The Minstrel. Lennox Amott

       PREFACE.

       Table of Contents

      I am fully aware of the fact that the present volume is but an intrusion at the best; however, I trust my readers will be pleased to overlook the many faults of a bagatelle as insignificant and pitiable as its author.

      In the following pages I have introduced the first canto of Midsummer Idylls in a revised form, and it has been my especial care to correct, as far as it was consistent with the meaning of the passage, any hitch in the Iambic Measure which might offend the ear. An author has himself to please as well as his public, and it has been to me a matter of much study that the Iambics should be as pure, or at least as tolerable, as circumstances would allow, though, while I can ill permit an irregular or inharmonious line, I hope I may not be found guilty of sacrificing sense to sound. I beg to tender those my most cordial thanks who have dealt indulgently with my rhymes hitherto, and to acknowledge, with profound gratitude, the kind encouragement of those great men of letters who have condescended to notice so small a bard. The opinions of the Metropolitan, Provincial, and Foreign Press could not have been other than gratifying to me, and it is with a humble hope of favour that I submit the following pages to a discerning public. LENNOX AMOTT.

      MIDSUMMER IDYLLS.

       Table of Contents

      CANTO I.

      I.

      It was the time of year when cockneys fly

       From town to country, and from there to town.

       I am not sure, but think it was July;

       I would not swear it was, nor bet a crown,

       When, as I told you, cockneys hurry down

       In two hours' railway journey far away,

       And rush to places of immense renown,

       Bright with the thoughts of coming holiday,

       Full well determined to enjoy it while they may.

      II.

      They were the days when all who care to wander

       O'er the rude mountain or the fertile plain,

       Must snatch the chance, and rush here, there and yonder,

       And pack their baggage off by early train,

       To rest the busy over-anxious brain,

       And take to interests altogether new.

       Some tear to Italy, and some to Spain,

       For beneficial air and change of view;

       What everybody does that I must also do.

      III.

      The sun was scorching, and the streets were dusty—

       Suburban roadways generally are—

       And everything seemed disagreeably “fusty,”

       Merely because there was no watering car.

       It was the weather when we feel at war

       With all around and everyone we meet;

       Old dames complained of aches unknown before,

       Unused to battle with such dreadful heat,

       Such truly fearful spasms, and such blistered feet.

      IV.

      The 'buses went by clockwork by the appearance;

       Th' exalted driver, usually so deft,

       Resented, in his doze, the interference

       Of any one poor fellow-suff'rer left;

       Of all his strength and energy bereft,

       The weary horse dragged listlessly along,

       And there appeared to be no effort left

       In the sleepy trilling of the songster's song,

       Which to the small suburban gardens did belong.

      V.

      Now the slow music of the organ-grinder

       Smites the ear feebly at the noon of day,

       He doffs his hat, as if for a reminder,

       To those who wish him far enough away;

       And noisy babes at variance and play

       Join in the jangle of the grocery vendor,

       And butcher boys have lots and lots to say

       To fair domestics, who their hearts surrender

       To, if not a butcher boy, a kettle mender.

      VI.

      But more especially I would direct

       Your kind attention, reader, to a square

       In that locality, tho' more select,

       So thither now together we'll repair.

       A bold and lofty tenement stands there

       With flight of steps and massive portico,

       Where dwelt three daughters infinitely fair;

       Their age of course I'm not supposed to know, 'Twas very rude I own to raise the question so.

      VII.

      But as you all seem anxious to discover

       Their years, their fortune, and the gods know what;

       To hear if each or all had found a lover,

       If one engaged or if they all were not,

       How many aunts and uncles they had got,

       Their nic-nacs of domestic life beside,

       Your indignation would be somewhat hot

       If th' information were to be denied,

       And since you'll have it so, the truth I will not hide.

      VIII.

      You know most ladies have some slight objection,

       Some strange objection which they always raise,

       And arm themselves as if for the protection

       Of the sweet sanctum of their earlier days,

       Toward those who flatteringly speak their praise

       And ask in special confidence their years,

       Who pass the time in fifty pleasant