Rotton Row, Frederick Locker-Lampson (1821-1895)

I hope I'm fond of much that's good,

As well as much that's gay;

I'd like the country if I could;

I love the Park in May:

And when I ride in Rotten Row,

I wonder why they call'd it so.

A lively scene on turf and road;

The crowd is bravely drest:

The Ladies' Mile has overflow'd,

The chairs are in request:

The nimble air, so soft, so clear,

Can hardly stir a ringlet here.

I'll halt beneath those pleasant trees, -

And drop my bridle-rein,

And, quite alone, indulge at ease

The philosophic vein:

I'll moralise on all I see -

Yes, it was all arranged for me!

Forsooth, and on a livelier spot

The sunbeam never shines.

Fair ladies here can talk and trot

With statesmen and divines:

Could I have chosen, I'd have been

A Duke, a Beauty, or a Dean.

What grooms! What gallant gentlemen!

What well-appointed hacks!

What glory in their pace, and then

What Beauty on their backs!

My Pegasus would never flag

If weighted as my Lady's nag.

But where is now the courtly troop

That once rode laughing by?

I miss the curls of Cantelupe,

The laugh of Lady Di:

They all could laugh from night to morn,

And Time has laugh'd them all to scorn.

I then could frolic in the van

With dukes and dandy earls;

Then I was thought a nice young man

By rather nice young girls!

I've half a mind to join Miss Browne,

And try one canter up and down.

Ah, no - I'll linger here awhile,

And dream of days of yore;

For me bright eyes have lost the smile,

The sunny smile they wore: -

Perhaps they say, what I'll allow,

That I'm not quite so handsome now.

On An Old Muff, Frederick Locker-Lampson (1821-1895)

TIME has a magic wand!

What is this meets my hand,

Moth-eaten, moldy, and

Covered with fluff?

Faded, and stiff, and scant;

Can it be? No, it can't--

Yes, I declare, it's Aunt

Prudence's muff!

Years ago, twenty-three,

Old Uncle Doubledee

Gave it to Aunty P.

Laughing and teasing:

'Prue of the breezy curls,

Whisper those solemn churls,

What holds a pretty girl's

Hand without squeezing?'

Uncle was then a lad

Gay, but, I grieve to add,

Sinful, if smoking bad

Baccy's a vice;

Glossy was then this mink

Muff, lined with pretty pink

Satin, which maidens think

'Awfully nice.'

I seem to see again

Aunt in her hood and train

Glide, with a sweet disdain,

Gravely to Meeting;

Psalm-book, and kerchief new,

Peeped from the Muff of Prue;

Young men, and pious too,

Giving her greeting.

Sweetly her Sabbath sped

Then; from this Muff, it's said,

Tracts she distributed;

Converts (till Monday!)

Lured by the grace they lacked,

Followed her. One, in fact,

Asked for -- and got -- his tract

Twice of a Sunday!

Love has a potent spell;

Soon this bold ne'er-do-well,

Aunt's too susceptible

Heart undermining,

Slipped, so the scandal runs,

Notes in the pretty nun's

Muff -- triple-cornered ones,

Pink as its lining.

Worse followed: soon the jade

Fled (to oblige her blade!)

Whilst her friends thought they'd

Locked her up tightly,

After such shocking games

Aunt is of wedded dames

Gayest, and now her name's

Mrs. Golightly.

In female conduct, flaw

Sadder I never saw.

Faith still I've in the law

Of compensation.

Once Uncle went astray,

Smoked, joked, and swore away;

Sworn by he's now, by a

Large congregation.

Changed is the Child of Sin;

Now he's (he once was thin)

Grave, with a double chin--

Blessed be his fat form!

Changed is the garb he wore,

Preacher was never more

Prized than is Uncle for

Pulpit or platform.

If all's as best befits

Mortals of slender wits,

Then beg this Muff and its

Fair Owner pardon.

All's for the best, indeed --

Such is my simple creed;

Still I must go and weed

Hard in my garden.

A Word That Makes Us Linger, Frederick Locker-Lampson (1821-1895)

(Written in the visitor's book at Gopsall)

KIND hostess mine, who raised the latch

And welcomed me beneath your thatch,

Who makes me here forget the pain,

And all the pleasures of Cockaigne,

Now, pen in hand, and pierced with woe,

I write one word before I go --

A word that dies upon my lips

While thus you kiss your finger-tips.

When Black-eyed Sue was rowed to land

That word she cried, and waved her hand --

Her lily hand!

It seems absurd,

But I can't write that dreadful word.

The Unrealised Ideal, Frederick Locker-Lampson (1821-1895)

My only Love is always near,

In country or in town

I see her twinkling feet, I hear

The whisper of her gown.

She foots it ever fair and young,

Her locks are tied in haste,

And one is o'er her shoulder flung,

And hangs below her waist.

She ran before me in the meads;

And down this world-worn track

She leads me on; but while she leads

She never gazes back.

And yet her voice is in my dreams,

To witch me more and more;

That wooing voice! Ah me, it seems

Less near me than of yore.

Lightly I sped when hope was high

And youth beguiled the chase,--

I follow, follow still: But I

Shall never see her face. 

To My Grandmother-Fredrick Locker-Lampson (1821-1895)

This poem may well have been written about my own Maternal Grandmother

This relative of mine
Was ninety and nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen
As a bride.

Beneath a summer tree
As she sits, her reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste,--
What an arm! and what a waist
For an arm!

In bridal coronet,
Lace, ribbons, and coquette
Falbala;
Were Romney's limning true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!

Her lips are sweet as love,--
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?--
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, Come."

What funny fancy slips
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Sweet deity in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?

That good-for nothing Time
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.

Her locks (as white as Snow)
Once shamed the swarthy crow;
By and by
That fowl's avenging sprite
Set his cloven foot for spite
In her eye.

Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine:--
Well I wot,
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit--
Would she not?

Ah, perishable clay!
Her charms had dropped away
One by one.
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was "Thy
Will be done."

I travail, as in tears,
With the fardel of her years
Overprest,--
In mercy was she borne
Where the weary ones and worn
Are at rest.

I'm fain to meet you there,--
If as witching as you were,
Grandmamma!
This nether world agrees
Thatthe better it must please
Grandpapa.