Vagabond and Other Poems from Punch | Page 8

give us
praise when we get wet through;
In fact she will smile and think it
better
When we get as wet as we like and wetter.
As for eating too
much, you can safely risk it
With chocolate, lollipop, cake, and
biscuit,
And your mother will revel with high delight
In the state of
her own one's appetite.
Great shells there shall be of a rainbow hue

To be found and gathered by me and you;
Wonderful nets for the joy
of making 'em.
And scores of shrimps for the trouble of taking 'em;

In fact it isn't half bad--now is it?--
When Robin the Sea-boy pays his
visit.
And perhaps he will tire of his shape and habit
And change
and turn to a frisky 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