Transcriber's note.

Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A [list] of other changes made, can be found at the end of the book.

[Among the verses in this Collection may be found a few which have previously appeared in a Volume, by the same Author, now out of print.]

THE LAZY MINSTREL

The Lazy
Minstrel

By

J. ASHBY-STERRY

And while his merry Banjo rang,

'Twas thus the Lazy Minstrel sang!

THIRD EDITION.

LONDON

T. FISHER UNWIN

26 Paternoster Square

MDCCCLXXXVII

The Author reserves all rights of translation and reproduction.

TO

NINA, MARY, AND FLORENCE,

THIS VOLUME IS
INSCRIBED.

CONTENTS.

OVERTURE.

Within this Volume you will find,

No project to "improve the mind"!

No "purpose" lurks within these lays—

These idle songs of idle days.

They're seldom learnëd, never long—

The best apology for song!

Should e'er they chance to have the pow'r,

To pass away some lazy hour—

They'll serve all "purpose," it is true,

The Minstrel ever had in view!

[LAZY LAYS.]

[HAMBLEDEN LOCK.]

A

I've drifted down here with the light Summer breeze;

I land at the bank, where the turf's brown and dry on,

And lazily list to the music of trees!

O, sweet is the air, with a perfume of clover,

O, sleepy the cattle in Remenham meads!

The lull of the lasher is soothing, moreover,

The wind whistles low in the stream-stricken reeds!

With sail closely furled, and a weed incandescent—

Made fast to a post is the swift Shuttlecock—

I think you will own 'tis uncommonly pleasant

To dream and do nothing by Hambleden Lock!

See a barge blunder through, overbearing and shabby,

With its captain asleep, and his wife in command;

Then a boatful of beauties for Medmenham Abbey,

And a cargo of campers all tired and tanned.

Two duffers collide, they don't know what they're doing—

They're both in the ways of the water unskilled—

But here is the Infant, so great at canoeing,

Sweet, saucy, short-skirted, and snowily frilled.

I notice the tint of a ribbon or feather,

The ripple of ruffle, the fashion of frock;

I languidly laze in the sweet Summer weather,

And muse o'er the maidens by Hambleden Lock!

What value they give to the bright panorama—

O, had I the pencil of Millais or Sandys!—

The lasses with sunshades from far Yokohama,

The pretty girl-scullers with pretty brown hands!

Next the Syren steams in; see the kind-eyed old colley,

On the deck, in the sun, how he loves to recline!

Note the well-ordered craft and its Skipper so jolly,

With friends, down to Marlow, he's taking to dine.

In the snug-curtained cabin, I can't help espying

A dew-clouded tankard of seltzer-and-hock,

And a plateful of peaches big babies are trying,

I note, as they glide out of Hambleden Lock!

A punt passes in, with Waltonians laden,

And boatman rugose of mahogany hue;

And then comes a youth and a sunny-haired maiden

Who sit vis-à-vis in their bass-wood canoe.

Now look at the Admiral steering the Fairy,

O, where could he find a much better crew than

His dutiful daughters, Flo, Nina, and Mary,

Who row with such grace in his trim-built randan?

I muse while the water is ebbing and flowing,

I silently smoke and serenely take stock

Of countless Thames toilers, now coming, now going,

Who take a pink ticket at Hambleden Lock!

[SPRING'S DELIGHTS.]

'Tis good-bye to comfort, to ease and prosperity,

Now Spring has set in with its usual severity!

S

Let the Lazy Minstrel sing;

While the ruddy logs are burning,

Let his merry banjo ring!

Take no heed of pluvial patter,

Waste no time in vain regrets;

Though our teeth are all a-chatter,

Like the clinking castanets!

Though it's freezing, sleeting, snowing,

Though we're speechless from catarrh,

Though the East wind's wildly blowing,

Let us warble, Tra la la!

Spring's Delights are now returning!

Let us order new great-coats:

Never let us dream of spurning

Woollen wrap around our throats.

Let us see the couch nocturnal

Snugly swathed in eider-down:

Let not thoughts of weather vernal

Tempt us to go out of Town.

Though the biting blast is cruel,

Though our "tonic's" not sol-fa,

Though we sadly sup on gruel,

Let us warble, Tra la la!

Spring's Delights are now returning

Now the poet deftly weaves

Quaint conceits and rhymes concerning

Croton oil and mustard leaves!

Let us, though we are a fixture,

In our room compelled to stay—

Let us quaff the glad cough mixture,

Gaily gargle time away!

Though we're racked with pains rheumatic,

Though to sleep we've said ta-ta,

Let us, with a voice ecstatic,

Wildly warble, Tra la la!

Spring's Delights are now returning!

Doctors now are blithe and gay!

Heaps of money now they're earning,

Calls they're making ev'ry day.

Ev'ry shepherd swain grows colder,

As, in vain, he tries to sing;

Feels he now quite ten years older,

'Neath the blast of blighting Spring!

Though we're doubtful of the issue,

Let us bravely shout Hurrah!

And in one superb A-tishoo!

Sneeze and warble Tra la la!

[A MODERN SYREN.]

T

The sky is blue, and o'er the bay

The breeze is blowing free;

For, O, the morning's fresh and fair,

And bright and bracing is the air,

Down by the summer sea.

A pretty, winsome, merry girl,

With all her sunny hair a-curl,

Was dimpled bonny Bee;

Her laugh was light, her eyes were blue,

They always said her heart was true,

Down by the summer sea.

The sun is hot, the day is grand,

And up and down the yellow sand

Perambulateth he:

She promised they should meet at eight,

And from her lips should learn his fate,

Down by the summer sea.

He fancies it is getting late,

For by his watch 'tis now past eight,

Some minutes twenty-three;

The shore he scans with eyesight keen.

And notes the track of small bottines,

Down by the summer sea.

He hums a merry song and strolls,

And tracks this pretty pair o' soles—

His heart is full of glee!

For now that he has found the clue,

He follows footsteps two and two,

Down by the summer sea.

"But ah!" he says, and stops his song—

"This soler system is all wrong,

'Tis plain enough to me,

Those prints are proofs—I can't tell whose—

But 'quite another pair of shoes,'

Down by the summer sea."

The short and narrow, long and wide,

He finds march closely side by side

By some occult decree;

And as he cons the footprints o'er,

He finds that two and two make four,

Down by the summer sea!

He sighs, and says, "Ah, well, indeed!"

And from his pocket takes a weed,

And strikes the light fuzee:

He adds, "I think I'll now go home,

For maidens' vows are frail as foam

Down by the summer sea!"

[REGRETS.]

O

Seeming to plead and speak—

The parted lips, the deep-drawn sighs,

The blush on the kissen cheek!

O for the tangle of soft brown hair,

Fanned by the lazy breeze;

The fleeting hours unshadowed by care,

Shaded by tremulous trees!

O for the dream of those sunny days,

Their bright unbroken spell,

And thrilling sweet untutored praise—

From lips once loved too well!

O for the feeling of days agone,

The simple faith and truth,

The Spring of time, life's rosy dawn—

O for the love and the youth!

[HAMMOCKUITY.]

If you swing in a hammock the summer day through,

And you dream with profound assiduity,

A new phase of content it will give unto you,

Which philosophers call "Hammockuity"!

A

Beneath the sycamore,

I listen to the distant Lune,

Or slumber to its roar;

'Tis sweet to muse, to sleep or sing,

When talk is superfluity;

'Tis sweet beneath the trees to swing,

And practise hammockuity.

Forgotten here, I would forget

The destiny fate weaves,

The while I smoke a cigarette

To music of the leaves;

I wish my present lazy life

A lengthy continuity;

Away from trouble, care, and strife,

In happy hammockuity!

While others work, while others play,

Or love, or laugh, or weep;

I watch the smoke-rings curl away,

And almost fall asleep!

I'd give up thought of future fame—

Despite such incongruity—

I'd forfeit riches, power, name,

For blissful hammockuity!

I hate the booming busy bee

Who dares to wake me up—

I wonder if it's time for tea,

Or grateful cyder-cup?

I would I could, beneath the trees,

Repose in perpetuity,

And swing, and sing, and take mine ease

In lasting hammockuity!

[MY COUNTRY COUSIN.]

T

Up comes the Country Cousin, pray remember,—

The Cattle Show to visit in December!

Her winsome, watchet eyes, they are the sweetest,

Her chaussure and her gloves they are the neatest,

Her toilette you'll consider the completest.

She's pretty, piquante, pouting, and capricious;

So dainty, dimpled, daring, and delicious:

She's joyful, and she's jaunty and judicious.

She loves to hear the latest tittle-tattle;

On manners, music, crinoline, and cattle,

And pictures, peers and poets will she prattle!

She often goes out shopping with her Mother,

The Park she sometimes visits with her Brother—

She'd much prefer to stroll there with Another!

The gay Mikado music sets her humming—

And how she likes the Temple kettle-drumming,

With those who love to go chrysanthemumming!

She has no views on "rights" or vivisection,

Finds politics a nuisance on reflection—

To bores she has a most supreme objection!

Delight she takes in anything that's merry,

She dearly loves a pleasant lunch chez Verrey,

And much prefers dry Pommery to sherry!

She rattles through a picture exhibition,

Then goes to see a circus or magician,

And does a morning concert in addition!

Of theatres, you'll find, she'll ne'er grow weary;

Each night she'll go—let plays be good or dreary—

And sit them through, still looking bright and cheery!

She can't e'en rest 'twixt Saturday and Monday,

But in a hansom—despite Mrs. Grundy—

She drives down to the Abbey on a Sunday!

She's bright each morn—as fresh as any daisy—

And when with seeing sights I'm nearly crazy,

She says I am "incorrigibly lazy!"

But when one morn from Euston she has started—