Vagabond and Other Poems from Punch | Page 8

rabbit,?A plump young gadabout cheerful fellow?With a twitching nose and a coat of yellow,?And never the smallest trace of fear?From his flashing scut to his flattened ear.
But, lo, there's a hint of coming rain,?So, presto, Robin is back again.?He lifts his head and he cocks his eye?And waves his hand and prepares to fly--?"Good-bye, Robin, good-bye, good-bye!"
THE BIRTHDAY
Sweetheart, where all the dancing joys compete?Take now your choice; the world is at your feet,?All turned into a gay and shining pleasance,?And every face has smiles to greet your presence.?Treading on air,?Yourself you look more fair;?And the dear Birthday-elves unseen conspire?To flush your cheeks and set your eyes on fire.
Mayhap they whisper what a birthday means?That sets you spinning through your pretty teens.?A slim-grown shape adorned with golden shimmers?Of tossing hair that streams and waves and glimmers,?Lo, how you run?In mere excess of fun,?Or change to silence as you stand and hear?Some kind old tale that moves you to a tear.
And, since this is your own bright day, my dear,?Of all the days that gem the sparkling year,?See, we have picked as well as we were able?And set your gifts upon your own small table:?A knife from John,?Who straightway thereupon,?Lest you should cut your friendship for the boy,?Receives a halfpenny and departs with joy.
The burnished inkstand was your mother's choice;?For six new handkerchiefs I gave my voice,?Having in view your tender little nose's?Soft comfort; and the agate pen is Rosie's;?The torch is Peg's,?Guide for your errant legs?When ways are dark, and, last, behold with these?A pencil from your faithful Pekinese!
And now the mysteries are all revealed?That were so long, so ardently concealed--?All save the cake which still is in the making,?Not yet smooth-iced and unprepared for taking?The thirteen flames?That start the noisy games?Of tea-time, when my happy little maid?Thrones it triumphant, teened and unafraid.
So through the changing years may all delight?Live in your face and make your being bright.?May the good sprites and busy fays befriend you,?And cheerful thoughts and innocent defend you;?And, far away?From this most joyous day,?When in the chambers of your mind you see?Those who have loved you, then remember me.
THE DANCE
When good-nights have been prattled, and prayers have been said, And the last little sunbeam is tucked up in bed,?Then, skirting the trees on a carpet of snow,?The elves and the fairies come out in a row.?With a preening of wings?They are forming in rings;?Pirouetting and setting they cross and advance?In a ripple of laughter, and pair for a dance.
And it's oh for the boom of the fairy bassoon,?And the oboes and horns as they strike up a tune,?And the twang of the harps and the sigh of the lutes,?And the clash of the cymbals, the purl of the flutes;?And the fiddles sail in?To the musical din,?While the chief all on fire, with a flame for a hand,?Rattles on the gay measure and stirs up his band.
With a pointing of toes and a lifting of wrists?They are off through the whirls and the twirls and the twists; Thread the mazes of marvellous figures, and chime?With a bow to a curtsey, and always keep time:?All the gallant and girls?In their diamonds and pearls,?And their gauze and their sparkles, designed for a dance?By the leaders of fairy-land fashion in France.
But the old lady fairies sit out by the trees,?And the old beaux attend them as pert as you please.?They quiz the young dancers and scorn their display,?And deny any grace to the dance of to-day;?"In Oberon's reign,"?So they're heard to complain,?"When we went out at night we could temper our fun?With some manners in dancing, but now there are none."
But at last, though the music goes gallantly on,?And the dancers are none of them weary or gone,?When the gauze is in rags and the hair is awry,?Comes a light in the East and a sudden cock-cry.?With a scurry of fear?Then they all disappear,?Leaving never a trace of their gay little selves?Or the winter-night dance of the fairies and elves.
PANSIES
Tufted and bunched and ranged with careless art?Here, where the paving-stones are set apart,?Alert and gay and innocent of guile,?The little pansies nod their heads and smile.
With what a whispering and a lulling sound?They watch the children sport about the ground,?Longing, it seems, to join the pretty play?That laughs and runs the light-winged hours away.
And other children long ago there were?Who shone and played and made the garden fair,?To whom the pansies in their robes of white?And gold and purple gave a welcome bright.
Gone are those voices, but the others came.?Joyous and free, whose spirit was the same;?And other pansies, robed as those of old,?Peeped up and smiled in purple, white and gold.
For pansies are, I think, the little gleams?Of children's visions from a world of dreams,?Jewels of innocence and joy and mirth,?Alight with laughter as they fall to earth.
Below, the ancient