The Scarlet Gown | Page 4

should say,?In accents mild,?'Have you been stringing beads to-day,
My gentle child?'
(Yet even children fond of singing
Will pay off scores,?And I to-day at least am stringing
Not beads but bores.)
And now the sands were left behind,
The Club-house past.?I wondered, Can I hope to find
Escape at last,
Or must I take him home to tea,
And bear his chatter?Until the last train to Dundee
Shall solve the matter?
But while I shuddered at the thought?And planned resistance,?My conquering Alexander caught
Sight in the distance
Of two young ladies, one of whom
Is his ambition;?And so, with somewhat heightened bloom,
He asked permission
To say good-bye to me and follow.
I freely gave it,?And wished him all success. Apollo
Sic me servavit.
A BUNCH OF TRIOLETS
TO ---
You like the trifling triolet:
Well, here are three or four.?Unless your likings I forget,?You like the trifling triolet.?Against my conscience I abet
A taste which I deplore;?You like the trifling triolet:
Well, here are three or four.
Have you ever met with a pretty girl?Walking along the street,?With a nice new dress and her hair in curl??Have you ever met with a pretty girl,?When her hat blew off and the wind with a whirl
Wafted it right to your feet??Have you ever met with a pretty girl
Walking along the street?
I ran into a lady's arms,
Turning a corner yesterday.?To my confusion, her alarms,?I ran into a lady's arms.?So close a vision of her charms
Left me without a word to say.?I ran into a lady's arms,
Turning a corner yesterday.
How many maids you love,?How many maids love you!?Your conscious blushes prove?How many maids you love.?Each trusts you like a dove,
But would she, if she knew?How many maids you love,
How many maids love you?
A BALLAD OF REFRESHMENT
The lady stood at the station bar,
(Three currants in a bun)?And oh she was proud, as ladies are.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
For a weekly wage she was standing there,
(Three currants in a bun)?With a prominent bust and light gold hair.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
The express came in at half-past two,
(Three currants in a bun)?And there lighted a man in the navy blue.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
A stout sea-captain he was, I ween.?(Three currants in a bun)?Much travel had made him very keen.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
A sober man and steady was he.
(Three currants in a bun)?He called not for brandy, but called for tea.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
'Now something to eat, for the train is late.'
(Three currants in a bun)?She brought him a bun on a greasy plate.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
He left the bun, and he left the tea,
(Three currants in a bun)?She charged him a shilling and let him be,?And the train went on at a quarter to three.
(And the bun is old and weary.)
A DECEMBER DAY
Blue, blue is the sea to-day,
Warmly the light?Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay--
Blue, fringed with white.
That's no December sky!
Surely 'tis June?Holds now her state on high,
Queen of the noon.
Only the tree-tops bare
Crowning the hill,?Clear-cut in perfect air,
Warn us that still
Winter, the aged chief,?Mighty in power,?Exiles the tender leaf,
Exiles the flower.
Is there a heart to-day,
A heart that grieves?For flowers that fade away,
For fallen leaves?
Oh, not in leaves or flowers
Endures the charm?That clothes those naked towers
With love-light warm.
O dear St. Andrews Bay,
Winter or Spring?Gives not nor takes away
Memories that cling
All round thy girdling reefs,?That walk thy shore,?Memories of joys and griefs
Ours evermore.
A COLLEGE CAREER
I
When one is young and eager,
A bejant and a boy,?Though his moustache be meagre,
That cannot mar his joy?When at the Competition?He takes a fair position,?And feels he has a mission,
A talent to employ.
With pride he goes each morning
Clad in a scarlet gown,?A cap his head adorning
(Both bought of Mr. Brown);?He hears the harsh bell jangle,?And enters the quadrangle,?The classic tongues to mangle
And make the ancients frown.
He goes not forth at even,
He burns the midnight oil,?He feels that all his heaven
Depends on ceaseless toil;?Across his exercises?A dream of many prizes?Before his spirit rises,
And makes his raw blood boil.
II
Though he be green as grass is,
And fresh as new-mown hay?Before the first year passes
His verdure fades away.?His hopes now faintly glimmer,?Grow dim and ever dimmer,?And with a parting shimmer
Melt into 'common day.'
He cares no more for Liddell
Or Scott; and Smith, and White,?And Lewis, Short, and Riddle
Are 'emptied of delight.'?Todhunter and Colenso?(Alas, that friendships end so!)?He curses in extenso
Through morning, noon, and night.
No more with patient labour
The midnight oil he burns,?But unto some near neighbour
His fair young face he turns,?To share the harmless tattle?Which bejants love to prattle,?As wise as infant's rattle
Or talk of coots and herns.
At midnight round the city
He carols wild and free?Some sweet unmeaning ditty
In many a changing key;?And each succeeding verse is?Commingled with the curses?Of those whose sleep disperses
Like sal volatile.
He shaves and takes his toddy
Like any fourth year man,?And clothes his growing body
After another plan?Than that which once delighted?When, in the days benighted,?Like some wild