim A precedence of status, To point the shaft of praise or blame Or scorn at those that hate us ; DAISY'S DIGIT. 109 Lay down the law, you counsel small ! — Your barbed arrows string on ! To me this finger's best of all — The one I put the ring on. My finger has not worked a bit In caligraphics dainty, The busy thimble dares not fit The type of Suzerainty, — Such weapons of bewild'ring art I have no wit to sing on, This fairy finger holds my heart — The one I put the ring on. LONDON'S " SUEZ CANAL." I^JHAT pretty girls one sees about ! At rink and race, at ball and rout, At drums and dinners,- In books, where JEnids 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 4 towards Pic- -cadilly. LONDON'S "SUEZ CANAL." m Muse favoured 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 Boodle saunters, cane in air — And wonders who's that golden hair- 'd young lady ? . . . But whether gold or black or grey Fashion decrees her slaves shall say The dernier goiit is, ii2 LONDON'S "SUEZ CANAL." 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, LONDON'S "SUEZ CANAL." 113 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 done his 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 desk And westward — ere this watch's tick Old England ho ! for me, and Pic- -cadilly ! Q "A POCKET VENUS.' ABEL isn't quite fifteen, She's just like some dolls I've seen — Could they mischief mean us ; Two red lips my doll has got, Eyes like blue forget-me-not, Flaxen ringlets — such a lot ! — May's my pocket Venus. May has got a figure fine Tho' she says her boots are " nine ! " — That's a joke between us, — She's a foot outruns the breeze, Killing ankles if you please, You should see her climbing trees ! May, my pocket Venus. ^\J^K ■v^Vir^^ 77 ^ 7 ^^' 5 WAIN St " A POCKET VENUS." 115 In abbreviated frock That would Mrs. Grundy shock, Had she only seen us, — Tripping, dancing like a fay, Playing hide and seek — some day I should like to hide away Altogether charming May As my pocket Venus ! THE COMING RACE. OOK back, look back ! a hundred years- The retrospect is funny ; ^wisy-^iM Men-kind, the puppets of an hour, Monopolizing place and pow'r, And spending all the money. Now ladies of creation sit Like gods of ancient story, Arranging all sub-lunar things, With lady-popes and lady-kings, And lady-judge and jury. One privilege to man is left — The privilege of earning THE COMING RACE. 117 The dross that pays the weekly bills — All hints beside of former ills We pride ourselves on spurning. The chain that once we used to hug We now agree to hate ; No skirts our tameless ankles vex, No ringlets stigmatize the sex, Nor bonnets — pas si bete ! A slightly classic style of dress, Is quite preferred, you know, Not absolutely statuesque, But like the heroes of burlesque, A century ago. Blacks, greys, and drabs are out of date We fancy livelier hues ; n8 THE COMING RACE. The modest crimson silk looks neat, Or sky-blue velvet tout en suite. With pearl-bespangled shoes. The men would fain affect our style As far as they were able ; Of course that could not be endured, Their peacock-ships we quickly cured, And toned them down to sable ! Our parliament decreed besides, What seemed a little harsh — On pain of death no male should wear A quizzing-glass or short-cropped hair, Beard, whiskers, or moustache. Malt, hops, to brew they were forbid, Nor pipes allowed to carry ; THE COMING RACE. 119 Cigars and brandy lead to debts, And everything but cigarettes And claret, to old Harry. At first they tried the fixed balloons, And smoked upon the quiet ; But when we cut the ropes adrift, And left the aeronauts to shift They almost raised a riot. And what a howl the creatures made, As if they'd all got rabies, When mothers ruled it was the chic That fathers should in future stick At home and mind the babies ! It's not to be supposed that we Could drudge in toil domestic. 120 THE COMING RACE. When daily we attend debate — Law, Physic, and the Pulpit wait Our presences majestic. . . . And that reminds me to indite My " pastoral " on Hades . . . Does it exist ? Where can it be ? . . Not where the state is truly free. — N.B. That is for ladies. TWO LETTERS. BRACE of letters — one by far Too black, and one with silver label ; I'll toss for which shall have the pas — Black wins ! come then my friend in sable. . * * * # Run down at last? Ten years ago He plucked with me the tree of knowledge, Was " pluckt " for the same " little go " And rowed in the same eight at College. Poor Charley ! once so frank and free ! But duns and doctors did their killing ; I think I heard he could not pay At last even the proverbial shilling. 122 TWO LETTERS. The pauper's pound : now Death squares all, From debt or duns no more gainsayment, — I lent him fifty, and must call To-day at Woking for repayment ! # * * * Let's hope there's something livelier here — These silver trimmings hint a wedding, ■ I almost fancy I could swear An orange-blossom odour's spreading. . . . What Blanche mignonne ! my fairy friend ! And who may be the lucky fellow ? Next week your pretty pranks must end ? — Some score will have to wear the willow. I wonder if you mean to bid Each former victim of your graces To see their fickle tyrant wed ? If so they'll want a lot of places. TWO LETTERS. 123 There was a time I might have been Averse to render such assistance, — But you've forgot our tiff since then, And I'd forgotten your existence ! VENI, VIDI, VICI. N unfledged heiress in her 'teens, And worth a " plum " they say ; With charms to move an anchorite — The Duke made running at first sight, But didn't seem to " stay "— / mean to-night to wire in. No " waiting " business — run to win — You know my slashing way, The veni, vidi, vici style, Short, sharp, decisive, eh ? . . . # * * VENI, VI D I, VIC I. 125 It's all U. P., old boy,— I'm done ! Could laugh if 'tweren't for spite ; — " Unfledged," indeed ! — an old coquette ! She'll teach them all conterfleurettes, And confer scalps, the kite ! She's up to every move that's out, Knows when to sigh and smile and pout And "plays" you as you'd play a trout — The more fool I to bite ! At first she seemed to like the pace And answered to the bit, Blushed when I praised her twinkling feet, Whilst her two eyes grew dark and sweet — Green eyes with mischief lit, — " I'm like a grape from the rich South, (They said) to drop into your mouth — Why don't you open it ? " . . . 126 VENI, VI D I, VIC I. Ah, les yenx verts, les yeux cCenfer ! — The artful doll-faced chit ! I clasped her jewelled hand in mine And through the gallop flew, Her yielding waist my arm compressed, Her whispered words almost caressed, — "Please hold me tighter, so" — . . . Then led her drooping to a seat (Here the scene changed, you know). I whispered " hearts are more than gold ! " (Now for a lucky fluke ! ) She said " so I've been often told," " Then hear me swear to all I hold " — She smiled—" I think I won't ! " (One effort more to wire in) " You do not care for me a pin ! " She laughed — " of course I don't ! " VENI, VIDI, via. 127 Then gently yawning — " There's mama Is looking for me — thanks — ta-ta ! " — And left me speechless, plante la, — (P.S.) The minx has hooked the Duke. A FABLE WITH A MORAL. , WAKEN snakes ! " a herald cried, " Attend to what I say ; The bearer of a mandate, sent To call a general parliament — Oyez ! oyez ! ! oyez ! ! ! " " A congress of all rattle-snakes Whom indignation pales, That we alone of serpent kind An instrument of torture find Appended to our tails." A FABLE WITH A MORAL. 129 " An instrument that signal gives To every snake-molester ; That warns mankind to clear the course And often wakens up per force Ourselves from our siesta." " It makes us all look white and wan Thus robbed of peaceful slumber ; It's neither useful that we find, Nor ornamental, to our mind, And serves but to encumber." " Wherefore ... a Parliament is fixed By croctalistic usance, To legislate upon the point How to curtail this caudal joint And remedy the nuisance." A FABLE WITH A MORAL. The day was set, the serpents met Prepared for wordy battle ; They met — alas ! no single word By clerk or congress could be heard But one stupendous rattle ! TWENTY-ONE TO-MORROW. OU are young ; I'm getting old, Cara Mia ! In the glass when I behold Touched locks in contrasted fold, Mine are gray, and yours are gold, Cara Mia. Twenty — forty ; that's the score, Cara Mia ; One to two, a trifle o'er — Why wern't you a decade more ? Why am I not twenty-four, Cara Mia ? 132 TWENTY-ONE TO-MORROW Twice your age ! no time to say, " Cara Mia ; " Doubled years make short delay . . Happy thought ! after to-day Can't again be double, eh, Cara Mia ? A JAPANESE PUZZLE. &&fifig& ITTLE So-sli has an almond eye m> li^lW And a foot that's fit for the graces, KfescnK^&s^ She's pearls in her lips, and her finger-tips Determined by golden cases. Her cousin, you know, is little So-slo, (So fast more correct — less idyllic) Her mouth's a red rose, and as for her nose It's Celestial and therefore angelic. The worst of it is — for So-sli's a quiz, And So-slo would plague her own brother When for mischief inclined — I can't make up my mind If it's this one I like or the other. 134 A JAPANESE PUZZLE. You can choose with more ease, from the cut, if you please, Tho' you'll hardly get love for your labours, But if all Japanese are as pretty as these It's provoking we arn't nearer neighbours \ ELZEVIR PRESS : — PRINTED BY JOHN C. WILKIN'S AND VERNON, 9, CASTLE STREET, CHANCERY LANE. Seventh Edition, Enlarged, $s. Gd. PUCK ON PEGASUS. ILLUSTRATED BY SIR NOEL PATON, LEECH, TENNIEL, DOYLE, " PHIZ," PORTCH, ELLEN EDWARDS, GEORGE CRUIKSHANK, &c. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON THE SIXTH AND EARLIER EDITIONS. Standard. — " Splendid verse. . . . The sixth edition — on the merits of the book it ought to be the sixtieth — is published in exquisite garb by Mr. Hotten. Those who do not already know the wonderful swing of Mr. Cholmondeley Pennell's lines should make their acquaintance at once." Daily Telegraph. — "There is no doubt that Mr. Cholmondeley Pennell's merry volume of verse, entitled 'Puck on Pegasus, ' which has reached a sixth edition, merits the honour and success of that unquestionable proof of popularity. The book has been reviewed over and over again." The Times. — "The epigrammatic drollery of Mr. Cholmondeley Pennell's ' Puck on Pegasus' is well known to many of our readers. . . . The present is a superb and hand- somely printed and illustrated edition of the book." The Scotsman. — " A beautiful and amusing book. . . . If lightness and elegance are qualities recommendatory of gift books, 'Puck on Pegasus,' though not a mere Christmas work, may well be ranked, and ranked high amongst them. . . . It is needless to say that the illustrations are all more or less charming." Saturday Review. — "The book is clever and amusing, vigorous and healthy." The Field. — "This is a sixth edition, but it might honestly be a sixteenth. . . . Mr. Pennell often plays with his power, but there is the right stuff in almost every line he pens." Observer.— "The words 'sixth edition,' when they appear in the first page of any work, are in themselves a sufficient guarantee of its character, and render criticism super- fluous. The public have affixed the seal of their approbation on the work, and we have only to say that in doing so they have judged, as they usually do, wisely and well." Fraser's Magazine. — " 'Puck on Pegasus ' is full of those eccentricities which make one laugh with oneself, or in spite of oneself, according as one takes it up in a grave or gay humour." Morning Post. — "Puck, as he careers through the world on his mad horse, shoots arrows of the pleasantest raillery, dipped in can de Cologne rather than gall, at the follies of the season, the artistic foibles of literary celebrities, and the affectations of all classes, high and low. Some of the youngster's capers are certainly unjustifiable; but extravagant mirth is never severely judged when it expresses itself in easy-running verses, the music ot which is as sweet as their rhymes are ingenious and unexpected. Moreover, though Mr. Pennell's muse respects neither the age nor fame of those whom he satirizes, he never forgets gentlemanly consideration for the feelings of his readers. . . . Nor do we draw attention to the prevailing lightness of his muse in a spirit of condemnation, but rather of regret that the fine feeling and pathetic force manifested in the treatment of his two finest pieces, the 'Night Mail North,' and the 'Derby Day,' should have inspired him less frequently than mere gaiety of heart. . . . The rhythm and rugged swing of the " Night Mail North ' will give the reader a taste of Mr. Pennell's higher qualities." Examiner. — "Let Mr. Pennell trust to the original strength that is in him, and he may bestride his Pegasus without fear." Small Si'o., cloth extra, price 4s. 6a 1 . MODERN BABYLON; CRESCENT? AND OTHER POEMS. BY H. CHOLMONDELEY PENNELL. MORNING POST. — " An author who has reached the honour of a sixth edition — as Mr. Cholmondeley Pennell has done in his very clever and amusing book, ' Puck on Pegasus ' — can venture again before the reading public with- out any great anxiety as to his reception. His present work, ' Modern Babylon,' contains some sixteen poems, well calculated to show the versatility of the authors muse. Mr. Pennell grasps his subject with the vigour of a man of genius, and he invariably works on the right side of the question. He is wholesome, earnest, thoughtful, a worshipper not only of the beautiful but the good." Athen^um. — " Language alike strong and musical. . . . Earnestness and fine appreciation of the grander qualities of nature, are on this occasion the chief characteristics of Mr. Pennell's muse. 'Crescent' is a passionate protest against the complaint ever on the lips of idlers, but scouted by all honest workers, that the age of poetry is past. The nervous and deep-rolling lines of 'Crescent' would of themselves be a sufficient answer." ■i UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-100m-9.'52(A3105)444 PR $167 P33p 1878 'An*:, k