 | A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker |  |
89
1863.
The town despises modern lays:
The foolish town is frantic
For story-books which tell of days
That time has made romantic:
Those days whose chiefest lore lies chill
And dead in crypt and barrow;
When soldiers were—as Love is still—
Content with bow and arrow.
The foolish town is frantic
For story-books which tell of days
That time has made romantic:
Those days whose chiefest lore lies chill
And dead in crypt and barrow;
When soldiers were—as Love is still—
Content with bow and arrow.
But why should we the fancy chide?
The world will always hunger
To know how people lived and died
When all the world was younger.
We like to read of knightly parts
In maidenhood's distresses:
Of trysts with sunshine in light hearts,
And moonbeams on dark tresses;
The world will always hunger
To know how people lived and died
When all the world was younger.
We like to read of knightly parts
In maidenhood's distresses:
Of trysts with sunshine in light hearts,
And moonbeams on dark tresses;
90
And how, when errant-knyghte or erl
Proved well the love he gave her,
She sent him scarf or silken curl,
As earnest of her favour;
And how (the Fair at times were rude!)
Her knight, ere homeward riding,
Would take—and, ay, with gratitude—
His lady's silver chiding.
Proved well the love he gave her,
She sent him scarf or silken curl,
As earnest of her favour;
And how (the Fair at times were rude!)
Her knight, ere homeward riding,
Would take—and, ay, with gratitude—
His lady's silver chiding.
We love the “rare old days and rich”
That poesy has painted;
We mourn the “good old times” with which
We never were acquainted.
Last night a lady tried to prove
(And not a lady youthful):
“Ah, once it was no crime to love,
Nor folly to be truthful!”
That poesy has painted;
We mourn the “good old times” with which
We never were acquainted.
Last night a lady tried to prove
(And not a lady youthful):
“Ah, once it was no crime to love,
Nor folly to be truthful!”
Absurd! Then dames in castles dwelt,
Nor dared to show their noses:
Then passion that could not be spelt,
Was hinted at in posies.
Such shifts make modern Cupid laugh:
For sweethearts, in love's tremor,
Now tell their vows by telegraph—
And go off in the steamer!
Nor dared to show their noses:
Then passion that could not be spelt,
Was hinted at in posies.
Such shifts make modern Cupid laugh:
For sweethearts, in love's tremor,
Now tell their vows by telegraph—
And go off in the steamer!
91
The earth is still our Mother Earth—
Young shepherds still fling capers
In flowery groves that ring with mirth—
Where old ones read the papers.
Romance, as tender and as true,
Our Isle has never quitted:
So lads and lasses when they woo
Are hardly to be pitied!
Young shepherds still fling capers
In flowery groves that ring with mirth—
Where old ones read the papers.
Romance, as tender and as true,
Our Isle has never quitted:
So lads and lasses when they woo
Are hardly to be pitied!
Oh, yes! young love is lovely yet—
With faith and honour plighted:
I love to see a pair so met—
Youth—Beauty—all united.
Such dear ones may they ever wear
The roses Fortune gave them:
Ah, know we such a Blessed Pair?
I think we do! God save them!
With faith and honour plighted:
I love to see a pair so met—
Youth—Beauty—all united.
Such dear ones may they ever wear
The roses Fortune gave them:
Ah, know we such a Blessed Pair?
I think we do! God save them!
Our lot is cast on pleasant days,
In not unpleasant places—
Young ladies now have pretty ways,
As well as pretty faces;
So never sigh for what has been,
And let us cease complaining
That we have loved when Our Dear Queen
Victoria was reigning!
In not unpleasant places—
Young ladies now have pretty ways,
As well as pretty faces;
So never sigh for what has been,
And let us cease complaining
That we have loved when Our Dear Queen
Victoria was reigning!
100
When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps,
When sunbeams play, when shadows darken,
One inmate of our dwelling keeps
A ghastly carnival—but hearken!
How dry the rattle of those bones!—
The sound was not to make you start meant,—
Stand by! Your humble servant owns
The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.
When sunbeams play, when shadows darken,
One inmate of our dwelling keeps
A ghastly carnival—but hearken!
How dry the rattle of those bones!—
The sound was not to make you start meant,—
Stand by! Your humble servant owns
The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.
| A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker | |