Read Ebook: The Minstrel A Collection of Poems by Amott Lennox

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Ebook has 285 lines and 21400 words, and 6 pages

ad begun, And often had a romp beneath the baking sun.

In fact it gave them something nice to do, Moreover 'twas a fav'rite occupation, And that chanced very fortunately too; Meanwhile they liked some light confabulation, Making arrangements for their bright vacation, And plans far too entangled, I'm afraid, To enumerate in this uncouth narration, For if upon such topics here I strayed, 'Twould take from now till doomsday, so it's best unsaid.

They'd had a call or two from neighbours near Whose company was jovial as could be; So their Mamma first started the idea That they should ask three gentlemen to tea Out in the hayfield, where they would be free, To help in tossing o'er the scented hay; Then all assemble underneath the tree, And chatter anything they'd like to say, While Julia handed round refreshment on a tray.

All was decided, and a note was sent, Penned with Mamma's gold pen and sealed with care, And Julia brought a note to the intent That they would be most happy to be there; And whereon everybody did declare They were the nicest folks beneath the sun, And Julia did most naturally stare To hear the happy thing that they had done, And longed to see arrangements instantly begun.

The daughters three received exact directions How to do all things and go everywhere: Concerning all their musical selections And all about the "skirts" they had to wear, How they should dress and e'en adorn their hair, What rings to show, whether diamond or not; Injunctions to observe the greatest care In choice of stockings, and I don't know what.

But she had seen her fifty years of life, So her young days for ever had swept by, And back to days e'er she became a wife She looked and for them breathed a lingering sigh, To tell the truth, my reader, I don't blame 'em For thinking hardly of the marriage tie, Most men's delight is not to love but tame 'em, I know a score but 'twouldn't do to name 'em.

No doubt she'd danced with all the proud and high And revelled in the pomp of this vain earth, Enjoyed that mimic farce--Society, Entitled by significance of birth, But what of this! Society's not mirth, It has its fairer and its darker side, The one is worth, the other--want of worth, What are the hollow luxuries of Pride? Oh gaze not on the gloom its dazzling tinsels hide!

How nice it is to dash about in style With prancing steeds thro' all the whirling west Of mighty London, under Fashion's smile, And feel one's happy self supremely blest, And bowed to by a "humble flunkey flat," With endless formal courtesies oppressed; To flirt with Baron this or Lady that, And mix with all the great, the honoured of the state.

Roll to the theatre, too. Upon the board Gaze on the actor--paralyzed and dumb, Till, like one man, ten thousand hands applaud, From the palpitating auditorium. See from the boxes all the purses come! How riveted admirers pause aghast! Hear the excitement in the stifled hum! And see the tears of each enthusiast! Look! ere the actor has before the curtain passed.

Turn on the lights! Let the besweated crowds Shriek as the music swells, now high, now low For all to-morrow slumber in their shrouds Who drained excitement's cup an hour ago! Watch flitting beauty, nymph-like, come and go, Fan the scorched cheek and quaff the bright champagne, Around the circles see the diamond-glow, Revel in laughter, think no more of pain! See! see! the blind ascends and all begins again!

Put up the opera-glass and scan the stage, On crimson piles luxuriantly recline, And see the premature decay of age Transformed to youth, a lovely columbine! While th' gorgeous tapestries of rare design In rich profusion hang in heavy fold; See every pantomimic splendour shine Like glist'ring starlight, opal, pearl, and gold, Mirrors reflecting mirrors, countless and untold!

But some folks always spend the night in gaming, Or very nearly so, at any rate, And other vices hardly worth the naming , Then think of rising very, very late After a night's debauch and dissipation And rolling homewards with unsteady gait . Ours is a sad nation!

The breakfast lies untasted, for the tea Is not the nectar-like concoction we Are very fond of , And therefore home supplies we cannot touch; In all and everything we are undone, Lips parch, head whirls, was never such A wretched plight; indeed we're not A 1. We think we have remaining money but have none.

But 'tis too bad I know;--again I've erred And deviated sadly from my tale; I'm sorry that it should have thus occurred, I know, and you know too, that I am frail And everything I've said is very stale, At least it is to me, I daresay too To some of you on p'raps a different scale, Much more familiar, if one only knew. It is quite marvellous what some can bustle through!

The day arrived; the sun was shining brightly As it was necessary that it should, The rooms were swept and all that was unsightly They hid away as quickly as they could; And then the edibles, both many and good, Julia and Hannah carried to the spot And then turned homeward with a merry trot, And waited for the time t' arrive; and who would not?

The edibles consisted of a ham, A vase of clotted cream, two pigeon pies, Some cakes of every sort, a breast of lamb, Eggs, bread and butter, as you would surmise, A calf's head, too, of an enormous size, Ripe strawberries and currants red they laid On fresh green leaves , Oporto iced, some "pop" and lemonade; Besides some other delicacies they had made.

They, too, supplied some cans of country beer For the lab'ring men, and half-a-crown apiece For them to have some downright merry cheer; The question was--where did their bounty cease? So fast their acts of kindness did increase, So welcome were they to the neighb'ring poor To whom their homely smile was joy and peace, And to whose cottages they often bore Some small addition to their little cupboard store.

I picture, as I write, the little scene: The dwelling clustered o'er with roses white, The parlour with its ruby bricks so clean, And all within so happy and so bright. I would exchange my being, if I might, With him whose life-long day is so serene, Whose eve knows no lament, whose morn no blight, Whose every hour is tranquil in between, Whose hopes are ever fair, whose joys are ever green.

There's Francis Palgrave, there's Rosetti too; Trill on, ye two, the song of future years, Move, Palgrave, move, with bosom rent anew, An audience multitudinous to tears; Scratch on with quill unwearied and no fears, The world shall fling thee thy resplendent bays, For Popular Opinion safely steers His barque upon the river of thy praise. The stars themselves shall pause to listen to thy lays.

Full twelve or fifteen minutes had expired, Before the salutation part was done, And they, poor chaps, were doubtless very tired, Quite tired enough, before it had begun. As usual, everlasting "hows" and "whens," And kind inquiries mixed with pretty fun Were passed from mouth to mouth, which always tends To show how much our joy on others' joy depends .

But really and truly, joking all aside, One of our friends, the tallest of the three I think it was, but cannot quite decide, Was handsome as a man could hope to be, I only wish that he'd exchanged with me; Such depth of eye and such a princely frown! I wish, my friends, that you'd been there to see His small white hands and his moustache of brown, Indeed 'twas worth a journey all the way from town.

It is, I think, a matter of opinion What style of face is sweetest to behold, Whether Malay or Greek or Abyssinian, Italian I have oftentimes been told: Malay I think expressionless and cold, Tho' some admire its sweet simplicity, But I'll observe, if I may be so bold, It must be far-fetched eccentricity; At least I can't discover such felicity.

Down to the hayfield numerous forks were sent, The ladies took the lighter ones to use, And all were jovial to a great extent; The gentlemen related all the news And cheerfully did everything t' amuse, When a mischance occurred, picked up the forks, And helped t' unload and pull out all the corks And arranged some ladies' nosegays, cutting off superfluous stalks.

XC.

Upon the grass the damask cloth was laid, And the repast looked wonderfully nice, Spread, as I said it would be, in the shade, With every summer dainty to entice, Especially the lemonade and ice , And Julia, too, was charmingly precise, Than her sweet smile nought could have been much prettier.

From three crossed sticks above a faggot fire The water-vessel sent they did suspend As people mostly do, with twisted wire; Much care and labour too they did expend, Determined that their visitors should spend A very merry evening, which they had, For there was merry-making without end, And all the company made very glad; Considering all things, its success was not so bad.

Pop went the corks, the ladies screamed with fear And put their handkerchiefs before their face, Then stuffed their ears so full they couldn't hear And each one made a terrible grimace, Begging that to some farther distant place The bottles should be pointed; then, alas! All ran away as though they ran a race, When each had managed to upset her glass On the corks banging, like a timid little ass.

The ladies then, with one consent, declared The gentlemen to be too good by half, That angels with them could not be compared; Then everybody had a hearty laugh; The "charms" indulged in various little chaff And gave the gentlemen some dreadful "whacks," I do not mean with their Papa's old staff But with their little hands, across their backs, Observing they deserved quite twice as many smacks.

Rowland, our handsome friend, pronounced the pies Of all he ever liked to be the best; Lionel, too, bespoke the strawberries, And Gilbert loved the currants, he confessed; In short, the gathering was the loveliest Of all the gatherings they had ever known, And each, of course, was proud to be a guest; The ladies sighed how fast the time had flown; That they were sorry everybody there did own.

Then The labourers came to take some little cheer; They doffed their hats and shouted thrice "Hurrah!" When they had polished off a little beer; But took the treasure while a burning tear, Unchecked and gentle, trembled on the cheek And damped the furrows of full many a year, And fettered up the lips; thankful and meek, Each rustic bent his toil-worn brow, but could not speak.

And each one passed his rough and heavy sleeve Up to his face, across his briny eye; What human breast that tears may not relieve? What cheek that tears can never beautify? They moved away and sauntered leisurely Back to their toil, back to their daily bread, Then homewards. In the evening's streaky sky The crescent moon gleamed faintly overhead And whispered that their little ones were hushed in bed.

Our friends and visitors withdrew inside Now they had tossed the hay and had their fill, And it was proper time they should, beside-- The fields were getting positively chill; The gentlemen sat down and rested till The trap was ready, and the lamps were lighted, And pleased they were to chat awhile, but still It made the journey tedious if benighted; Of course they mentioned they'd been thoroughly delighted.

Then scribbling autographs seemed all the go, And music took the place of tossing hay, With various small etcetera, and so It came about they should not go away Before they'd promised for another day. Of course what could they say? they said they would, And highly pleased they all were I daresay; And so between them all 'twas understood They had arranged a pic-nic near some distant wood.

Meanwhile the horse was getting slightly frisky, Impatient quite to trot his homeward road; Of course our friends must have a glass of whisky, The frisky horse, the trap, and all be blowed: As long as they arrived at their abode It didn't matter and they didn't care, And all these circumstances only showed They were in no great hurry to be there, Perhaps preferring to remain just where they were.

But still the parting came: as for adieus, They lasted just as long, I do believe, As all the "Hows" and "Whens" and "How d'ye dos" On their arrival,--no, I don't deceive; They all took "quite excruciating" leave, And Julia hurried up and held the gate, For which a florin-piece she did receive, Then hurried back in quite a frantic state, Indeed her eyes with very pleasure did dilate.

Now they were all alone, the day was o'er, The blinds were down and all the shutters closed, Julia was sent to bolt the garden door, And all did whatsoe'er they felt disposed; Mamma, with covered face, lay down and dozed, Papa and his three daughters played at loo, It was a pleasant pastime they supposed, I almost think it must have been, don't you? But everybody wished the day would dawn anew.

They went to bed, as weary people must, Earlier than usual, after having played Three lovely games at loo, and then discussed The nice refreshment in the pleasant shade; And I am sure they must have been repaid Quite amply for their trouble in the pleasure Of hearing all the gentlemen had said, For Dora seemed amused beyond all measure--

The household said good night to chat and cards, They were, at least they seemed to be, worn out; And 'tis the same, I think, with tiny bards, For they, too, must leave off sometimes, no doubt, Most folks, I know, would rather be without Such nuisances as we are at the most, And I myself am but a lazy lout, For dallying all my time amongst the host Of scribbling dolts; but writing verse is not my boast.

Good-bye, my friends, for now, I really think, 'Tis time to pause for I have croaked so long, To lay aside my paper, pen and ink, And hush the grating measure of my song, Your kind applause may not to me belong, It might have been much better I'll agree, But if you'll just decide to come along-- With a forgiving heart--along with me, We'll both shake hands upon the subject merrily.

It is a pity fools are prone to scribble, Such pigmy rhymesters as sincerely yours, Who flabbergast their nursery-maids and dribble All down their literary pinafores. All men form two divisions--first, the Bores, Next, those who must incessantly be bored; To those who can explain I leave the cause, Or him who said so His name it is not necessary to record.

I want a rest, I blink, I see some authors, And laurel wreaths and pens both great and small, But weirdly mixed with inkpots, cups and saucers, Floating in air like things ethereal; How dare such stupid things intrude at all! There, let me sleep for Goodness' Gracious' sake, I really shall not answer if you call, I'll finish up my story when I wake; Hush, hush, my darling, hush, else rest I cannot take.

Good day, and how d'ye do my friends and neighbours? I must have dozed upon my easy chair; I feel refreshed and recommence my labours, And urge my soaring Pegasus through air, Nor ask his destination or his fare, It matters not to me, and I resume; But not to dose you more than you can bear, To take my flight with others, I presume, And why not so, my friends, since there's no lack of room?

You know I am a careless sort of fellow On whom no living being spends a wink, So stand aside and let me have my bellow, You surely will not grudge me pen and ink! I've little doubt that if you stop to think You'll recollect I've met you once before, I'm not the humbug who would wish to shrink From friends of old, and so let's have your paw; Of course 'twere better we were friendly to be sure.

I have my likes, great likes, great dislikes too, 'Twere well did I just one or two rehearse; I hate to see a fool his ways renew, I hate to see a youngster scribbling verse; And now, my friends, just think, what can be worse Than wasting time when we've so little of it? But waywardness will surely prove a curse, They tell me that I ought to be above it, That is to say, my kinsfolk and belov?d.

But something strange impels me to the task, And here am I complaining while I write Of human nature. Of myself I ask-- Now am I doing wrong or doing right? 'Tis hard indeed to fight Against this most uncouth propensity: Most likely tho' I shall grow wiser by and bye.

But I'll proceed--I never see the use Of giving up a task when once begun, Besides it's nonsense urging an excuse, Just let me end my tale and I am done. Why, there's the breakfast bell, and, ten to one, Those girls are fast asleep, and what d'ye bet? And Julia's just been waking them, what fun! Ah, very well, you've lost, and don't forget That you are now, let's see, a florin in my debt.

The girls were late indeed and no mistake; Unutterably tired I should say, But Julia said they all were wide awake, And so 'twas useless making more delay. Mamma proceeded in her usual way To order in the breakfast then and there, Concluding 'twas the excitement yesterday, For waiting long was more than she could bear; So after having kissed papa she took her chair.

Papa consulted the barometer To gain some knowledge of the coming weather, Then stared and took out his chronometer, Remarking it was funny altogether; He rang the bell in order to know whether His daughters really had begun to dress, And Julia, quite as light as any feather, Swept in and pertly answered, "Yes, Sir, yes," Much to his satisfaction, doubtless, you may guess.

They all came down to find the breakfast cold, And there was then and there a great "to-do," Mamma felt very much disposed to scold, And answered their excuses with "pooh-pooh:" I think 'twas rather too bad tho', don't you, Since they had done the very best they could To entertain their visitors all through? But there! she only scolded for their good, And 'twas not well for them o'er such-like things to brood.

For several days they were not quite the thing, To judge from all appearances at least; Their youthful levity had taken wing, And all excursions for the present ceased; And momently their restlessness increased, The sketch was left unheeded: incomplete The slippers they were knitting ere the feast, And faded garlands strewed the arbour seat, Now silent and neglected was that cool retreat.

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