By Henry S. Leigh.

With Illustrations By Alfred Concanen.

The Third Edition.

Chatto and Windus,

1874.

TO

TOM HOOD, ESQUIRE

THESE VERSES ARE DEDICATED

BY

HIS FRIEND AND WORKFELLOW,

THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS

PREFACE.

CAROLS OF COCKAYNE.

THE TWINS.

UN PAS QUI COÛTE.

THE GIFT OF THE GAB.

BEHIND THE SCENES.

"WITH MUSICAL SOCIETY."

THINGS THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

THE OLYMPIC BALL.

THE TWO AGES.

STANZAS TO AN INTOXICATED FLY.

CHIVALRY FOR THE CRADLE.

CLUMSY SERVANT.

A NURSERY LEGEND.

AN ALLEGORY.

OVER THE WATER.

AN UNAPPRECIATED CRICHTON.

ONLY SEVEN.

SEE-SAW.

A WILD HUNT.

A VERY COMMON CHILD.

CROOKED ANSWERS.

A BEGGING LETTER.

A COCKNEY'S EVENING SONG.

ROMANTIC RECOLLECTIONS.

THE MAD GRANDPAPA.

SHABBY-GENTEEL.

CUPID'S MAMMA.

THE CRUSADER'S FAREWELL.

LAYS OF MANY LANDS.

THE SEASONS.

BROKEN VOWS.

WHERE—AND OH! WHERE?

A FIT OF THE BLUES.

ROTTEN ROW.

A LAST RESOURCE.

WEATHERBOUND IN THE SUBURBS.

MIDAS.

TO A TIMID LEECH.

ANACREONTIC,

THE HOUSE ON THE TOP OF A HILL.

MEN I DISLIKE.

NOT QUITE FAIR.

WISDOM AND WATER.

'TWAS EVER THUS.

MY SONG.

BOW BELLS.

THE PLOT OF A ROMANCE.

THE SUBJECTS OF SONG.

AN OLD CYNIC

THE NIGHTINGALE.

TO MY BRAIN.

WANTED, A SINGER.

ANTICIPATIONS.

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

THE OLD WAG.

ETIQUETTE.

A PLAIN ANSWER

IN A HUNDRED YEARS.

EVENING.

MY POLITICS.

THE MISERIES OF GENIUS.

A DAY FOR WISHING.

THE DILIGENCE DRIVER.

THE BALLAD OF THE BARYTONE,

SONGS OF THE SICK ROOM.

THE COMPACT,

THE VISION OF THE ALDERMAN.

EVENING DRESS.

WINE.

MY ULTIMATUM.

ALL ALONE,

"OH NIGHTS AND SUPPERS," ETC.

THE WEATHER.

"ON CORPULENCE."

THE MOONLIGHT SONATA.

OCCASIONAL VERSES.

CHATEAUX D'ESPAGNE.

TO A CERTAIN SOMEBODY.

THE LORD MAYOR'S APOTHEOSIS.

THE END OF AN OLD YEAR,

PREFACE.

The following trifles have already made their appearance in various periodicals. The limit of their pretension is obvious from their individual brevity and collective title; with few exceptions, they were intended simply as drawing-room songs. Without aspiring to the high level of the days when Praed, Bayly, Hood, Fitzgerald, Theodore Hook, and the two Smiths wrote for music, may I flatter myself that these Carols are at least equal in point of taste (if not in point of humour) to certain light and lively ballads that are at present popular through the medium of the music-halls?

Some readers will probably think the name of this book suspiciously similar to that of Mr Frederick Locker's charming London Lyrics. Let me anticipate a charge of plagiarism by observing that Mr. Locker himself was kind enough to send me the suggestion for my present title.

To those gentlemen who have given me permission to republish various verses in this collection, I am sincerely obliged.

H. S. L.

THE TWINS.

N form and feature, face and limb,

I grew so like my brother

That folks got taking me for him

And each for one another.

It puzzled all our kith and kin,

It reach'd an awful pitch;

For one of us was born a twin

And not a soul knew which.

One day (to make the matter worse),

Before our names were fix'd,

As we were being wash'd by nurse,

We got completely mix'd.

And thus, you see, by Fate's decree,

(Or rather nurse's whim),

My brother John got christen'd me,

And I got christen'd him.

This fatal likeness even dogg'd

My footsteps when at school,

And I was always getting flogg'd—

For John turn'd out a fool.

I put this question hopelessly

To every one I knew,—

What would you do, if you were me.

To prove that you were you?

Our close resemblance turn'd the tide

Of my domestic life;

For somehow my Intended bride

Became my brother's wife.

In short, year after year the same

Absurd mistakes went on;

And when I died—the neighbours came

And buried brother John!

(Published with music by Messrs Cramer.)

UN PAS QUI COÛTE.

I'VE a genius or a talent—I perceive it pretty clearly

In pursuing an ambition or in climbing up a tree—

For never quite attaining, but attaining very nearly

To my aspiration's altitude, whatever it may be.

Tis a faculty that haunts me with an obstinate persistence,

For I felt it in my boyhood, and I feel it in my prime,—

All the efforts and endeavours I have made in my existence

Have invariably ended "but a step from the sublime."

As a boy I made a tender of my tenderest affection,

In a lovely little sonnet to the fairest of the fair:

(Though nothing but a youngster, I've preserved the recollection

Of her tyranny, her beauty, and the way she did her hair.)

She was married, I remember, to a person in the City,—

I consider'd him remarkably obtrusive at the time;

So I quitted my enslaver with a lofty look of pity,

For I felt my situation "but a step from the sublime."

Being confident that Cupid was a little gay deceiver,

I forgot my disappointment in a struggle after Fame;

I had caught the rage of writing as a child may catch a fever,

So I took to making verses as a way to make a name.

When I publish'd a collection of my efforts as a writer—

With a minimum of reason and a maximum of rhyme—

I am proud to say that nobody could well have been politer

Than the critics, for they, call'd it "but a step from the

sublime."

I was laudably ambitious to extend my reputation,

And I plann'd a pretty novel on a pretty novel plan;

I would make it independent both of sin and of "sensation,"

And my villain should be pictured as a persecuted man.

For your Bulwers and your Braddons and your Collinses

may grovel

In an atmosphere of horror and a wilderness of crime;

Twas for me to controvert them, and I did so in a novel

Which was commonly consider'd "but a step from the

sublime."

I have master'd metaphysics—I have mounted on the pinions

Both of Painting and of Music—and I rather think I know

Ev'ry nook and ev'ry corner of Apollo's whole dominions,

From the top of Mount Parnassus down to Paternoster Row.

I have had my little failures, I have had my great successes—

And Parnassus, I assure you, is a weary hill to climb;

But the lowest and the meanest of my enemies confesses

That he very often thinks me "but a step from the sublime."

THE GIFT OF THE GAB.

A LECTURE ON ELOCUTION.

OU have read how Demosthenes walk'd

on the beach,

With his mouth full of pebbles, rehears-

ing a speech—

Till the shell-fish and sea-gulls pro-

nounced him a bore,

And the sea met his gravest remarks

with a roar.

In fact, if you ever learnt Greek, you 'll confess

That it's hardly the right kind of tongue to impress

An intelligent lobster or well-inform'd crab,

With the deepest respect for the Gift of the Gab.

Still Eloquence gives men a wonderful power,

And it often strikes me, after sitting an hour

At a lecture on something I don't understand,

That the Gift of the Gab is decidedly grand.

Indeed, I am frequently heard to declare,

If the Queen of the Fairies would answer my prayer,

I should instantly drop on my knees to Queen Mab,

Crying, Grant me, oh grant me, the Gift of the Gab.

If you 'd hear the true summit of Eloquence reach'd

Go to church when a charity-sermon is preach'd;

Where, with hands in his pockets and tears in his eyes,

Ev'ry soft-hearted sinner contributes and cries.

I think, if you look in the plate, you'll opine

That the sermon you heard was uncommonly fine,

And that ev'ry Oxonian and ev'ry Cantab

Ought to cultivate early the Gift of the Gab.

But it's after a dinner at Freemasons' Hall

That the orator's talent shines brightest of all;

When his eye becomes glazed and his voice becomes thick,

And he's had so much hock he can only say hie!

So the company leave him to slumber and snore

Till he's put in a hat and convey'd to the door;

And he finds, upon reaching his home in a cab,

That his wife rather shines in the Gift of the Gab.

Then there's Gab in the senate and Gab at the bar,

But I fear their description would lead me too far;

And (last but not least) there is Gab on the stage.

Which I couldn't exhaust if I sang for an age.

But, if there are matters that puzzle you still,

You may take up an Enfield and go through a drill,

Which will teach you much more than a hurried confab

With regard to that art call'd the Gift of the Gab.

BEHIND THE SCENES.

LONG, long ago I had an aunt

Who took me to the play:

An act of kindness that I shan't

Forget for many a day.

I was a youngster at the time,

Just verging on my teens,

And fancied that it must be "prime"

To go behind the scenes.

I ventured to express the same

In quite a candid way,

And shock'd my aunt—a sober dame,

Though partial to the play.

'Twas just the moment when Macbeth

(Whose voice resembled Kean's)

Had finished planning Duncan's death,

And rushed behind the scenes.

I recollect that evening yet,

And how my aunt was grieved;

And, oh! I never shall forget

The lecture I received.

It threw a light upon the class

Of knowledge that one gleans

By being privileged to pass

His time behind the scenes.

The Heroine I worshipp'd then

Was fifty, I should think;

My Lord the commonest of men,'

My Lover fond of drink.

The Fairies I believed so fair

Were not by any means

The kind of people one would care

To meet behind the scenes.

I cannot boast that I enjoy

The stage-illusion still;

I'm growing far too old a boy

To laugh or cry at will.

But I can cast a critic's eye

On mimic kings and queens,

And nothing ever makes me sigh

To get behind the scenes.

Ah! shallow boastings—false regrets!

The world is but a stage

Where Man, poor player, struts and frets

From infancy to age;

And then leaps blindly, in a breath,

The space that intervenes

Between our stage-career and Death,

Who lurks behind the scenes!

"WITH MUSICAL SOCIETY."

LOOK'D for lodgings, long ago,

Away from London's fogs and

fusses;

A rustic Paradise, you know,

Within a walk of trains or 'busses.

I made my choice, and settled down

In such a lovely situation!—

About a dozen miles from town,

And very near a railway-station.

Within my pastoral retreat

No creditor, no care intruded;

My happiness was quite complete

(The "comforts of a home" included).

I found the landlord most polite,

His wife, if possible, politer;—

Their two accomplish'd daughters quite

Electrified the present writer.

A nicer girl than Fanny Lisle

To sing a die-away duet with.

(Say something in the Verdi style,)

Upon my life I never met with.

And yet I waver'd in my choice;

For I believe I'm right in saying

That nothing equall'd Fanny's voice,

Unless it was Maria's playing.

If music be the food of Love,

That was the house for Cupid's diet;

Those two melodious girls, by Jove,

Were never for an instant quiet.

I own that Fanny's voice was sweet,

I own Maria's touch was pearly;

But music's not at all a treat

For those who get it late and early.

The charms that soothe a savage breast

Have got a vice versâ fashion

Of putting folks who have the best

Of tempers in an awful passion:

And, when it reach'd a certain stage,

I must confess I couldn't stand it.

I positively swore with rage

And stamp'd and scowl'd like any bandit.

I paid my rent on quarter-day;

Pack'd up my luggage in a hurry,

And, quick as lightning, fled away

To other lodgings down in Surrey.

I'm fairly warn'd—and not in vain;

For one resolve that I have made is—

Not to be domiciled again

With any musical young ladies.

THINGS THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

IN the twilight of November's

Afternoons I like to sit,

Finding fancies in the embers

Long before my lamp is lit;

Calling Memory up and linking

Bygone day to distant scene;

Then, with feet on fender, thinking

Of the things that might have been.

Cradles, wedding-rings, and hatchments

Glow alternate in the fire.

Early loves and late attachments

Blaze a second—and expire.

With a moderate persistence

One may soon contrive to glean

Matters for a mock existence

From the things that might have been.

Handsome, amiable, and clever—

With a fortune and a wife;—

So I make my start whenever

I would build the fancy life.

After all my bright ideal,

What a gulf there is between

Things that are, alas! too real,

And the things that might have been.

Often thus, alone and moody,

Do I act my little play—

Like a ghostly Punch and Judy,

Where the dolls are grave and gay—.

Till my lamplight comes and flashes

On the phantoms I have seen,

Leaving nothing but the ashes

Of the things that might have been.

THE OLYMPIC BALL.

T'S a classical fact very few know

(If any one knows it at all),

That Jove once prevail'd upon Juno

To issue her cards for a ball.

Olympus, of course, was delighted;

The notion was charming—so

new!

And the whole of the gods were

invited,

The whole of the goddesses too;

Including a few lucky mortals,

Especially well known to fame,

(For Olympus ne'er open'd its portals,

Except to the crème de la crème.)

At eleven the guests were arriving,

All drest up remarkably grand;

At midnight Apollo came driving

Full pelt, in a neat four-in-hand!

In passing Parnassus he'd popp'd in,

And brought on the Muses inside;

Minerva soon afterwards dropp'd in,

And Vulcan, escorting his bride.

Lovely Venus was quite condescending,

(But chroniclers freely confess,

She was not in the habit of spending

Extravagant sums upon dress.)

The ball-room, one couldn't help feeling,

Was got up regardless of cost;

And the satyrs and nymphs on the ceiling

Were worthy of Etty or Frost.

The band that was hir'd for the dancers

(The best they could possibly get)

Look'd down with disdain on the "Lancers,"

And stuck to the "Court Minuet."

Young Ganymede carried round ices,

And Hebe (a pert-looking minx)

Cut the pineapple up into slices,

While Bacchus took charge of the drinks.

Terpsichore danced like a feather;

In fact, the spectators agreed

That she and young Zephyr together

Made very good partners indeed.

Then Momus began to grow witty;

The Graces oblig'd with a glee;

While Pan sang a pastoral ditty,

And Neptune a song of the sea!

Minerva sat pompously boring

The Muses with blue-stocking talk;

And Bacchus was put to bed snoring,

Completely unable to walk.

An hour before daylight was shining

The prudish Diana had flown

To the spot where Endymion was pining

To meet her by moonlight alone.

The next to depart was Apollo,

Who leapt on his chariot at seven:

No eye in Olympus could follow

The track of his coursers through heaven!

The lamps were beginning to burn out,

And sunshine was flooding the hall,

When the last who thought proper to turn out

Drove homeward from Jupiter's ball.

THE TWO AGES.

FOLKS were happy as days were long

In the old Arcadian times;

When Life seem'd only a dance and song

In the sweetest of all sweet climes.

Our world grows bigger, and, stage by stage.

As the pitiless years have roll'd.

We've quite forgotten the Golden Age,

And come to the Age of Gold.

Time went by in a sheepish way

Upon Thessaly's plains of yore.

In the nineteenth century lambs at play

Mean mutton, and nothing more.

Our swains at present are far too sage

To live as one liv'd of old:

So they couple the crook of the Golden Age

With a hook in the Age of Gold.

From Corydon's reed the mountains round

Heard news of his latest flame.

And Tityrus made the woods resound

With echoes of Daphne's name.

They kindly left us a lasting gage

Of their musical art, we 're told;

And the Pandean pipe of the Golden Age

Brings mirth to the Age of Gold.

Dwellers in huts and in marble halls—

From Shepherdess up to Queen-

Cared little for bonnets, and less for shawls,

And nothing for crinoline.

But now Simplicity is not the rage,

And it's funny to think how cold

The dress they wore in the Golden Age

Would seem in the Age of Gold.

Electric telegraphs, printing, gas,

Tobacco, balloons, and steam,

Are little events that have come to pass

Since the days of that old régime.

And, spite of Lemprière's dazzling page,

I 'd give—though it might seem bold—

A hundred years of the Golden Age

For a year in the Age of Gold.