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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| SEASONABLE DITTIES. |
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 | Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems |  |
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SEASONABLE DITTIES.
DON'T TALK OF SEPTEMBER!
I
Don't talk of September!—a ladyMust think it of all months the worst;
The men are preparing already
To take themselves off on the first.
I try to arrange a small party,
The girls dance together; how tame!
I'd get up my game of écarté,
But they go to bring down their game!
II
Last month, their attention to quicken,A supper I knew was the thing;
But now from my turkey and chicken
They're tempted by birds on the wing!
They shoulder their terrible rifles,
(It's really too much for my nerves!)
And slighting my sweets and my trifles,
Prefer my Lord Harry's preserves!
84
III
Miss Lovemore, with great consternation,Now hears of the horrible plan,
And fears that her little flirtation
Was only a flash in the pan!
Oh! marriage is hard of digestion,
The men are all sparing of words;
And now 'stead of popping the question,
They set off to pop at the birds.
IV
Go, false ones, your aim is so horrid,That love at the sight of you dies;
You care not for locks on the forehead,
The locks made by Manton you prize!
All thoughts sentimental exploding,
Like flints I behold you depart;
You heed not, when priming and loading,
The load you have left on my heart.
V
They talk about patent percussions,And all preparations for sport;
And these double barrel discussions
Exhaust double bottles of port!
The dearest is deaf to my summons,
As off on his pony he jogs;
A doleful condition is woman's;
The men are all gone to the dogs!
85
THE MONTH OF OCTOBER IS BAD!
I
The month of October is badAs the month of September can be;
“Oh, there's not in the wide world” a beau to be had,
Some are shooting, and some are at sea!
A lonely life woman endures,
Deserted for pointers or yachts;
With some at their moorings, and some at the moors,
Mad for cruises or gunpowder plots!
II
Sir Charles leaves his mate hymeneal,To sail with the mate of his yawl!
Of an amateur sailor the true beau ideal,
Blue shirt, jacket, backy, and all!
Of quicksands hid under the tide
He dreams, as he lies in his berth;
Once he thought of no quicksands, save those wont to glide
Through Time's glass in a season of mirth!
III
His cab for a cabin neglected,(The gig that he has is a boat!)
The nobleman seaman would blush if detected
In wearing a gentleman's coat!
His books, lest his lingo should fail, are
The maritime novels alone;
Chamier's clever “Life of a Sailor,”
Or Marryat's matchless “King's Own.”
IV
For no prima donna he cares;He gives up his box and his stall;
And all recollection of Malibran's airs
Is very soon lost in a squall!
86
But the form that he means is a ship's!
And e'en Taglioni unnoticed trips by,
Superseded by nautical trips!
V
When snug in Cowes harbour he's brave,And he sings as he paces the deck,
And feeling a mere Lilliputian wave,
He recklessly laughs at a wreck.
But at Cherbourg, when tempests assail,
He wishes he never had sail'd;
And if he should happen to weather the gale,
He'll take care he is never re-galed.
THE LAST SUMMER BONNET.
A NOVEMBER PASTORAL.
I
'Tis the last summer bonnet,The worse for the wear;
The feathers upon it
Are dimm'd by sea air:
Gay places it went to,
But lingers at last,
A faded memento
Of sunny days past.
II
The prejudice still isFor poets to moan,
When roses and lilies
Are going and gone.
But Fashion her sonnet
Would rather compose
On summer's last bonnet,
Than summer's last rose!
87
III
Though dreary NovemberHas darken'd the sky,
You still must remember
That day in July,
When after much roaming,
To Carson's we went,
For something becoming
To take into Kent.
IV
You, long undecidedWhat bonnet to choose,
At length chose, as I did,
The sweetest of blues.
Yours now serves to show, dear,
How fairest things fade;
And I long ago, dear,
Gave mine to my maid.
V
Oh, pause for a minute,Ere yours is resign'd;
Philosophy in it
A moral may find.
To past scenes I'm hurried,
That relic revives
The beaux we worried
Half out of their lives.
VI
'Twas worn at all placesOf public resort;
At Hogsnorton races,
So famous for sport.
That day, when the Captain
Would after us jog,
And thought us entrapt in
His basket of prog!
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VII
He gave me a sandwich,And not being check'd,
He offered a hand—which
I chose to reject!
And then you were teased with
The gentleman's heart,
Because you seem'd pleased with
His gooseberry tart!
VIII
'Twas worn at the ladies'Toxopholite fête,
(That sharp-shooting trade is
A thing that I hate;
Their market they mar, who
Attempt, for a prize,
To shoot with an arrow,
Instead of their eyes.)
IX
And don't that excursionBy water forget;
Sure, summer diversion
Was never so wet!
To sit there and shiver,
And hear the wind blow,
The rain, and the river,
Above, and below!
X
But hang the last bonnet,What is it to us,
That we should muse on it,
And moralise thus?
A truce to reflecting;
To Carson's we'll go,
Intent on selecting
A winter chapeau.
89
XI
Then let Betty take it,For Betty likes blue;
And Betty can make it
Look better than new.
In taste Betty's fellow
Was never yet seen;
She'll line it with yellow,
And trim it with green!
ALL HAIL TO THEE, HOARY DECEMBER!
A DECEMBER PASTORAL.
I
All hail to thee, hoary December!All hail! (except mizzle and sleet)—
Dark month, if one half I remember,
A list of thy charms I'll repeat:
Though roses are faded, and mute is
The nightingale's song in the grove,
Thou art, among candlelight beauties,
The one of all others I love.
II
Now mulligatawny is chosenFor luncheons, both wholesome and nice;
And, Grange, thy brisk trade is quite frozen,
For nobody purchases ice!
There's ice on the Serpentine river,
Where ladies and gentlemen skate,
And whilst on the margin I shiver,
They flourish a figure of eight!
90
III
Oh come with thy thousand ingredientsFor making an exquisite feast;
Oh come with thy countless expedients
For fattening up a prize beast!
Thy cooks, whose perpetual work is
To mince meat, shall hail thy approach;
And oh, what uncommon fine turkeys
From Norwich fly up by the coach!
IV
Oh! all love December with reason;—For while Hospitality feeds
Her guests, she well knows 'tis the season
For charity's holier deeds.
And thus rich and poor have to thank it,
For gifts which impartially flow;
The pauper, when wrapp'd in his blanket,
Sighs not for a blanquette de veau.
V
Oh, come with thy Christmas vagaries,Thy harlequin pantomime jumps,
Grim ogres, and beautiful fairies,
In gossamer trousers and pumps!
Oh come with thy clownish grimaces,
Thy pantaloon practical wit;
And, tier above tier, merry faces
In gallery, boxes, and pit!
VI
Oh come with George Barnwell and Millwood,A drama of practical force,
Which, were we disposed to do ill, would
Soon make us good people of course.
Young Barnwell—the author alleges—
Got rid of his money too fast;
And, bothered with pawnbroker's pledges,
He murdered his uncle at last!
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VII
Come hither with fun and with folly,Bring icicle gems on thy brow,
The bright coral beads of the holly,
And pearls from the mistletoe bough.
Oh come with thy shining apparel,
Thy robe like the snow on the hill;
And come above all, with a barrel
Of something to take off the chill!
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