The Lazy Minstrel. Ashby-Sterry Joseph

grim old stairs to Harry's Den —

      We clomb them gaily, nothing daunted —

      They still by Warrington and Pen,

      And other pleasant ghosts are haunted!

      Ah, what a spot, my dearest Rose,

      To muse upon this queer old Den is!

      To catalogue its curios

      I'm sure unable quite my pen is!

      But from its panes we gaze upon

      The misty midday sun a-quiver;

      The red-sailed barges drifting on,

      The sparkle of the dear old River!

      Then mingling sweetly one perceives —

      'Mid laughter light and girlish gabble —

      The sighing of the autumn leaves,

      And singing of the Fountain's babble!

      How quick my thoughts drift back again

      To those bright happy days at Hurley —

      A pleasure strongly dashed with pain —

      (O, Harry's locks are brown and curly!)

      But, Rose, the luncheon! It was grand —

      The oak you know, my love, was sported —

      And all the speeches, understand,

      Were much too good to be reported.

      There's Clarry and big Charlie Clough —

      It is a case! I think they'll marry —

      I wonder who is good enough

      For handsome, grey-eyed, laughing Harry?

      It soon grew dark, but I could see

      That clearly no one did desire light;

      For Tina and young Freddy B.

      Were spooning by the fitful firelight.

      We stayed till late, for Mrs. S.

      The most enduring chaperone is.

      And Harry sang! I must confess

      His voice the richest baritone is.

      Ah, how the moments quickly flit

      In song and talk and playful banter!

      The motto on the sundial writ

      Is Pereunt et imputantur.

      I'm rather sad! Ah, what's the use?

      I know you'll think I'm very silly;

      Although I am a little goose,

      I always am, your loving Milly.

      AN UNFINISHED SKETCH

      A SYMPHONY IN WHITE

      Too fair for prose, too sweet for rhyme,

      A laughing lass beneath the lime!

      ONE sunny day in glorious July

      I lazed upon the verdant tennis lawn!

      And smoking there an idle cigarette

      I watched a maid who gazed upon the game,

      Clad in a simple snowy cambric frock,

      And all the budding beauty of Sixteen!

      And as she held her racquet banjo-wise,

      While dreamily she trifled with its strings,

      I sketched the merry maiden as she stood,