Companions

A Tale of A Grandfather

I KNOW not of what we pondr'd

  Or made pretty pretence to talk

As, her hand within mine, we wander'd

  Tow'rd the pool by the limetree walk,

While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers

  And the blush-rose bent on her stalk.

I cannot recall her figure:

  Was it regal as Juno's own?

Or only a trifle bigger

  Than the elves who surround the throne

Of the Faery Queen, and are seen, I ween,

  By mortals in dreams alone?

What her eyes were like, I know not;

  Perhaps they were blurr'd with tears;

And perhaps in your skies there glow not

  (On the contrary) clearer spheres.

No! as to her eyes I am just as wise

  As you or the cat, my dears.

Her teeth, I presume, were 'pearly':

  But which was she, brunette or blonde?

Her hair, was it quaintly curly,

  Or as straight as a beadle's wand?

That I fail'd to remark;--it was rather dark

  And shadowy round the pond.

Then the hand that reposed so snugly

  In mine--was it plump or spare?

Was the countenance fair or ugly?

  Nay, children, you have me there!

My eyes were p'haps blurr'd; and besides I'd heard

  That it's horribly rude to stare.

And I--was I brusque and surly?

  Or oppressively bland and fond?

Was I partial to rising early?

  Or why did we twain abscond,

All breakfastless too, from the public view

  To prowl by a misty pond?

What pass'd, what was felt or spoken--

  Whether anything pass'd at all--

And whether the heart was broken

  That beat under that shelt'ring shawl--

(If shawl she had on, which I doubt)--has gone,

  Yes, gone from me past recall.

Was I haply the lady's suitor?

  Or her uncle? I can't make out--

Ask your governess, dears, or tutor.

  For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt

As to why we were there, who on earth we were,

  And what this is all about.

Charles S. Calverley

Lovers and a Reflection

IN moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter

  (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;

Meaning, however, is no great matter)

  Where woods are a-tremble with words a-tween.

Thro' God's own heather we wonned together,

  I and my Willie (O love my love):

I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,

  And flitter-bats wavered alow, above;

Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing,

  (Boats in that climate are so polite,)

And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,

  And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!

Thro' the rare red heather we danced together

  (O love my Willie,) and smelt for flowers:

I must mention again it was glorious weather,

  Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:

By rises that flushed with their purple favors,

  Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,

We walked or waded, we two young shavers,

  Thanking our stars we were both so green.

We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,

  In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,

Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly

  Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:

Song-birds darted about, some inky

  As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;

Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky--

  They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!

But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,

  Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem;

They need no parasols, no goloshes;

  And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.

Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst His heather),

  That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;

And snapt--(it was perfectly charming weather)--

  Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:

And Willie 'gan sing--(Oh, his notes were fluty;

  Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)--

Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,

  Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry":

Bowers of flowers encountered showers

  In William's carol--(O love my Willie!)

Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe tomorrow

  I quite forget what--say a daffodilly.

A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow,"

  I think occurred next in his nimble strain;

And clay that was "kneaden" of course in "Eden"--

  A rhyme most novel I do maintain:

Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,

  And all least furlable things got "furled";

Not with any design to conceal their glories,

  But simply and solely to rhyme with "world."

O if "billows" and "pillows" and "hours" and "flowers,"

  And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,

Could be furled together, this genial weather,

  And carted or carried on wafts away,

Nor ever again trotted out--ah me!

How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be.

Charles S. Calverley

The Auld Wife

THE auld wife sat at her ivied door,

  (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

A thing she had frequently done before;

  And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees.

The piper he piped on the hill-top high,

  (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

Till the cow said, "I die" and the goose asked "Why?"

  And the dog said nothing, but searched for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;

  (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

His last brew of ale was a trifle hard,

  The connection of which with the plot one sees.

The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes,

  (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,

  As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;

  (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

If you try to approach her, away she skips

  Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair;

  (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And I met with a ballad I can't say where,

  Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks;

  (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And spake not a word. While a lady speaks

  There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.

She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks;

  (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

She gave up mending her father's breeks,

  And let the cat roll in her best chemise.

She sat with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks

  (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;

  Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas.

Her sheep followed her as their tails did them

  (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And this song is considered a perfect gem,

  And as to the meaning, it's what you please.

Charles S. Calverley

"Forever"

"FOREVER": 'tis a single word!

  Our rude forefathers deemed it two:

Can you imagine so absurd

A view?

"Forever"! What abysms of woe

  The word reveals, what frenzy, what

Despair! "For ever" (printed so)

Did not.

It looks, ah me! how trite and tame!

  It fails to sadden or appal

Or solace--it is not the same

At all.

O thou to whom it first occurred

  To solder the disjoined, and dower

The native language with a word

Of power:

We bless thee! Whether far or near

  Thy dwelling, whether dark or fair

Thy kingly brow, is neither here

Nor there.

But in men's hearts shall be thy throne,

  While the great pulse of England beats.

Thou coiner of a word unknown

To Keats!

And nevermore must printer do

  As men did long ago; but run

"For" into "ever," bidding two

Be one.

"Forever"! passion-fraught, it throws

  O'er the dim page a gloom, a glamour:

It's sweet, it's strange; and I suppose

It's grammar.

"Forever"! 'Tis a single word!

  And yet our fathers deemed it two:

Nor am I confident they erred;

Are you?

Charles S. Calverley

Changed

I KNOW not why my soul is racked:

  Why I ne'er smile as was my wont:

I only know that, as a fact,

I don't.

I used to roam o'er glen and glade

  Buoyant and blithe as other folk:

And not unfrequently I made

A joke.

A minstrel's fire within me burned.

  I'd sing, as one whose heart must break,

Lay upon lay: I nearly learned

To shake.

All day I sang; of love, of fame,

  Of fights our fathers fought of yore,

Until the thing almost became

A bore.

I cannot sing the old songs now!

  It is not that I deem them low;

'Tis that I can't remember how

They go.

I could not range the hills till high

  Above me stood the summer moon:

And as to dancing, I could fly

As soon.

The sports, to which with boyish glee

  I sprang erewhile, attract no more;

Although I am but sixty-three

Or four.

Nay, worse than that, I've seemed of late

  To shrink from happy boyhood--boys

Have grown so noisy, and I hate

A noise.

They fright me, when the beech is green,

  By swarming up its stem for eggs:

They drive their horrid hoops between

My legs:--

It's idle to repine, I know;

  I'll tell you what I'll do instead:

I'll drink my arrowroot, and go

To bed.

Charles S. Calverley