Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here,
Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!
And the summer runs out, like grains of sand,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
Andrew Lang.

COLINETTE

FRANCE your country, as we know;
Room enough for guessing yet,
What lips now or long ago,
Kissed and named you—Colinette.
In what fields from sea to sea,
By what stream your home was set,
Loire or Seine was glad of thee,
Marne or Rhone, O Colinette?
Did you stand with “maidens ten,
Fairer maids were never seen,”
When the young king and his men
Passed among the orchards green?
Nay, old ballads have a note
Mournful we would fain forget;
No such sad old air should float
Round your young brows, Colinette.
Say, did Ronsard sing to you.
Shepherdess to lull his pain,
When the court went wandering through
Rose pleasances of Touraine?
Ronsard and his famous Rose
Long are dust the breezes fret;
You, within the garden close,
You are blooming, Colinette.
Have I seen you proud and gay,
With a patched and perfumed beau,
Dancing through the summer day,
Misty summer of Watteau?
Nay, so sweet a maid as you
Never walked a minuet
With the splendid courtly crew;
Nay, forgive me, Colinette.
Not from Greuze’s canvases
Do you cast a glance, a smile;
You are not as one of these,
Yours is beauty without guile.
Round your maiden brows and hair
Maidenhood and Childhood met,
Crown and kiss you, sweet and fair,
New art’s blossom, Colinette.
Andrew Lang.

BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES
(After Villon)

NAY, tell me now in what strange air
The Roman Flora dwells to-day;
Where Archippiada hides, and where
Beautiful Thais has passed away?
Whence answers Echo, afield, astray,
By mere or stream,—around, below?
Lovelier she than a woman of clay;
Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?
Where is wise Héloise, that care
Brought on Abeilard, and dismay?
All for her love he found a snare,
A maimed poor monk in orders grey;
And where’s the Queen who willed to slay
Buridan, that in a sack must go
Afloat down Seine,—a perilous way—
Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?
Where’s that White Queen, a lily rare,
With her sweet song, the Siren’s lay?
Where’s Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair?
Alys and Ermengarde, where are they?
Good Joan, whom English did betray
In Rouen town, and burned her? No,
Maiden and Queen, no man may say;
Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?

ENVOY

Prince, all this week thou need’st not pray,
Nor yet this year the thing to know.
One burden answers, ever and aye,
“Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?”
Andrew Lang.

IL BACIO

KISS! Hollyhock in Love’s luxuriant close!
Brisk music played on pearly little keys;
In tempo with the witching melodies
Love in the ardent heart repeating goes.
Sonorous, graceful Kiss, hail! Kiss divine!
Unequalled boon, unutterable bliss!
Man, bent o’er thine enthralling chalice, Kiss,
Grows drunken with a rapture only thine!
Thou comfortest as music does, and wine,
And grief dies smothered in thy purple fold.
Let one greater than I, Kiss, and more bold,
Rear thee a classic, monumental line.
Humble Parisian bard, this infantile
Bouquet of rhymes I tender half in fear. . . .
Be gracious, and in guerdon, on the dear
Red lips of One I know, a light and smile!
Paul Verlaine.

SUR L’HERBE

“THE abbé rambles.”—“You, marquis,
Have put your wig on all awry.”—
“This wine of Cypress kindles me
Less, my Camargo, than your eye!”
“My passion”—“Do, mi, sol, la, si.”—
“Abbé, your villainy lies bare.”—
“Mesdames, I climb up yonder tree
And fetch a star down, I declare.”
“Let each kiss his own lady, then
The others.”—“Would that I were, too,
A lap-dog!”—“Softly, gentlemen!”—
“Do, mi.”—“The moon!—Hey, how d’ye do?”
Paul Verlaine.

THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE

HERE on my desk it lies,
Here as the daylight dies,
One small glove just her size—
Six and a quarter;
Pearly gray, a colour neat,
Deux boutons all complete,
Faint scented, soft and sweet;
Could glove be smarter?
Can I the day forget,
Years ago, when the pet
Gave it me?—where we met
Still I remember;
Then ’twas the summer time;
Now as I write this rhyme
Children love pantomime—
’Tis December.
Fancy my boyish bliss
Then when she gave me this,
And how the frequent kiss
Crumpled its fingers;
Then she was fair and kind,
Now, when I’ve changed my mind,
Still some scent undefined
On the glove lingers.
Though she’s a matron sage,
Yet I have kept the gage;
While, as I pen this page,
Still comes a goddess,
Her eldest daughter, fair,
With the same eyes and hair;
Happy the arm I swear,
That clasps her bodice.
Heaven grant her fate be bright,
And her step ever light
As it will be to-night,
First in the dances.
Why did her mother prove
False when I dared to love?
Zounds! I shall burn the glove!
This my romance is.
H. Savile Clarke.

IF

OH, if the world were mine, Love,
I’d give the world for thee!
Alas! there is no sign, Love,
Of that contingency.
Were I a king—which isn’t
To be considered now,—
A diadem had glistened
Upon thy lovely brow.
Had fame with laurels crowned me,—
She hasn’t up to date,—
Nor time nor change had found me
To love and thee ingrate.
If death threw down his gage, Love,
Though Life is dear to me,
I’d die, e’en of old age, Love,
To win a smile from thee.
But being poor we part, Dear,
And love, sweet love, must die,—
Thou wilt not break thy heart, Dear;
No more, I think, shall I.
James Jeffrey Roche.

DON’T

YOUR eyes were made for laughter,
Sorrow befits them not;
Would you be blithe hereafter,
Avoid the lover’s lot.
The rose and lily blended
Possess your cheeks so fair;
Care never was intended
To leave his furrows there.
Your heart was not created
To fret itself away,
Being unduly mated
To common human clay.
But hearts were made for loving,—
Confound philosophy!
Forget what I’ve been proving,
Sweet Phyllis, and love me.
James Jeffrey Roche.

ON REREADING TÉLÉMAQUE

“Calypso could not console herself”

I  PLACE thee back upon the shelf,
O Fénelon, how scant thy knowledge,
Who seemed as Solomon himself
To me, a callow youth at college!
No need to say thou wert a priest;
No need to own that I am human;
Mine this advantage is—at least
I’ve learned the alphabet of Woman.
And yet but half the truth is told:
I do thee wrong, sagacious Mentor,—
Calypso could not be consoled
Until another man was sent her!
James Jeffrey Roche.

VALENTINE

GREAT Antony, I drink to thee,
The Roman lover bold,
Who knew the worth of love and earth
And gave the dross for gold.
Rich Antony, I envy thee,
Who hadst a world to stake,
And, win or lose, didst bravely choose
To risk it for Her sake.
Poor Antony, I pity thee,
So small a world was thine,
I’d scorn to lay the prize to-day
Before my Valentine!
James Jeffrey Roche.

BIFTEK AUX CHAMPIGNONS

MIMI, do you remember—
Don’t get behind your fan—
That morning in September
On the cliffs of Grand Manan,
Where to the shock of Fundy
The topmost harebells sway
(Campanula rotundi—
folia: cf. Gray)?
On the pastures high and level,
That overlook the sea,
Where I wondered what the devil
Those little things could be
That Mimi stooped to gather,
As she strolled across the down,
And held her dress skirt rather—
Oh, now, you needn’t frown.
For you know the dew was heavy,
And your boots, I know, were thin;
So a little extra brevi-
ty in skirts was sure, no sin.
Besides, who minds a cousin?
First, second, even third,—
I’ve kissed ’em by the dozen,
And they never once demurred.
“If one’s allowed to ask it,”
Quoth I, “Ma belle cousine,
What have you in your basket?”
Those baskets white and green
The brave Passamaquoddies
Weave out of scented grass,
And sell to tourist bodies
Who through Mt. Desert pass.
You answered, slightly frowning,
“Put down your stupid book—
That everlasting Browning!—
And come and help me look,
Mushroom you spik him English,
I call him champignon:
I’ll teach you to distinguish
The right kind from the wrong.”
There was no fog on Fundy
That blue September day;
The west wind, for that one day,
Had swept it all away.
The lighthouse glasses twinkled,
The white gulls screamed and flew,
The merry sheep-bells tinkled,
The merry breezes blew.
The bayberry aromatic,
The papery immortelles
(That give our grandma’s attic
That sentimental smell,
Tied up in little brush-brooms)
Were sweet as new-mown hay,
While we went hunting mushrooms
That blue September day.
Henry Augustin Beers.

AN EXPLANATION

HER lips were so near
That what—else could I do?
You’ll be angry, I fear,
But her lips were so near—
Well, I can’t make it clear,
Or explain it to you,
But—her lips were so near
That—what else could I do?
Walter Learned.

MARJORIE’S KISSES

MARJORIE laughs and climbs on my knee,
And I kiss her and she kisses me,
I kiss her, but I don’t much care,
Because, although she is charming and fair,
Marjorie’s only three.
But there will come a time, I ween,
When, if I tell her of this little scene,
She will smile and prettily blush, and then
I shall long in vain to kiss her again,
When Marjorie’s seventeen.
Walter Learned.

MISS NANCY’S GOWN

IN days when George the Third was King
And ruled the Old Dominion,
And Law and Fashion owned the sway
Of Parliament’s opinion,
A good ship brought across the sea
A treasure fair and fine,—
Miss Nancy’s gown from London Town,
The latest Court design!
The plaited waist from neck to belt
Scarce measured half a span;
The sleeves, balloon-like, at the top
Could hold her feather fan;
The narrow skirt with bias gore
Revealed an ankle neat,
Whene’er she put her dainty foot
From carriage step to street!
By skilful hands this wondrous gown
Of costliest stuff was made,
Cocoons of France on Antwerp looms
Wrought to embossed brocade,
Where roses red and violets
In blooming beauty grew,
As if young May were there alway,
And June and April too!
And from this bower of delight
Miss Nancy reigned a Queen,
Nor one disloyal heart rebelled
In all her wild demesne:
The noble House of Burgesses
Forgot its fierce debate
O’er rights of Crown, when Nancy’s gown
Appeared in Halls of State!
Through jocund reel, or measured tread
Of stately minuet,
Like fairy vision shone the bloom
Of rose and violet,
As, hand in hand with Washington,
The hero of the day,
The smiling face and nymph-like grace
Of Nancy led the way!
A century, since that gay time
The merry dance was trod,
Has passed, and Nancy long has slept
Beneath the churchyard sod;
Yet on the brocade velvet gown
The rose and violet
Are blooming bright as on the night
She danced the minuet!
Zitella Cocke.

“LE DERNIER JOUR D’UN CONDAMNÉ”

OLD coat, for some three or four seasons
We’ve been jolly comrades, but now
We part, old companion, forever;
To fate, and the fashion, I bow.
You’d look well enough at a dinner,
I’d wear you with pride at a ball;
But I’m dressing to-night for a wedding—
My own—and you’d not do at all.
You’ve too many wine-stains about you,
You’re scented too much with cigars,
When the gaslight shines full on your collar
It glitters with myriad stars,
That wouldn’t look well at my wedding;
They’d seem inappropriate there—
Nell doesn’t use diamond powder.
She tells me it ruins the hair.
You’ve been out on Cozzen’s piazza
Too late, when the evenings were damp,
When the moon-beams were silvering Cro’nest,
And the lights were all out in the camp.
You’ve rested on highly-oiled stairways
Too often, when sweet eyes were bright.
And somebody’s ball dress—not Nellie’s—
Flowed ’round you in rivers of white.
There’s a reprobate looseness about you;
Should I wear you to-night, I believe,
As I come with my bride from the altar,
You’d laugh in your wicked old sleeve,
When you felt there the tremulous pressure
Of her hand, in its delicate glove,
That is telling me shyly, but proudly,
Her trust is as deep as her love.
So, go to your grave in the wardrobe,
And furnish a feast for the moth,
Nell’s glove shall betray its sweet secrets
To younger, more innocent cloth.
’Tis time to put on your successor—
It’s made in a fashion that’s new;
Old coat, I’m afraid it will never
Sit as easily on me as you.
George A. Baker.

MY WOOING

ONE evening, many months ago,
We two conversed together;
It must have been in June or so,
For sultry was the weather.
The waving branches made the ground
With lights and shadows quiver;
We sat upon a grassy mound
That overhung a river.
We thought, as you’ve perhaps inferred,
Our destinies of linking:
But neither of us spoke a word,
For each of us was thinking.
Her ma had lands at Skibbereen,
Her pa estates in Devon;
And she was barely seventeen,
And I was thirty-seven.
We gathered blossoms from the bank,
And in the water flung them:
We watched them as they rose and sank
With flakes of foam among them.
As towards the falls in mimic face
They sailed—these heads of clover—
We watched them quicken in their pace,
We watched them tumble over.
We watched them; and our calm repose
Seemed calmer for their troubles;
We watched them as they sank and rose
And battled with the bubbles.
We noticed then a little bird,
Down at the margin, drinking:
But neither of us spoke a word,
For each of us was thinking.
At length I thought I fairly might
Declare my passion frantic:
(The scenery, I’m sure, was quite
Sufficiently romantic.)
I’d heard a proverb short and quaint
My memory—though shady—
Informed me it began with “faint,”
And finished up with “lady.”
I summoned then the pluck to speak:
(I felt I’d have to, one day,
I only saw her once a week,
And this was only Monday.)
I called her angel, duck, and dove,
I said I loved her dearly,
My words—the whisperings of Love—
Were eloquent, or nearly.
I told her that my heart was true,
And constant as the river:
I said, “I’ll love you as I do,
‘For ever and for ever!’
Oh! let me hear that voice divine—”
I stopped a bit and listened;
I murmured then, “Be mine, be mine,”
She said, “I won’t!”—and isn’t.
Edwin Hamilton.

WINTRY PARIS

OH, the dingy winter days!
Oh, the woven blues and greys!
Oh, the drizzles and the puddles and the freezing!
Nippy Paris to New York
Is a sinker to a cork
Superstition and tradition all her pleasing.
Oh, the glacial Gallic gloom
In a candle-darkened room
Sends the spirit of a Gothamite to zero
When I found the fire dead
And sped shuddering to bed.
How I longed to dream of burning Rome and Nero!
Don’t believe them when they say
The Parisians all are gay;
Not a capital where gaiety so rare is.
Why, I positively think
My Manhattan blues are pink
When contrasted with the blues I had in Paris.
Anonymous.

THE ROSE

MY Lilla gave me yestermorn
A rose, methinks in Eden born,
And as she gave it, little elf!
She blush’d like any rose herself.
Then said I, full of tenderness,
“Since this sweet rose I owe to you,
Dear girl, why may I not possess
The lovelier Rose that gave it too?”
Anonymous.

INDECISION

DO I love her?
Dimpling red lips at me pouting,
Dimpling shoulders at me flouting;
No, I don’t!
Do I love her?
’Prisoned in those crystal eyes
Purity forever lies;
Yes, I do!
Do I love her?
Little, wild and wilful fiction,
Teasing, torturing contradiction;
No, I don’t!
Do I love her?
With kind acts and sweet words she
Aids and comforts poverty;
Yes, I do!
Do I love her?
Quick she puts her cuirass on,
Stabs with laughter, stings with scorn;
No, I don’t!
Do I love her?
No! Then to my arms she flies,
Filling me with glad surprise;
Ah, yes I do!
Anonymous.

LOGIC

I. HER RESPECTABLE PAPA’S

“MY Dear, be sensible. Upon my word,
This—for a woman even—is absurd.
His income’s not a hundred pounds, I know.
He’s not worth loving.”—“But I love him so.”

II. HER MOTHER’S

“You silly child, he is well made and tall;
But looks are far from being all in all.
His social standing’s low, his family’s low,
He’s not worth loving.”—“And I love him so.”

III. HER ETERNAL FRIEND’S

“Is that he picking up the fallen fan?
My Dear! he’s such an awkward, ugly man!
You must be certain, pet, to answer ‘No.’
He’s not worth loving.”—“And I love him so.”

IV. HER BROTHER’S

“By Jove, were I a girl—thro’ horrid hap—
I wouldn’t have a milk-and-water chap.
The man has not a single spark of ‘go,’
He’s not worth loving.”—“Yet, I love him so.”

V. HER OWN

“And were he everything to which I’ve listened;
Though he were ugly, awkward (and he isn’t)—
Poor, low-born, and destitute of ‘go,’
He is worth loving, for I love him so!”
Punch.

CONVERSATIONAL

“HOW’S your father?” came the whisper,
Bashful Ned the silence breaking;
“Oh, he’s nicely,” Annie murmured,
Smilingly the question taking.
Conversation flagged a moment,
Hopeless Ned essayed another:
“Annie, I—I,” then a coughing,
And the question, “How’s your mother?”
“Mother? Oh, she’s doing finely!”
Fleeting fast was all forbearance,
When in low, despairing accents,
Came the climax, “How’s your parents?”
Anonymous.

IF YOU WANT A KISS, WHY, TAKE IT

THERE’S a jolly Saxon proverb
That is pretty much like this—
That a man is half in heaven
If he has a woman’s kiss.
There is danger in delaying,
For the sweetness may forsake it;
So I tell you, bashful lover,
If you want a kiss, why, take it.
Never let another fellow
Steal a march on you in this;
Never let a laughing maiden
See you spoiling for a kiss.
There’s a royal way to kissing,
And the jolly ones who make it
Have a motto that is winning,—
If you want a kiss, why, take it.
Any fool may face a cannon,
Anybody wear a crown,
But a man must win a woman
If he’d have her for his own.
Would you have the golden apple,
You must find the tree and shake it;
If the thing is worth the having,
And you want a kiss, why take it.
Who would burn upon a desert
With a forest smiling by?
Who would change his sunny summer
For a bleak and wintry sky?
Oh, I tell you there is magic,
And you cannot, cannot break it;
For the sweetest part of loving
Is to want a kiss, and take it.
Anonymous.

EDUCATIONAL COURTSHIP