Frederick Locker-Lampson.
The refinement of taste which has marked the second half of the nineteenth century has been highly favourable to the production of the lighter forms of poetry, and no other age has been so prolific in writers of vers-de-société and of those other more exotic forms of composition known as Ballades, Rondeaus, and Villanelles.
It is true that Praed, who led the way as the writer of vers-de-société, died fifty years ago, but for one who now reads Praed, there are twenty who know by heart the poems of Frederick Locker.
And there can be no hesitation in assigning him the leading position amongst those of our living Poets who write to please, and instruct, by their playful wit, gentle satire, and tender pathos, without deeming it necessary to compose sermons in epics, or poems which require as much labour to disentangle as to solve a problem of Euclid.
Mr. Frederick Locker, for in that name he achieved fame, was born in 1821, coming of an old and distinguished Kentish family. His father was a Civil Commissioner of Greenwich Hospital, and his grandfather was the Captain W. Locker, R. N., under whom both Lord Nelson and Lord Collingwood served. Lord Nelson attributed much of his success in battle to the maxim inculcated by his old commander, “Lay a Frenchman close, and you will beat him.”
Captain Locker died Lieutenant-Governor of Greenwich Hospital.
The literary career of Mr. Frederick Locker has been so uniformly successful that there is little to recount.
His original poems were mostly published in the magazines, until in 1857 he issued his volume entitled “London Lyrics.” The first edition, which is now very scarce, and much sought after by collectors, had a frontispiece by George Cruikshank. This book has passed through many editions, and is now published by Kegan Paul, Trench and Co., London.
In 1867, Mr. Locker published “Lyra Elegantiarum,” containing a collection of the best English vers-de-société, with an introduction in which he enumerated the qualifications which should be possessed by any poet who aspired to produce perfect specimens of vers-de-société.
Mr. Locker-Lampson has also written a few humorous parodies, one of which, “Unfortunate Miss Bailey,” was given p. 47, Vol. I., Parodies.
It only remains to be said that in the following pages the extracts from his poems are inserted by the kind permission of Mr. Locker-Lampson.
One of his best known poems, “St. James’s Street,” was published in 1867. This was stolen, and spoiled in the stealing, by a piratical editor, the two versions are here given side by side:—
ST. JAMES’S STREET.
St. James’s Street, of classic fame,
The finest people throng it.
St. James’s Street? I know the name,
I think I’ve passed along it!
Why, that’s where Sacharissa sigh’d
When Waller read his ditty;
Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died,
And Alvanley was witty.
A famous street! To yonder Park
Young Churchill stole in class-time;
Come, gaze on fifty men of mark,
And then recall the past time.
The plats at White’s, the play at Crock’s,
The bumpers to Miss Gunning;
The bonhomie of Charlie Fox,
And Selwyn’s ghastly funning.
The dear old street of clubs and cribs,
As north and south it stretches,
Still seems to smack of Rolliad squibs,
And Gillray’s fiercer sketches;
The quaint old dress, the grand old style,
The mots, the racy stories;
The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile—
The hate of Whigs and Tories.
At dusk, when I am strolling there,
Dim forms will rise around me;—
Lepel flits pass me in her chair,
And Congreve’s airs astound me!
And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young sprite,
Look’d kindly when I met her;
I shook my head, perhaps,—but quite
Forgot to quite forget her.
The street is still a lively tomb
For rich, and gay, and clever;
The crops of dandies bud and bloom,
And die as fast as ever.
Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes,
And slang that’s rather scaring,—
It can’t approach its prototypes
In taste, or tone, or bearing.
In Brummell’s day of buckle shoes,
Lawn cravats and roll collars,
They’d fight, and woo, and bet—and lose
Like gentlemen and scholars:
I’m glad young men should go the pace,
I half forgive Old Rapid;
These louts disgrace their name and race,—
So vicious and so vapid!
Worse times may come. Bon ton, indeed,
Will then be quite forgotten,
And all we much revere will speed
From ripe to worse than rotten:
Let grass then sprout between yon stones,
And owls then roost at Boodle’s,
For Echo will hurl back the tones
Of screaming Yankee Doodles.
I love the haunts of old Cockaigne,
Where wit and wealth were squander’d;
The halls that tell of hoop and train,
Where grace and rank have wander’d;
Those halls where ladies fair and leal
First ventured to adore me!
Something of that old love I feel
For this old street before me.
Frederick Locker.
1867.
ST. JAMES’S STREET.
Old Ballad.
St. James’s-Street, of classic fame,
The finest people throng it!
St. James’s Street? I know the name!
I think I’ve passed along it!
Why, that’s where Sacharrissa sighed
When Waller read his ditty;
Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died,
And Alvanley was witty.
A famous street. It skirts the Park
Where Rogers took his pastime;
Come, gaze on fifty men of mark,
And then call up the fast time.
The plâts at White’s, the play at Crock’s,
The bumpers to Miss Gunning;
The bonhomie of Charlie Fox,
And Selwyn’s ghastly funning.
The dear old street of clubs and cribs,
As north and south it stretches,
Still smacks of William’s pungent squibs,
And Gilray’s fiercer sketches;
The quaint old dress, the grand old style,
The mots, the racy stories;
The wine, the dice; the wit, the bile,
The hate of Whigs and Tories.
At dusk, when I am strolling there,
Dim forms will rise around me;
Old Pepys creeps past me in his chair,
And Congreve’s airs astound me,
And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young sprite,
Looked kindly when I met her;
I shook my head, perhaps—but quite
Forgot to quite forget her.
The street is still a lively tomb
For rich and gay and clever;
The crops of dandies bud and bloom,
And die as fast as ever.
Now gilded youth loves cutty-pipes
And slang that’s rather rancid,
It can’t approach its prototypes
In tone—or so I’ve fancied.
In Brummel’s day of buckle-shoes,
Starch cravats, and roll collars,
They’d talk, and woo, and bet—and lose
Like gentlemen and scholars,
But now young nobles go the pace
With blacklegs, grooms, and tailors;
And scions soon of noblest race
May pass the night with jailors.
Worse times may come, Bon ton, alas,
Will then be quite forgotten,
And all we much revere will pass
From ripe to worse than rotten;
Rank weeds will sprout between yon stones,
And owls will roost at Boodle’s,
And shame will echo back the tones
Of Coachington, Lord Noodle.
F. L.
The Queen’s Messenger. August 12, 1869.
St. Giles.
A London poet sang of late
In exquisitely tender verses,
How in their whirl the wheels of Fate,
Changed cars of triumph into hearses.
He said St. James’s wit and smiles
Were trodden under foot by shoddy—
Bah! let me sing about St. Giles,
And chronicle the sin of toddy.
Long years ago, St. Martin’s Fields
Were ripe with grain and purple clover
Where grisly thieves the kitchen shields,
And yellow ’busses topple over.
The very spot, where rose the lark
To sing its song to all creation,
Is given over after dark
To deathly deeds and desolation.
Just where the parson from his door
Relieved the sorrows of the humble,
The workhouse shields the houseless poor,
Who execrate the mighty Bumble.
A thousand nightingales in song
Have warbled melodies for ages,
Where now canary-sellers throng,
And linnets chirp in tiny cages.
Where Strephon sighed and sighed to win,
And dainty Phyllis churned her butter,
The costermonger shrieks for gin,
And helpless rolls about the gutter;
Where Sacharissa ’neath her fan
Was smiling at his lordship’s raving,
The ragged wife adores the man,
Who beats her head against the paving.
There’s not a spot and not a stone,
But spoke a poem when we met it,
That does not echo to the moan
Of poverty—do we regret it?
If we have sorrow for St. James,
And sing about its loss of swelldom,
We needs must weep St. Giles’s shames,
Although we think about them seldom.
Henry S. Leigh.
Fun. November 16, 1867.
——:o:——
TEMPORA MUTANTUR!
Yes, here, once more a traveller,
I find the Angel Inn,
Where landlord, maids and serving-men
Receive me with a grin:
Surely they can’t remember Me,
My hair is grey and scanter;
I’m changed, so changed since I was here—
O tempora mutantur!
* * * * *
The curtains have been dyed; but there,
Unbroken, is the same,
The very same crack’d pane of glass
On which I scratch’d her name.
Yes, there’s her tiny flourish still;
It used to so enchant her
To link two happy names in one—
O tempora mutantur!
Frederick Locker.
Tempora Mutantur!
No pea-shooters upon the way
No careless chaff and banter
No passing blows to take and pay!
O Tempora mutantur!
The traps go soberly along,
Scarce one is in a canter,
The language even isn’t strong—
O Tempora mutantur!
The times were very different when
I went with my enchanter;
Young men in those days were young men;
O Tempora mutantur!
Of course you’ll say its for the best
(My Boy, pass the decanter!)
But now your Derby’s lost its zest
O Tempora mutantur!
Catullus of Fleet Street.
——:o:——
BRAMBLE-RISE.
What changes meet my wistful eyes
In quiet little Bramble-Rise,
The pride of all the shire;
How alter’d is each pleasant nook;—
And used the dumpy church to look
So dumpy in the spire?
This village is no longer mine;
And though the Inn has changed its sign,
The beer may not be stronger;
The river, dwindled by degrees,
Is now a brook, the cottages
Are cottages no longer.
The mud is brick, the thatch is slate,
The pound has tumbled out of date,
And all the trees are stunted:
Surely these thistles once grew figs,
These geese were swans, and once these pigs
More musically grunted.
Where boys and girls pursued their sports
A locomotive puffs and snorts,
And gets my malediction;
The turf is dust—the elves are fled—
The ponds have shrunk—and tastes have spread
To photograph and fiction.
Ah! there’s a face I know again,
There’s Patty trotting down the lane
To fill her pail with water;
Yes, Patty! but I fear she’s not
The tricksey Pat that used to trot,
But Patty,—Patty’s daughter!
* * * * *
Frederick Locker.
A Song at Sixty.
My boyhood’s home! How clearly rise
Thy varied scenes before mine eyes
In fair perspective.
I hear the bull-frogs in the pond—
The whippoorwill’s weird notes respond
To thoughts reflective.
Again I see the old “worm fence,”
Around the pasture-lot from whence
The cows lowed over
At milking time, as if they smelled
The many-windowed barn, that held
The corn and clover.
I see, beyond the garden-gate
The gray bull-calf, that used to wait
To “hook” that gate off—
And flower-beds, where browsed the bees
’Neath overhanging cherry-trees
Whose twigs he ate off.
’Twas there, above the hollyhocks,
The blue birds thronged the martin-box
That wrongly housed them.
There too, from out the red oak grove,
Their brother bandits came and strove
In vain to oust them.
And there, a flock of noisy geese
Down to the brimming pond in peace
Would oft meander—
To come again when day declined,
Wide-waddling homeward, strung behind
Their valiant gander.
All’s past—I only thought to spin
Gold thread of sunny dreams within
This cushioned “rocker.”
My blood’s too slow—too weak my nerves
For poaching on the choice preserves
Of Frederick Locker.
C. H. L.
The Philadelphia Evening Bulletin.
——:o:——
His Girl.
Oh, she wears a sealskin sacque,
When it snows;
And her stunning suit is black
As a crow’s;
Short; and thinks it is a pity,
Charming, jolly, wise, and witty:
Has a retroussé—so pretty—
Little nose.
In her basket phaeton,
When it blows,
With her striking glasses on,
Out she goes;
And she’s just as sweet as stately,
And she sits there so sedately,
With her cheeks and lips so greatly
Like a rose.
She plays Chopin, Liszt, and Spohr
For her beaux.
And she speak of “Pinafore”—
Heaven knows!
With a naughty “D” and “Never!”
But she’s awful nice and clever;
If she liked me, I’d endeavour
To propose.
Detroit Free Press. 1882.
AN INVITATION TO ROME
Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place
Your London sun is here, and smiling brightly;
The Briton, too, puts on his cheery face,
And Mrs. Bull acquits herself politely.
The Romans are an easy going race,
With simple wives, more dignified than sprightly;
I see them at their doors, as day is closing,
Prouder than duchesses, and more imposing.
* * * * *
Frederick Locker.
1863.
Mr. Gladstone in Rome.
“Caffè-latte! I call to the waiter,—Non c’e latte.
This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of a battle.”
Clough in 1848.
1.
Old Rome in December. Take out your umbrella
For we picnic no more with Cæcilia Metella,
While flirtation is wholly unheard in the sheeny
And shadowy paths of the Aldobrandini.
Mr. Locker, to Rome a poetical rover,
Has, sketched us the flirts, and the croquet moreover,
He’ll smile as he sees, in the shade of St. Peter’s
How coolly we’ve stolen his phrases and metres.
2.
But though English are few on the Pincian Hill,
One grave politician is lingering still;
From Montorio looks down on the Tiber, and thinks
That the problem of Rome beats the crux of the Sphinx;
That no one can tell us the ultimate bias
Of the city of Cæsar, and Pasquin, and Pius;
That the milk of the She Wolf meant bloodshed and sorrow;
And—will there be milk at the Caffè to-morrow?
The Globe. London.
——:o:——
FROM THE CRADLE.
They tell me I was born a long
Three months ago,
But whether they are right or wrong
I hardly know.
I sleep, I smile, I cannot crawl,
But I can cry—
At present I am rather small—
A babe am I.
The changing lights of sun and shade
Are baby toys;
The flowers and birds are not afraid
Of baby-boys.
Some day I’ll wish that I could be
A bird and fly;
At present I can’t wish—you see
A babe am I.
Frederick Locker.
From the Cradle.
They tell me I was calved a long
Three weeks ago;
But whether they are right or wrong
I hardly know.
I sleep, I suck, I cannot bawl,
But I can cry;
At present I am rather small—
A calf am I.
With changing food from swede to blade,
My mammy toys,
Nor she nor I are yet afraid
Of butcher-boys.
Some day I’ll wish that I could be
A bird, and fly.
At present I can’t wish, you see—
A calf am I.
Funny Folks, May 15, 1880.
——:o:——
A Gallery of Fair Women.
Mrs. Golightly.
Her piles of hair are ultra-blonde;
Her tints are ultra-splendid;
Her eyes are shallow, brilliant, fond,
And belladonna—friended.
An air of langorous command
About her always lingers.
She has a very shapely hand,
With long, bejewelled fingers.
Her foot is neat—not oversmall,
But exquisitely booted.
Her figure, faulty after all,
Is admirably suited.
Her teeth are good, and if her lip
Glow with a warmer crimson
Than lovers care to see or sip,
Why, blame her woman, Simson.
A bishop’s daughter, born to dare,
She made a reckless marriage.
She has a cottage in Mayfair,
No children, and a carriage,
And is an universal pet,
An innocent Bohemian,
A Dian feigning to forget
The legalised Endymion.
With many a bachelor she plays
A dainty little whimsy,
Like Musset’s acts, or Locker’s lays,
Brief, elegant, and flimsy.
She loves to woo, to win, to part;
Forsaken and forsaking,
Her heart—she says she has a heart—
Will bear a deal of breaking.
She shines in all things strange and new—
Plays, pictures, Prince’s, polo.
She gives the odds on either Blue,
She never answers “Nolo.”
To-day she raves of Rubinstein,
To-morrow of Albani;
To-day “Aïda” is divine,
To-morrow “Don Giovanni.”
But dress is, after all her dream,
Her veritable passion.
Her costume’s always an extreme,
A nightmare of the fashion.
The style that now-a-days we know,
Has from the first revealed her
As ruthlessly as long ago
Its opposite concealed her.
She waltzes well, she does not sing,
She loves to chatter, chatter
Of anything and everything—
It really doesn’t matter!
She skims a novel now and then
To get at the sensations,
And thinks Invention made the pen
To answer invitations.
Her little head’s so vain and light
It whirls in all directions,
And yet you smile on her, despite
Her host of imperfections.
Her heaven is one of summer skies,
And dreams that bloom to wither,
And like a love bird, when she dies,
Her little soul will thither.
London, 1877.
——:o:——
Something Praedesque.
I’ve many sweethearts; which shall I
Make just a pretty bit of rhyme to,
Now as the midnight moments fly,
And I have the caprice and time to?
“Be,” says my editor, “Praedesque:
That is, omit the fiery particle.”
He thinks my heart is in my desk—
Indeed, I have not such an article.
And of my sweethearts, one or two
Would almost fly into a passion,
If I desired their lips to woo
In that old easy worn-out fashion.
Praed, though no poet, had some power;
He is defaced by many a mocker:
I’m criminal this very hour,
And so is Dobson, so is Locker.
“O give us something new and fresh!”
The girls exclaim, they’re right, the beauties,
To catch their hearts in merrier mesh
Is chiefest of a lover’s duties.
How easy is this rambling rhyme!
Eight syllables, with rhymes that double;
It makes one fancy at the time
That neither rhyme nor love’s a trouble.
No trouble ’tis to scribble off
Verse to the girls you little care for;
To flatter, satirize, or scoff,
Amused, and hardly knowing wherefore.
But love—or hate—or be afraid
Of any woman … when you greet her,
It won’t be in the rhythm of Praed;
You’ll have to find Peculiar Metre.
Mortimer Collins.
London’s ‘Suez Canal.’
What pretty girls one sees about
At rink and race, at ball and rout,
At drums and dinners!
In books, where Ænids find Geraints,
In pictures Mr. Millais paints
In church—I’m fond of such young saints
And sinners.
A score at least one’s sure to meet
From Charing Cross to Oxford Street,
Or climbing hilly
St. James’s, where of clubdom sick,
Old fogeys voted at old nick,
Fond glances turn at four towards Pic-
—cadilly.
Muse-favored haunt of all that’s gay!
Whose every stone has had its day
Of loves and graces!
Your triumphs many a bard can tell,
Fred Locker sings them passing well—
I know you bear away the bell
For faces.
Along your Strand converging flow
The social tides to Rotten Row,
Beloved and shady;
Old Gouty trundles with his pair,
De Bootle saunters, cane in air—
I’m wondering, who’s that golden hair-
’d young lady?
What fools we are!—Le Follets’ page
Makes yellow ringlets all the rage,
And willy nilly,
Poor ebon poles must cut their stick
And silver change its ‘plaiting’ quick,
Now only ‘gold’ is picked in Pic-
—cadilly!
But whether black or gold or grey
Fashion declares her slaves shall say
The dernier goût is
You bear your motley freightage well,
And East and West your convoys swell—
A sort of Cockneyfied canal
Of Suez!
A neutral ‘cut’ where every man’s
A vessel bound to pay the trans-
—it dues and duty,—
Dues stricter than e’er Lesseps took—
Love’s tribute levied on a look,
And duly noted in the Book
Of Beauty.
* * * * *
And now whilst ice enwraps you still,
And snow’s on Constitution Hill—
Like some old Pharaoh,
Sun shaded ’mid the fervent rays
I bask away the balmy days,
And write these verses to your praise
In Cairo.
Across the desert ridges high
Long lines of camels track the sky,
The pink lights flicker,—
The day has run its golden race—
The Mussulman kneels in his place—
The pilgrim turns his patient face
To Mecca.…
All here’s aglow with summer sun;
There hugs black frost his mantle dun
In winter chilly:
Yet could I stand on “Simla’s” deck
And Westward—ere this watch’s tick
Old England ho! for me, and Pic-
—cadilly!
H. Cholmondeley Pennell.
Temple Bar, January, 1876.
——:o:——
Songsters of the Day.
The Bard of Society.
There, pay it, James! ’tis cheaply earned;
My conscience! how one’s cabman charges!
But never mind, so I’m returned
Safe to my native street of Clarges.
I’ve just an hour for one cigar
What style these Reinas have, and what ash!),
One hour to watch the evening star,
With just one Curaçao-and-potash.
Ah me! that face beneath the leaves
And blossoms of its piquant bonnet!
Who would have thought that forty thieves
Of years had laid their fingers on it!
Could you have managed to enchant
At Lord’s to-day old lovers simple,
Had Robber Time not played gallant,
And spared you every youthful dimple!
That robber bold, like courtier Claude,
Who danced the gay coranto jesting,
By your bright beauty charmed and awed,
Has bowed and passed you unmolesting.
No feet of many-wintered crows
Have traced about your eyes a wrinkle;
Your sunny hair has thawed the snows
That other heads with silver sprinkle.
I wonder if that pair of gloves
I won of you you’ll ever pay me!
I wonder if our early loves
Were wise or foolish, cousin Amy!
I wonder if our childish tiff
Now seems to you, like me, a blunder!
I wonder if you wonder if
I ever wonder if you wonder!
I wonder if you’d think it bliss
Once more to be the fashion’s leader!
I wonder if the trick of this
Escapes the unsuspecting reader!
And as for him who does or can
Delight in it, I wonder whether
He knows that almost any man
Could reel it off by yards together!
I wonder if—What’s that? A knock?
Is that you, James? Eh? What? God bless me!
How time has flown! Its eight o’clock,
And here’s my fellow come to dress me.
Be quick, or I shall be the guest
Whom Lady Mary never pardons;
I trust you, James, to do your best
To save the soup at Grosvenor-gardens.
Fritteric Lacquer.
Time, June, 1880.
——:o:——
On Frederick Locker.
Of Locker what? Apollo in the fashion.
Humour and pathos suits, no touch of passion.
From Suckling, Lovelace, Prior, Luttrell, Praed,
Locker inherits his inspiring Maid:
Not nude and passionate, not fast and flighty,
Like Swinburne’s rosy-bosomed Aphrodite;
Not icy-cold, as Parian sculpture is,
Like Tennyson’s blue-stockingéd Artemis:
Not erudite and sapient, grimly frowning,
Like the Athena that’s adored by Browning:
But just the Period’s girl, a pretty creature,
Of dainty style, though inexpressive feature,
Who carefully reserves her choice opinions
For length of petticoats and bulk of chignons,
In whom no tragic impulse ever rankles,
Who always says her prayers, and shows her ankles.
