Sterry
The Lazy Minstrel
And while his merry Banjo rang, 'Twas thus the Lazy Minstrel sang!
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 CAPITAL luncheon I've had at the "Lion,"
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!
SPRING'S Delights are now returning!
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
THE
