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THE SOCIAL ZODIAC

JANUARY

 
UPON the Ice, 'tis nice to glide,
A merry maiden by your side!
The air is keen, the day is fine,
You think the sport is most divine,
When skimming o'er the frozen tide.
 
 
To Miss Chinchilla you confide,
How proud you are to be her guide;
Then try to cut some quaint design
Upon the Ice.
 
 
With measured motion, rhythmic stride,
You put on speed and put on side:
You cut the figures Eight and Nine —
And sometimes on your back recline!
Such falls will sometimes come to pride,
Upon the Ice.
 

FEBRUARY

 
SAINT VALENTINE! The post is late!
No letters come – 'tis long past Eight!
But on this bright auspicious day
Frivolity holds laughing sway,
And sober people have to wait!
 
 
The burdened postmen moan their fate,
This Festival they reprobate;
And often think they'd like to flay
Saint Valentine!
 
 
But in these views you'll find Miss Kate
Does not at all participate;
And Beryl, Baby, Minnie, May,
With Gertie, Ethel, Lily, Fay,
Right gleefully commemorate —
Saint Valentine!
 

MARCH

 
O WIND of March! O biting breeze!
It nips the nose and nips the trees;
It whirls with fury down the street,
It makes us flee in quick retreat,
And gives us cold and makes us sneeze!
 
 
It makes us cough and choke and wheeze,
With painful back and aching knees;
With dire discomfort 'tis replete,
O Wind of March!
 
 
Our hands we're glad enough to squeeze,
In cuffs and muffs and muffatees;
'Tis charged with blinding, cutting sleet,
It spoils our temper, chills our feet,
And brings the Doctor lots of fees —
O Wind of March!
 

APRIL

 
AN April Day, so fresh and bright —
('Twill rain, I'm sure, before the night!)
We've done with Winter blasts unkind —
(Don't leave your mackintosh behind,
'Twould be a fatal oversight!)
 
 
In Spring-like garb we'll go bedight —
('Tis sure to rain, just out of spite!
And most perplexing you will find,
An April Day!)
 
 
The sky is blue, the clouds are light —
(I trust your Gamp is water-tight!)
To sing and laugh we feel inclined —
(Here comes a storm of rain and wind!
And hail, that's quite enough to blight,
An April Day!)
 

MAY

 
A PRIVATE View? 'Tis plain to you,
'Tis neither "private" nor a "view"!
And yet for tickets people rush,
To mingle in the well-dressed crush,
And come and wonder who is who.
 
 
The beauties, poets, actors, too,
With patrons, painters – not a few,
Are elements that help to flush
A Private View.
 
 
The pictures, you can't hope to do;
You're angered by the "precious" crew,
And pallid maids who flop and gush.
While carping critics who cry "Tush!"
And wildly wrangle, make you rue
A Private View.
 

JUNE

 
IN Rotten Row, 'tis nice, you know,
To see the tide of Fashion flow!
Though hopeless cynics carp and croon —
I do not care one macaroon —
But love to watch the passing show!
 
 
You'll find it anything but slow,
To laugh and chaff with those you know;
And pleasant then to sit at noon,
In Rotten Row!
 
 
When Summer breezes whisper low,
And countless riders come and go;
Beneath the trees in leafy June,
I love to sit and muse and moon —
While beauties canter to and fro —
In Rotten Row!
 

JULY

 
ON Henley Bridge, in sweet July,
A gentle breeze, a cloudless sky!
Indeed it is a pleasant place,
To watch the oarsmen go the pace,
As gasping crowds go roaring by.
 
 
And O, what dainty maids you spy,
What tasteful toilets you descry,
What symphonies in frills and lace,
On Henley Bridge!
 
 
But if you find a luncheon nigh —
A mayonnaise, a toothsome pie —
The chance you'll hasten to embrace!
You'll soon forget about the Race,
And take your Giesler cool and dry —
On Henley Bridge!
 

AUGUST

 
BESIDE the Sea, upon the strand
The sun is hot, the day is grand:
I think you will agree with me,
Upon the shore 'tis nice to be,
Amid the shingle and the sand.
 
 
Your hands get brown, your face is tanned,
You bathe or noddle to the band;
Or slowly ride a solemn "gee"
Beside the Sea.
 
 
You pace the pier, you idle and
The offing never leave unscanned:
And study, 'neath some grateful lee,
The "blue, the fresh, the ever free"!
The air is pure, your lungs expand,
Beside the Sea!
 

SEPTEMBER

 
A FOREIGN Tour? I apprehend
A hand-bag I should recommend;
A roll of useful notes from Coutts,
A pocketful of good cheroots,
And Murray for your faithful friend.
 
 
Some French, on which you can depend,
A chosen chum, you can't offend;
Are things to make – with tourist-suits —
A Foreign Tour.
 
 
You'll visit "lions" without end;
And all the snowy peaks ascend;
With alpenstocks and hob-nailed boots:
Or ride on mules – the sullen brutes —
There's lots of sport, if you intend
A Foreign Tour!
 

OCTOBER

 
ONCE more at Home! We've ploughed the main,
We've gone by diligence and train;
Endured the oft-repeated snub,
Of insolent official cub —
In Switzerland, in France, and Spain.
 
 
For weeks we've struggled, all in vain,
Some toilet comforts to obtain;
But now we hail our roomy "tub"
Once more at Home.
 
 
Though back we come to fog and rain
And chills and bills, we don't complain!
We've heaps of friends, a quiet "rub,"
A pleasant dinner at the Club —
True happiness we now regain,
Once more at Home!
 

NOVEMBER

 
A LONDON Fog, 'tis always here
At this inclement time of year!
When people hang themselves or drown,
And Nature wears her blackest frown,
While all the world is dull and drear.
 
 
All form and colour disappear
Within this filthy atmosphere:
'Tis sometimes yellow, sometimes brown,
A London Fog!
 
 
It chokes our lungs, our heads feel queer,
We cannot see, can scarcely hear:
So when this murky pall drops down —
Though dearly loving London town —
We feel we cannot quite revere
A London Fog!
 

DECEMBER

 
'NEATH Mistletoe, should chance arise,
You may be happy if you're wise!
Though bored you be with Pantomime
And Christmas fare and Christmas rhyme —
One fine old custom don't despise.
 
 
If you're a man of enterprise
You'll find, I venture to surmise,
'Tis pleasant then at Christmas-time
'Neath Mistletoe!
 
 
You see they scarcely can disguise
The sparkle of their pretty eyes:
And no one thinks it is a crime,
When goes the merry Christmas chime,
A rare old rite to exercise
'Neath Mistletoe!
 

IDLE SONGS

MOTHER O' PEARL

 
O, PEARL is the sweetest creation
E'er shod with the tiniest boots —
I wish she had ne'er a relation,
I wish I'd a balance with Coutts!
They say Pearl is so like her mother;
Was she like my pet when a girl?
Will pet become just such another
Some day as the Mother o' Pearl?
 
 
My Pearl is the prettiest kitten,
She laughs – will she ever grow fat?
Or e'er, with mad jealousy smitten,
Develop the mind of a cat?
Her figure get round as a bubble?
Her hair lose its exquisite curl?
Her chin get undimpled and double,
Like that of the Mother o' Pearl?
 
 
Will Pearl become pert and capricious,
And haughty and give herself airs?
(I thought, when she looked so delicious
Last night when we sat on the stairs.)
Will she patronise me in her bounty,
And boast of her uncle the Earl?
Or talk with cold pride of the county,
As often does Mother o' Pearl?
 
 
Will Pearl ever sneer at her betters,
Or e'er act the amateur spy?
And try to read other folk's letters,
Or listen at doors on the sly?..
If boy to the man be the father,
Mama to the woman is – girl —
As daughter-in-law I would rather
Not father the Mother o' Pearl!
 

A LAY OF THE "LION."

At the "Red Lion," Henley-on-Thames, Shenstone scratched the following well-known lines upon the window-pane:

 
"Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think that he has found
His warmest welcome at an inn!"
 

 
'TIS joyful to run from the turmoil of town,
To flee from its worry and bustle;
To put on your flannels and get your hands brown
Is good for the mind and the muscle.
When Goodwood is done and the Season is o'er,
'Tis pleasant the river to ply on,
Or lounge on the lawn, free from worry and bore,
At the "Lion"!
 
 
'Tis a finely toned, picturesque, sunshiny place,
Recalling a dozen old stories;
With a rare British, good-natured, ruddy-hued face,
Suggesting old wines and old Tories:
Ah, many's the magnum of rare crusted port,
Of vintage no one could cry fie on,
Has been drunk by good men of the old-fashioned sort
At the "Lion"!
 
 
O, sweet is the exquisite lime-scented breeze
Awaft o'er the Remenham reaches!
What lullaby lurks in the music of trees,
The concert of poplars and beeches!
Shall I go for a row, or lounge in a punt,
The stream – half asleep – throw a fly on?
Or watch pretty girls feed the cygnets in front
Of the "Lion"!
 
 
I see drifting by such a smart little crew,
Bedight in most delicate colours,
In ivory-white and forget-me-not blue —
A couple of pretty girl-scullers.
A pouting young puss, in the shortest of frocks —
A nice little nautical scion —
The good ship she steers, like a clever young "cox,"
Past the "Lion"!
 
 
I lazily muse and I smoke cigarettes,
While rhymes I together am stringing;
I listen and nod to the dreamy duets
The girls on the first-floor are singing.
The sunshine is hot and the summer-breeze sighs,
There's scarcely a cloudlet the sky on —
Ah! were it but cooler, how I'd moralize
At the "Lion"!
 
 
But who can be thoughtful, or lecture, or preach,
While Harry is flirting with Ella,
Or the red lips of Rosie pout over a peach,
Half hid by her snowy umbrella?
The Infant is drifting down in her canoe,
The Rector his cob canters by on;
The church clock is chiming a quarter-past two,
Near the "Lion"!
 
 
Shall I drop off to sleep, or moon here all day,
And drowsily finish my ballad?
No! "Luncheon is ready," I hear some one say;
"A lobster, a chicken, a salad:"
A cool silver cup of the beadiest ale,
The white table-cloth I descry on —
So clearly 'tis time I concluded my tale
Of the "Lion"!
 

JENNIE

SKETCHED BY GAINSBOROUGH

 
AH! thrice happy the crumpled red rose leaves
Asleep on her bosom so warm and white!
And the turquoise ribbon half lost to sight,
In the silken tresses it interweaves!
Thrice happy the mortal who once receives,
From her fathomless eyes so brown and bright,
The radiant glances of inner light,
That glitter and gleam 'neath their drooping eaves.
 
 
Ah! sweet are those eloquent lips a-pout,
Whose pleadings a stoic could scarce resist,
Now rounded in rapture, now drooped in doubt,
But daintily red as if newly kist.
'Tis joy to believe in the truth that lies
Far down in the depths of those sweet brown eyes!
 

A FAVOURITE LOUNGE

 
THE Season is now at its height,
And crowded each street and each square;
At nightly receptions we fight,
And pant for a place on the stair!
If you're getting as cross as a bear,
If life you consider a bore,
If not quite the man that you were —
O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!
 
 
The scene is bewitching and bright,
The street is beyond all compare;
The shops are all richly bedight,
The jewellers' windows are rare.
If money you've plenty to spare,
And want to buy presents galore,
Or wish to burk trouble and care —
O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!
 
 
In Art if you take a delight,
Of pictures you'll find plenty there;
And stalls you may get for to-night,
Or visit your artist in hair.
If dulness you hope to forswear,
And wish to meet friends by the score,
Or revel in sunshine and air —
O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!
 
 
If driven by duns to despair,
If snubbed by the girl you adore;
If feeling quite out of repair,
O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!
 

SPRING CLEANING

 
ALL peace and all pleasure are banished:
Abroad now I gladly would roam,
My quiet and comfort have vanished,
A desolate wreck is my home!
The painters are all in possession,
And charwomen come by the score;
The whitewashers troop in procession,
And spatter from ceiling to floor.
I own I must make a confession —
Spring Cleaning's a terrible bore!
 
 
They come in the morning at daybreak,
Just when I'm forgetting my cares,
And into my slumbers how they break!
With bustle and tramp on the stairs.
They laugh, and they whistle, and chatter;
They paint, and they varnish, and size;
They thump, and they wrangle, and clatter,
And drive away sleep from my eyes.
They make me as mad as a hatter,
And cause me quite early to rise!
 
 
The staircase is all barricaded,
The handle removed from each door;
My own sacred Den is invaded —
My papers all strewn on the floor!
My books and my letters are scattered,
My pens are nowhere to be found;
My blue-and-white china is shattered,
My songs have no space to resound;
My hat with pink priming's bespattered,
My Banjo is crushed on the ground!
 
 
I dare not complain, notwithstanding —
I'm faint with the fumes of whitelead;
And trip over pails on the landing,
And paint-pots fall down on my head!
When right through my hall I go stumbling —
I'm sick, and I'm sorry, and sore;
O'er planks and o'er ladders I'm tumbling,
And get my great-coat painted o'er.
To myself I can scarcely help mumbling —
Spring Cleaning's a terrible bore!
 

TAKEN IN TOW

 
How blithely the beauties break into a canter,
And over the sward how their feet pit-a-pat!
The limber young lass in a white Tam o' Shanter,
The pouting young puss in a sailor-boy hat!
 

 
O, PANGBOURNE is pleasant in sweet Summertime,
And Streatley and Goring are worthy of rhyme:
The sunshine is hot and the breezes are still,
The River runs swift under Basildon Hill!
To lounge in a skiff is delightful to me,
I'm feeling as lazy as lazy can be;
I don't care to sail and I don't care to row —
Since I'm lucky enough to be taken in tow!
 
 
Though battered am I, like the old Teméraire,
My tow-ers are young and my tow-ers are fair:
The one is Eleven, the other Nineteen,
The merriest maidens that ever were seen.
They pull with a will and they keep the line tight,
Dimpled Dolly in blue and sweet Hetty in white;
And though you may think it is not comme il faut,
'Tis awfully nice to be taken in tow.
 
 
I loll on the cushions, I smoke and I dream,
And list to the musical song of the stream;
The boat gurgles on by the rushes and weeds,
And, crushing the lilies, scroops over the reeds.
The sky is so blue and the water so clear,
I'm almost too idle to think or to steer!
Let scullers delight in hot toiling, but O! —
Let me have the chance to be taken in tow!
 
 
The dragon-fly hums and the skiff glides along,
The leaves whisper low and the stream runneth strong:
But still the two maidens tramp girlfully on,
I'll reward them for this when we get to the "Swan;"
For then shall be rest for my excellent team,
A strawberry banquet, with plenty of cream! —
Believe me, good people, for I ought to know,
'Tis capital fun to be taken in tow!
 

THROWN!

 
If letters ne'er were written,
Or never were received!
If postmen were confounded,
And postage stamps impounded,
Throughout the whole of Britain,
What peace would be achieved!
If letters ne'er were written.
Or never were received!
 

 
'TIS the dullest of days,
And my heart it is sad,
So I make the logs blaze,
For the weather is bad;
I have half done the Times,
And have quite done my toast;
While I'm reading of crimes
Comes the Ten O'clock post.
There's a merry rat-tat,
And a letter from You;
'Tis so temptingly fat,
That I quickly undo
All its seals in a trice,
And the blossoms release —
It is awfully nice
To have flowers from Nice!
 
 
What a dainty perfume
Do your messengers bring,
And they scare away gloom
With their savour of Spring;
There's the violet blue,
The pale lily, the rose —
But a letter from You
They all fail to disclose!
It puzzles me quite,
And I fail to divine
Why you did not just write
Just one brief little line?
While the ponds are all ice,
And East winds never cease —
It is awfully nice
To have flowers from Nice!
 
 
Ah! your cheek all a-flush
Most undoubtedly shows
Both the pallor and blush
Of the lily and rose;
And your eyes are as blue
As the sweet violet;
They are trustful and true,
And you never forget —
Ah! I now understand;
Here's your portrait complete,
In a floral short hand
Is your carte de visite!
A most dainty device
Is this charming conceit —
It is awfully nice
To have flowers from Nice!
 
 
Stop a moment, for I —
The most luckless of bards —
Neath fleur d'orange spy
Two absurd little cards!
Had I only been wise,
And have finished my Times,
'Twould have opened my eyes,
And have spared you my rhymes!
One can't always depend
On the word of a Rose.
My poem's at an end,
And my life's full of prose!
Here's a handful of rice
For a couple of geese —
Is it awfully nice
To have flowers from Nice?
 

BAGGAGE ON THE BRAIN

A LUGGAGERIAL LYRIC

Sung by a Victim at a Foreign Custom House

 
O, WOULD you know the perplexity of travelling
With ladies and their luggage on a railway train?
Stay while my lay I am rapidly unravelling,
The sad effects of Baggage on the human Brain!
Powerful portmanteaux here, all brazen-bound and leathery,
Porters hate, for in their weight they're anything but feathery;
Bursting bags, so very full, you'll never get to snap at all,
Fat and frequent boxes quite impossible to strap at all.
 
 
Stay – what display, both of quantity and quality,
These rummaging douaniers oft bring to light;
Ev'ry description of feminine frivolity, —
They rumple it and crumple it in fiendish spite!
Coloured bows and silken hose, with snowiest of petticoats,
Little loves of tiny gloves, and bugle-broidered jetty coats,
Morning caps and evening wraps, with handkerchiefs and quillery,
Dinner dresses, golden tresses, ribbon, lace, and frillery!
 
 
Here you may peer at a galaxy of tiny boots,
Of every kind of cobblery, exposed to view;
Shoes you may choose, and infinity of shiny boots,
And coverings for little feet in bronze and blue;
Bonny little Balmorals, to shoe a fair pedestrian,
Some with furs, and some with spurs, for exercise equestrian;
Slipperettes, with smart rosettes and ornament bombastical,
Snowy kid to lightly trip upon the toe fantastical!
 
 
There you may stare, at her brushes backed in ivory,
In dressing-bag – all monogram and silver top,
Combery, and scissory, and tweezery, and knivery,
Enough to stock the window of a cutler's shop!
Ess. Bouquet, and Eau des Fées, and Jockey Club, in handy flask,
Powder-puff, and rouge enough; a silver baby brandy-flask;
Besides a thousand articles a lady's sure to bring about,
I haven't time to put in rhyme, nor leisure now to sing about!
 

HAYTIME

 
BRIGHT is the sunshine, the breeze is quiescent —
Leaves whisper low in the Upper Thames reaches —
Blue is the sky, and the shade mighty pleasant,
Under the beeches:
Midsummer night is, they say, made for dreaming;
Better by far are the visions of daytime —
Pink and white frocks in the meadow are gleaming —
Helping in Haytime!
 
 
Sunshine, I'm told, is productive of freckles —
Sweet are the zephyrs, hay-scented and soothful —
Work is, of all things, so says Mr. Eccles,
Good for the youthful!
Here let me lounge, 'neath the beeches umbrageous;
Here let me smoke, let me slumber, or slay time,
Gazing with pleasure on toilers courageous —
Working in Haytime!
 
 
Fair little faneuses in pretty pink dresses,
Merry young maidens in saucy sun-bonnets,
Dainty young damsels with hay in their tresses —
Worthy of sonnets!
Lazy the cattle are, red are the rowers,
Making a toil of the sweet summer playtime;
Hot are the hay-makers, weary the towers,
Thirsty in Haytime!
 
 
Under the beech, round a flower-decked table,
Pouring the cream out and crushing the berry,
Georgie and Gracie and Milly and Mabel
Gladly make merry!
Laughing young labourers, doubtless judicious,
Come for reward when they fancy it's paytime;
Splendid the cake is, the tea is delicious —
Grateful in Haytime!