Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems by the late Thomas Haynes Bayly; Edited by his Widow. With A Memoir of the Author. In Two Volumes |
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 | Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems |  |
A PIC-NIC.
I
“A pic-nic, a pic-nic! so happy together!Intelligent women, agreeable men!
The middle of June, so we must have fine weather;
We'll go upon donkeys to Bogglemy Glen.
There has not been rain for six weeks, and, at present,
There is not the slightest appearance of change;
No pic-nic, I'm sure, ever yet was so pleasant—
Few people can realize all they arrange!”
194
II
Oh! these words at night were the very last spoken,The first in the morning were equally gay;
There was a great mist, which we knew was a token
At noon we should have a most exquisite day.
The donkeys arrive, and the sociable meant for
The matrons unfitted for sidesaddle feats;
The baskets of prog and the hampers are sent for,
And pack'd in the rumbles, or under the seats.
III
And now we set off—all the carriages quite full:Do look at Miss Symons, how oddly she sits!
No sun to annoy us, it's really delightful!
Don't mind Mrs. Wilkins, she says that it spits!
Some people take pleasure in throwing cold water
On parties of pleasure, and talking of damp;
She's just the ill-natured old woman I thought her,
We'll laugh at her presently when we encamp.
IV
My donkey, in stooping to gather a thistle,Was very near pitching me over his head;
Dear me! I do think it's beginning to drizzle,
Oh, let us take shelter in yonder old shed!
How foolish to put on my pink satin bonnet!
I envy Miss Martin, she's snug in the straw;
My lilac pelisse, too! the water drips on it,
The loveliest lilac that ever I saw!
V
For my part, I own I like this sort of morning,With sun perpendicular what could we do?
So pleasant to find the dust laid when returning;
'Twill clear up at twelve, or at latest at two.
And now we're at Bogglemy, dear, how unlucky!
I'm sure I heard something like thunder just then:
The place is so gloomy—the path is so mucky—
I scarce can believe I'm at Bogglemy Glen!
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VI
We cannot dine under the trees—it would chill us;We'll try to take shelter in yonder retreat:
Oh, dear! it's a dirty old cowhouse, 'twill kill us;
If all must crowd into it, think of the heat!
A soup-plate inverted Miss Millington uses
To keep her thin slippers above the wet clay!
Oh! see through the roof how the rain-water oozes—
The dinner will all taste of dripping to-day!
VII
A pic-nic, a pic-nic! so wretched together!All draggle-tail women, and cross-looking men!
The middle of June, yet this terrible weather
Has made a morass of poor Bogglemy Glen!
It rains just like buckets of water; at present,
There is not the slightest appearance of change:
'Twas very absurd to leave Waterloo Crescent—
Few people can realise all they arrange.
| Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems | |