Joseph Ashby-Sterry - The Lazy Minstrel

But now how lazily she lies!
And droops those tender trustful eyes
Unutterably sweet!
While snugly 'neath the bulwark curled,
Forgetting all about the world,
The World is at her feet!

With tiny, dimpled, sunburnt hand,
She pats the solemn Newfoundland
Who crouches at her side.
She's thinking – not of me nor you,
When smiling as she listens to
The lapping of the tide.

O, were I pressed, aboard that ship,
How joyfully I'd take a trip,
For change of air and scene!
I'd soon pack up a carpet-bag,
And gladly sail beneath the flag,
Of bonny Tarpauline!

A SWEET, short-skirted, pouting pet,
A winsome, laughing, glad, girlette;
She's ten-and-thoughtless, and as yet,
By falsity unsmitten!
A merry young misogynist,
Few boyish games can she resist —
The Kitten!

She hates a doll and girlish toys,
She's fond of whips, and dogs, and boys,
For, truth to tell, she finds no joys
In crewel-work or tatting:
But see how smiling is her face,
Indeed, a pretty gleeful Grace —
When batting!

She bowls with marvellous success,
And keeps her wicket, I confess —
Despite her graceful girlish dress —
As well as any Briton!
She's saucy, silly, and self-willed,
The smartest longstop ever frilled —
The Kitten!

She's erudite in "wides" and "byes,"
And I will venture to surmise,
She'll vanquish any boy her size
At games of single-wicket!
And yet, no doubt, she's good as gold,
For I'll go bail she's only bold —
At cricket!

But like her namesake, clad in fur,
No mischief comes amiss to her;
To me it seems it should occur,
To leave her faults unwritten.
She'll make a score, I'm sure of that,
And loves to carry out her bat —
The Kitten!

DEAR ROSE,
I never shall forget —
That is, I always shall remember —
The very brightest day, my pet,
We had throughout this dull November!
I went last Monday, you must know,
With Tina, Mrs. S., and Clarry,
To see the Temple flower-show,
And, best of all, to lunch with Harry!

We saw the gardens – 'twould be sport
To make the Benchers play lawn-tennis —
And chambers in a dingy court
Where Fanny Bolton nursed Pendennis:
The rooms where Goldsmith lived and died,
The sycamore where Johnson prated;
The house where Pip did once reside,
The Fountain where sweet Ruth Pinch waited.

We grasped a massive balustrade —
The date, they said, was Sixteen Thirty —
The way was dark, and I'm afraid
We found the staircase rather dirty.
Those grim old stairs to Harry's Den —
We clomb them gaily, nothing daunted —
They still by Warrington and Pen,
And other pleasant ghosts are haunted!

Ah, what a spot, my dearest Rose,
To muse upon this queer old Den is!
To catalogue its curios
I'm sure unable quite my pen is!
But from its panes we gaze upon
The misty midday sun a-quiver;
The red-sailed barges drifting on,
The sparkle of the dear old River!

Then mingling sweetly one perceives —
'Mid laughter light and girlish gabble —
The sighing of the autumn leaves,
And singing of the Fountain's babble!
How quick my thoughts drift back again
To those bright happy days at Hurley —
A pleasure strongly dashed with pain —
(O, Harry's locks are brown and curly!)

But, Rose, the luncheon! It was grand —
The oak you know, my love, was sported —
And all the speeches, understand,
Were much too good to be reported.
There's Clarry and big Charlie Clough —
It is a case! I think they'll marry —
I wonder who is good enough
For handsome, grey-eyed, laughing Harry?

It soon grew dark, but I could see
That clearly no one did desire light;
For Tina and young Freddy B.
Were spooning by the fitful firelight.
We stayed till late, for Mrs. S.
The most enduring chaperone is.
And Harry sang! I must confess
His voice the richest baritone is.

Ah, how the moments quickly flit
In song and talk and playful banter!
The motto on the sundial writ
Is Pereunt et imputantur .
I'm rather sad! Ah, what's the use?
I know you'll think I'm very silly;
Although I am a little goose,
I always am, your loving Milly.

ONE sunny day in glorious July
I lazed upon the verdant tennis lawn!
And smoking there an idle cigarette
I watched a maid who gazed upon the game,
Clad in a simple snowy cambric frock,
And all the budding beauty of Sixteen!
And as she held her racquet banjo-wise,
While dreamily she trifled with its strings,
I sketched the merry maiden as she stood,