The Lazy Minstrel. Ashby-Sterry Joseph

much prefers dry Pommery to sherry!

      She rattles through a picture exhibition,

      Then goes to see a circus or magician,

      And does a morning concert in addition!

      Of theatres, you'll find, she'll ne'er grow weary;

      Each night she'll go – let plays be good or dreary —

      And sit them through, still looking bright and cheery!

      She can't e'en rest 'twixt Saturday and Monday,

      But in a hansom – despite Mrs. Grundy —

      She drives down to the Abbey on a Sunday!

      She's bright each morn – as fresh as any daisy —

      And when with seeing sights I'm nearly crazy,

      She says I am "incorrigibly lazy!"

      But when one morn from Euston she has started —

      Those eyelids drooped a wee bit when we parted —

      I certainly feel dismal and down-hearted.

      That merry whirling time at last is ended! —

      And as for hearts? Pooh! pooh! I'm feeling splendid.

      "Least said," the proverb hints, "is soonest mended."

      A COMMON-SENSE CAROL

      By the sea, on the shore, it is pleasant to be,

      The sunshine's delicious I own;

      This life would be ever delightful to me,

      If folks would but leave me alone!

      O, HOLIDAY-MAKERS can rarely be still,

      But take superhuman exertions

      And make themselves hot and exhausted and ill

      To organize horrid "excursions"!

      Let those who enjoy it ride out in a "shay" —

      Exploring each dell and each dingle —

      But let me throw stones in the water all day

      And roll on the sand and the shingle!

      They think it delightful to walk on the pier,

      And try to create a sensation;

      When passengers land, looking pallid and queer,

      A cause is for great jubilation:

      Let lunatics listen to bands when they play,

      And nod to their noise and their jingle —

      But let me throw stones in the water all day

      And roll on the sand and the shingle!

      Anemone-hunters roam over the rocks,

      All hoping to fish up a tank-full;

      They hopelessly ruin their shoes and their socks —

      O, why can't they rest and be thankful?

      They rave o'er a winkle, a wrass, or a wray,

      And sea-weeds that with them commingle —

      But let me throw stones in the water all day

      And roll on the sand and the shingle!

      They fancy 'tis pleasant to go for a sail

      With wind in a dubious quarter;

      When waves "chop about," and they get very pale,

      And up to their knees in the water.

      Let maritime maniacs, wetted with spray,

      Discourse on a cleat or a cringle —

      But let me throw stones in the water all day

      And roll on the sand and the shingle!

      I'd much rather take a good pull at ozone

      Without all this bustle and riot;

      If well-meaning friends would but leave me alone,

      To bask in the sunshine and quiet.

      Such labour as theirs fills my heart with dismay —

      The thought of it makes my blood tingle —

      So I will throw stones in the water all day

      And roll on the sand and the shingle!

      SAINT MAY

      There's a bell that wakes the echo and renders incomplete,

      The sullen shuttered silence of the solemn City street!

      SAINT ALOYS the Great is both mouldy and grim,

      The Decalogue's dusty, the windows are dim;

      If I'm not mistaken, you'll long have to search

      Before you discover this old City church:

      But it's whereabouts I don't intend to betray,

      Though a pilgrim each week to the shrine of Saint May!

      The one bell is cracked in its crazy old tower,

      The sermon oft lasts rather more than an hour;

      The parson is prosy, the clerk eighty-three,

      The organ drones out in a sad minor key:

      Yet how quickly the moments, I find, fly away,

      I pass every week 'neath the spell of Saint May.

      She sits in a high, ancient black oaken pew,

      Which almost conceals her fair face from my view;

      The sweetest of pictures, it can't be denied,

      With two tiny sisters who sit by her side:

      And they lisp the responses and kneel down to pray,

      With their little hands locked in the palm of Saint May.

      Of saints I've seen many in churches before —

      In Florence or Venice, they're there by the score;

      Agnese, Maria – the rest I forget —

      By Titian, Bassano, and brave Tintoret —

      Though as pictures delightful, I fancy that they,

      E'en as pictures, can't rival my gentle Saint May.

      She's almost too young and too plump for a saint,

      With sweet little dimples that Millais might paint;

      She wears no ascetic or mortified mien,

      No wimple of yellow or vestment of green —

      But her soft golden hair throws a sunshiny ray,

      Like a nimbus, around the fair face of Saint May!

      What surquayne or partlet could look better than

      My saint's curly jacket of black Astracan?

      What coif than her bonnet – a triumph of skill —

      Or alb than her petticoat, edged with a frill.

      Would she love, would she honour, and would she obey?

      I wonder while gazing across at Saint May!

      The sermon is finished, the blessing is o'er,

      The sparse congregation drift out at the door;

      I pause as I pass down the gloomy old aisle,

      To see my saint pass and perchance get a smile:

      I would daily change faith like the Vicar of Bray,

      Could I pass all my life in adoring Saint May!

      Through