The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
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The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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A lay sung in the Temple of Minerva Girtanensis.
[Note.—On Thursday, February 24th, 1881, three Graces were submitted to the Senate of the University of Cambridge, confirming the Report of The Syndicate appointed June 3rd, 1880, to consider four memorials relating to the Higher Education of Women. The first two Graces were passed by majorities of 398 and 258 against 32 and 26 respectively; the third was unopposed. The allusions in the following lay will probably be understood only by those who reside in Cambridge; but it may be stated that Professor Kennedy, Professor Fawcett, and Sir C. Dilke gave their votes and influence in favour of The Graces, while Dr. Guillemard, Mr. Wace, Mr. Potts, Professor Lumby, Dr. Perowne, Mr. Horne and Mr. Hamblin Smith voted against The Graces.]
I
Aemilia Girtonensis,
By the Nine Muses swore
That the great house of Girton
Should suffer wrong no more.
By the Muses Nine she swore it,
And named a voting day,
And bade her learned ladies write,
And summon to the impending fight
Their masters grave and gay.
II.
East and West and South and North
The learned ladies wrote,
And town and gown and country
Have read the martial note.
Shame on the Cambridge Senator
Who dares to lag behind,
When light-blue ladies call him
To join the march of mind.
III.
But by the yellow Camus
Was tumult and affright:
Straightway to Pater Varius
The Trojans take their flight—
’O Varius, Father Varius,
’To whom the Trojans
pray,
’The ladies are upon us!
‘We look to thee this
day!’
IV.
There be thirty chosen Fellows,
The wisest of the land,
Who hard by Pater Varius
To bar all progress stand:
Evening and morn the Thirty
On the Three Graces sit,
Traced from the left by fingers deft
In the great Press of Pitt.
V.
And with one voice the Thirty
Have uttered their decree—
’Go forth, go forth, great Varius,
’Oppose the Graces Three!
’The enemy already
’Are quartered in the
town,
’And if they once the Tripos gain,
‘What hope to save the
gown?’
VI.
’To Hiz, [1] the town of Offa,
’Their classes first
they led,
’Then onward to Girtonia
’And Nunamantium sped:
’And now a mighty army
’Of young and beardless
girls
’Beneath our very citadel
‘A banner proud unfurls.’
VII.
Then out spake Father Varius,
No craven heart was his:
’To Pollmen and to Wranglers
’Death comes but once,
I wis.
’And how can man live better,
’Or die with more renown,
’Than fighting against Progress
‘For the rights of cap
and gown?’
VIII.
’I, with two more to help me,
’Will face yon Graces
Three;
’Will guard the Holy Tripod,
’And the M.A. Degree.
’We know that by obstruction
’Three may a thousand
foil.
’Now who will stand on either hand
‘To guard our Trojan
soil?’
IX.
Then Parvue Mariensis,
Of Bearded Jove the Priest,
Spake out ’of Trojan warriors
’I am, perhaps, the
least,
‘Yet will I stand at thy right hand.’
Cried Pottius—’I
likewise
’At thy left side will stem the
tide
’Of myriad flashing
eyes.
X.
Meanwhile the Ladies’ Army,
Right glorious to behold,
Came clad in silks and satins bright,
With seal-skins and with furs
bedight,
And gems and rings of gold.
Four hundred warriors shouted
‘Placet’ with fiendish glee,
As that fair host with fairy
feet,
And smiles unutterably sweet,
Came tripping each towards
her seat,
Where stood the dauntless Three.
XI.
The Three stood calm and silent,
And frowned upon their foes,
As a great shout of laughter
From the four hundred rose:
And forth three chiefs came spurring
Before their ladies gay,
They faced the Three, they scowled and
scoffed,
Their gowns they donned, their caps they
doffed,
Then sped them to the fray.
XII.
Generalis Post-Magister,
Lord of the Letter-bags;
And Dilkius Radicalis,
Who ne’er in combat
lags;
And Graecus Professorius,
Beloved of fair Sabrine,
From the grey Elms—beneath
whose shade
A hospitable banquet laid,
Had heroes e’en of cowards made.—
Brought ‘placets’
thirty-nine.
XIII
Stout Varius hurled ‘non placet’
At Post-Magister’s head:
At the mere glance of Pottius
Fierce Radicalis fled:
And Parvus Mariensis—
So they who heard him tell—
Uttered but one false quantity,
And Professorius fell!
* * * *
XIV.
But fiercer still and fiercer
Fresh foemen sought the fray.
And fainter still and fainter
Stout Varius stood at bay.
’O that this too, too solid
Flesh would dissolve,’
he sighed;
Yet still he stood undaunted,
And still the foe defied.
XV.
Then Pollia Nunamensis,
A student sweetly fair,
Famed for her smiles and dimples
Blue eyes and golden hair,
Of Cupid’s arrows seized
a pair,
One
in each eye she took:
Cupid’s best bow with
all her might
She pulled—each
arrow winged its flight,
And straightway reason, sense,
and sight
Stout
Varius forsook.
XVI.
’He falls’—the
Placets thundered,
And filled the yawning gap;
In vain his trusty comrades
Avenge their chief’s
mishap—
His
last great fight is done.
’They charge! Brave Pottius
prostrate lies,
No Rider helps him to arise:
They charge! Fierce Mariensis dies.
The
Bridge, the Bridge is won!
XVII.
In vain did Bencornutus
Flash lightnings from his
beard;
In vain Fabrorum Maximus
His massive form upreared;
And Lumbius Revisorius—
Diviner potent he!—
And Peronatus robed in state,
And fine old Fossilis sedate,
All vainly stemmed the tide of fate—
Triumphed
the Graces Three!
XVIII.
But when in future ages
Women have won their rights,
And sweet girl-undergraduates
Read through the lamp-lit
nights;
When some, now unborn, Pollia
Her head with science crams;
When the girls make Greek Iambics,
And the boys black-currant
jams;
XIX.
When the goodman’s shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the
loom,
And the good wife reads her Plato
In her own sequestered room;
With weeping and with laughter
Still shall the tale be told,
How pretty Pollia won the Bridge
In the brave days of old.
(1881).
[1] The ancient name of Hitchin.
Julia.
An Ode.
[Note.—The following imitation of Cowper’s Boadicea was written in 1858; most of its predictions have since been fulfilled.]
When the Cambridge flower-show ended,
And the flowers and guests
were gone,
And the evening shades descended,
Roamed a man forlorn alone.
Sage beside the River slow
Sat the Don renowned for lore
And in accents soft and low
To the elms his love did pour.
“Julia, if my learned eyes
Gaze upon thy matchless face:
’Tis because I feel there lies
Magic in thy lovely grace.
“I will marry! write that threat
In the ink I daily waste:
Marry—pay each College debt—
College Ale no more will taste.
“Granta, far and wide renowned,
Frowns upon the married state;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground
Hark! Reform is at the
gate.
“Other Fellows shall arise,
Proud to own a husband’s
name:
Proud to own their infants’ cries—
Harmony the path to fame.
“Then the progeny that springs
From our ancient College walls,
Armed with trumpets, noisy things,
Shall astound us by their
squalls.
“Sounds no wrangler yet has heard,
Our posterity shall fright:
E’en ‘the Eagle,’ [1]
valiant bird,
Shall betake itself to flight.”
Such the thoughts that through him whirl’d
Pensively reclining there:
Smiling, as his fingers curled
His divinely-glowing hair.
He, with all a lover’s pride,
Felt his manly bosom glow,
Sought the Bull, besought the Bride,
All she said was “No,
Sir, No!”
Julia, pitiless as cold,
Lo the vengeance due from
Heaven!
College Living he doth hold;
Single bliss to thee is given.
[1] “The Eagle” is the well-known Magazine of St. John’s College, Cambridge.
[Note.—The following lines were written to celebrate the ‘bump’ by which the Lady Margaret 1st Boat became “Head of the River” in 1871. On the next evening Professor Selwyn delighted the eyes and the hearts of all Johnians by sculling down the river to salute the Head of the River. The title of psychroloutes [*] needs no explanation to those who know the Selwyns, who are no less renowned as swimmers than as oarsmen.]
“Tell me, Muse, what colour floateth
round
the River’s
ancient head:
Is it white and black, or white and blue,
is it
scarlet, blue,
or red?”
Thus I prayed, and Clio answered, “Why,
I thought
the whole world
knew
That the red of Margareta had deposed
the flag
of blue!
Babes unborn shall sing in rapture how,
desiring
Close [1] affinity,
Goldie, rowing nearly fifty, overlapped,
and bumped
First Trinity.
I myself was at the Willows, and beheld
the victory won;
Saw the victor’s final effort, and
the deed of daring done.
I myself took off my bonnet, and forgetful
of my years,
Patting Goldie on the shoulder, gave him
three
times thrice three
cheers.
Ne’er, oh! ne’er, shall be
forgotten the excitement
of that night;
Aged Dons, deem’d stony-hearted,
wept with
rapture at the
sight:
E’en the Master of a College, as
he saw them overlap,
Shouted ‘Well rowed, Lady Margaret,’
and took
off his College
cap;
And a Doctor of Divinity, in his Academic
garb,
Sang a solemn song of triumph, as he lashed
his
gallant barb;
Strong men swooned, and small boys whistled,
sympathetic hounds
did yell
Lovely maidens smiled their sweetest on
the men
who’d rowed
so well:
Goldie, Hibbert, Lang, and Bonsey, Sawyer,
Burnside, Harris,
Brooke;
And the pride of knighthood, Bayard, who
the
right course ne’er
forsook,
But the sight which most rejoiced me was
the
well-known form
aquatic
Of a scholar famed for boating and for
witticisms Attic.
Proud, I ween, was Lady Margaret her Professor
there to view,
As with words of wit and wisdom he regaled
the
conquering crew.
Proud, I ween, were Cam and Granta, as
they
saw once more
afloat
Their Etonian psychroloutes [*],
in his “Funny”
little boat.
Much, I ween, their watery spirits did
(1874).
[1] Mr. J. B. Close, a well-known oarsman, stroke of the First Trinity 1st Boat.
[*] [Transcriber’s note: The word “psychroloutes” appears in the original book in Greek. It has been transliterated from the Greek letters psi, upsilon, chi, rho, omicron, lambda, omicron, upsilon, tau, eta, and sigma.]
An Idyll of the Cam.
It was an Undergraduate, his years were
scarce nineteen;
Discretion’s years and wisdom’s
teeth he plainly ne’er had seen;
For his step was light and jaunty, and
around him wide and far
He puffed the fragrant odours of a casual
cigar.
It was a sweet girl-graduate, her years
were thirty two;
Her brow was intellectual, her whole appearance
blue;
Her dress was mediaeval, and, as if by
way of charm,
Six volumes strapped together she was
bearing ’neath her arm.
‘My beautiful Aesthesis,’
the young man rashly cried,
’I am the young Athletes, of Trinity
the pride;
I have large estates in Ireland, which
ere long
will pay me rent;
I have rooms in Piccadilly, and a farm
(unlet) in Kent.
’My achievements thou hast heard
of, how I chalk the wily cue,
Pull an oar, and wield the willow, and
have won my double-blue;
How I ride, and play lawn tennis; how
I make a claret cup;
Own the sweetest of bull terriers, and
a grand St. Bernard pup.
’But believe me, since I’ve
seen thee, all these
pleasures are
a bore;
Life has now one only object fit to love
and to adore;
Long in silence have I worshipped, long
in secret have I sighed:
Tell me, beautiful Aesthesis, wilt thou
be my blooming bride?’
‘Sir Student,’ quoth the maiden,
’you are really quite intense,
And I ever of this honour shall retain
the highest sense;
But forgive me, if I venture’—faintly
blushing thus she spoke—
‘Is not true love inconsistent with
tobacco’s mundane smoke?’
‘Perish all that comes between us,’
cried Athletes, as he threw
His weed full fifty paces in the stream
of Camus blue:
The burning weed encountered the cold
river with the hiss
Which ensues when fire and water, wranglers
old, are forced to kiss.
‘Sir Student, much I thank thee,’
said the Lady, ’thou hast shown
The fragrance of a lily, or of petals
freshly blown;
But before to thee I listen there are
questions not a few
Which demand from thee an answer satisfactory
and true.’
‘Fire away,’ exclaimed Athletes,
’I will do the best I can;
But remember, gentle Maiden, that I’m
not a reading man;
So your humble servant begs you, put your
questions pretty plain,
For my Tutors all assure me I’m
not overstocked with brain.
‘Sir Student’ cried the Lady,
and her glance was stern and high,
Hast thou felt the soft vibration of a
summer sunset sky?
Art thou soulful? Art thou tuneful?
Cans’t thou
weep o’er
nature’s woes?
Art thou redolent of Ruskin? Dost
thou love a yellow rose?
’Hast thou bathed in emanations
from the canvass of Burne Jones?
As thou gazest at a Whistler, doth it
whistle wistful tones?
Art thou sadly sympathetic with a symphony
in blue?
Tell me, tell me, gentle Student, art
thou really quite tootoo?’
‘’Pon my word,’ replied
the Student, ’this is coming
it too strong:
I can sketch a bit at Lecture, and can
sing a comic song;
But my head with all these subjects ’tis
impossible to cram;
So, my beautiful Aesthesis, you must take
me as I am.’
‘Wilt thou come into my parlour,’
sweetly blushing
asked the Maid,
’To my little bower in Girton, where
a table shall be laid?
Pen and paper I will bring thee, and whatever
thou shalt ask,
That is lawful, shall be granted for performance
of thy task.’
Lightly leapt the young Athletes from
his seat beside the Cam:
’This is tempting me, by Jingo,
to submit to an Exam!
So it’s time, my learned Lady, you
and I should say good-bye’—
And he stood with indignation and wild
terror in his eye.
They parted, and Athletes had not left
her very far,
Ere again he puffed the odours of a casual
cigar;
But he oftentimes lamented, as to manhood’s
years he grew,
‘What a pity such a stunner was
so spoilt by being blue!’
And Aesthesis, as she watched him with
his swinging manly stride,
The ‘double-blue’ Athletes,
of Trinity the pride,
Found it difficult entirely to eradicate
love’s dart,
As she listened to thy Lecture, Slade
Professor of Fine Art.
And Ruskin, and the warblings of Whistler
and Burne Jones,
And symphonies in colours, and sunset’s
silent tones,
Move her not as once they moved her, for
she weeps in sorrow sore,
‘O had I loved Athletes less, or
he loved culture more!’
(1882).
A VISION.
As hard at work I trimmed the midnight
lamp,
Yfilling of mine head with
classic lore,
Mine hands firm clasped upon my temples
damp,
Methought I heard a tapping
at the door;
‘Come in,’ I cried, with most
unearthly rore,
Fearing a horrid Dun or Don
to see,
Or Tomkins, that unmitigated bore,
Whom I love not, but who alas!
loves me,
And cometh oft unbid and drinketh of my
tea.
‘Come in,’ I rored; when suddenly
there rose
A magick form before my dazzled
eyes:
‘Or do I wake,’ I asked myself
‘or doze’?
Or hath an angel come in mortal
guise’?
So wondered I; but nothing mote surmise;
Only I gazed upon that lovely
face,
In reverence yblent with mute surprise:
Sure never yet was seen such
wondrous grace,
Since Adam first began to run his earthlie
race.
Her hands were folded on her bosom meek;
Her sweet blue eyes were lifted
t’ward the skie;
Her lips were parted, yet she did not
speak;
Only at times she sighed,
or seemed to sigh:
In all her ’haviour was there nought
of shy;
Yet well I wis no Son of Earth
would dare,
To look with love upon that lofty eye;
For in her beauty there was
somewhat rare,
A something that repell’d an ordinary
stare.
Then did she straight a snowycloth disclose
Of samite, which she placed
upon a chair:
Then, smiling like a freshly-budding rose,
She gazed upon me with a witching
air,
As mote a Cynic anchorite ensnare.
Eftsoons, as though her thoughts
she could not smother,
She hasted thus her mission to declare:—
’Please, these is your
clean things I’ve brought instead of brother,
‘And if you’ll pay the bill
you’ll much oblige my mother.’
(1860).
She wore a sweet pink bonnet,
The sweetest ever known:
And as I gazed upon it,
My heart was not my own.
For—I know not why or wherefore—
A pink bonnet put on well,
Tho’ few other things I care for,
Acts upon me like a spell.
’Twas at the May Term Races
That first I met her eye:
Amid a thousand Graces
No form with her’s could
vie.
On Grassy’s sward enamelled
She reigned fair Beauty’s
Queen;
And every heart entrammell’d
With the charms of sweet eighteen.
Once more I saw that Bonnet—
’Twas on the King’s
Parade—
Once more I gazed upon it,
And silent homage paid.
She knew not I was gazing;
She passed unheeding by;
While I, in trance amazing,
Stood staring at the sky.
The May Term now is over:
That Bonnet has ‘gone
down’;
And I’m myself a rover,
Far from my Cap and Gown.
But I dread the Long Vacation,
And its work by night and
day,
After all the dissipation
Energetic of the May.
For x and y will vanish,
When that Bonnet I recall;
And a vision fair will banish,
Newton, Euclid, and Snowball.
And a gleam of tresses golden,
And of eyes divinely blue,
Will interfere with Holden,
And my Verse and Prose imbue.
* * * *
These sweet girl graduate beauties,
With their bonnets and their
roses,
Will mar ere long the duties
Which Granta wise imposes.
Who, when such eyes are shining,
Can quell his heart’s
sensations;
Or turn without repining
To Square Root and Equations?
And when conspicuous my name
By absence shall appear;
When I have lost all hopes of fame,
Which once I held so dear;
When ‘plucked’ I seek a vain
relief
In plaintive dirge or sonnet;
Thou wilt have caused that bitter grief,
Thou beautiful Pink Bonnet!
(1866).
THE MAY TERM.
Mille venit variis florum Dea nexa coronis:
Scena ioci morem liberioris
habet.
OV. Fast. IV. 945, 946.
I wish that the May Term were over,
That its wearisome pleasures
were o’er,
And I were reclining in clover
On the downs by a wave-beaten
shore:
For fathers and mothers by dozens,
And sisters, a host without
end,
Are bringing up numberless cousins,
Who have each a particular
friend.
I’m not yet confirmed in misogyny—
They are all very well in
their way—
But my heart is as hard as mahogany,
When I think of the ladies
in May.
I shudder at each railway-whistle,
Like a very much victimized
lamb;
For I know that the carriages bristle
With ladies invading the Cam.
Last week, as in due preparation
For reading I sported my door,
With surprise and no small indignation,
I picked up this note on the
floor—
’Dear E. we are coming to see you,
’So get us some lunch
if you can;
’We shall take you to Grassy, as
Jehu—
‘Your affectionate friend,
Mary Ann.’
Affectionate friend! I’m disgusted
With proofs of affection like
these,
I’m growing ‘old, tawny and
crusted,’
Tho’ my nature is easy
to please.
An Englishman’s home is his castle,
So I think that my friend
Mary Ann
Should respect, tho’ she deem him
her vassal,
The rooms of a reading young
man.
In the days of our fathers how pleasant
The May Term up here must
have been!
No chignons distracting were present,
And scarcely a bonnet was
seen.
As the boats paddled round Grassy Corner
No ladies examined the crews,
Or exclaimed with the voice of the scorner—
’Look, how Mr.
Arculus screws!!
But now there are ladies in College,
There are ladies in Chapels
and Halls;
No doubt ’tis a pure love of knowledge
That brings them within our
old walls;
For they talk about Goldie’s ‘beginning’;
Know the meaning of ‘finish’
and ‘scratch,’
And will bet even gloves on our winning
The Boat Race, Athletics,
or Match.
There’s nothing but music and dancing,
Bands playing on each College
green;
And bright eyes are merrily glancing
Where nothing but books should
be seen.
They tell of a grave Dean a fable,
That reproving an idle young
man
He faltered, for on his own table
He detected in horror—a
fan!
Through Libraries, Kitchens, Museums,
These Prussian-like Amazons
rush,
Over manuscripts, joints, mausoleums,
With equal intensity gush.
Then making their due ‘requisition,’
From ‘the lions’
awhile they refrain,
And repose in the perfect fruition
Of ices, cold fowl, and champagne.
Mr. Editor, answer my question—
When, O when, shall this tyranny
cease?
Shall the process of mental digestion
Ne’er find from the
enemy peace?
Above all if my name you should guess,
Sir,
Keep it quite to yourself,
if you can;
For I dread, more than words can express,
Sir,
My affectionate friend Mary
Ann.
(1871).
“Et potis es nigrum vitio praefigere Delta.”—PERSIUS.
It was a young Examiner, scarce thirty
were his years,
His name our University loves, honours,
and reveres:
He pondered o’er some papers, and
a tear stood in his eye;
He split his quill upon the desk, and
raised a bitter cry—
’O why has Fortune struck me down
with this unearthly blow?
“Why doom’d me to examine
in my lov’d one’s Little-go?
“O Love and Duty, sisters twain,
in diverse ways ye pull;
“I dare not ‘pass,’
I scarce can ‘pluck:’ my cup of woe
is full.
“O that I ever should have lived
this dismal day to see”!
He knit his brow, and nerved his hand,
and wrote the fatal D.
* * * * * *
It was a lovely maiden down in Hertford’s
lovely shire;
Before her on a reading-desk, lay many
a well-filled quire:
The lamp of genius lit her eyes; her years
were twenty-two;
Her brow was high, her cheek was pale,
her bearing somewhat
blue:
She pondered o’er a folio, and laboured
to divine
The mysteries of “x”
and “y,” and many a magic sign:
Yet now and then she raised her eye, and
ceased
awhile to ponder,
And seem’d as though inclined to
allow her thoughts
elsewhere to wander,
A step was heard, she closed her book;
her heart
beat high and
fast,
As through the court and up the stairs
a manly figure passed.
One moment more, the opening door disclosed
unto her view
Her own beloved Examiner, her friend and
lover true.
“Tell me, my own Rixator, is it
First or Second Class?”
His firm frame shook, he scarce could
speak,
he only sigh’d
“Alas!”
She gazed upon him with an air serenely
calm and proud—
“Nay, tell me all, I fear it not”—he
murmured
sadly “Ploughed.”
She clasped her hands, she closed her
eyes as fell
the word of doom;
Full five times round in silence did she
pace her little room;
Then calmly sat before her books, and
sigh’d “Rixator dear,
“Give me the list of subjects to
be studied for next year.”
“My own brave Mathematica, my pupil
and my pride,
“My persevering Student whom I destine
for my bride;
“Love struggled hard with Duty,
while the lover marked you B;
“In the end the stern Examiner prevailed
and gave you D.
“Mine was the hand that dealt the
blow! Alas, against my will
“I plucked you in Arithmetic—and
can’st thou love me still?”
She gazed upon him and her eye was full
of love and pride—
“Nay these are but the trials, Love,
by which
true love is tried.
“I never knew your value true, until
you marked me D:
“D stands for dear, and dear to
me you evermore shall be.”
* * * * * *
A year had passed, and she had passed,
for morning,
noon, and night,
Her Euclid and her Barnard-Smith had been
her sole delight.
Soon “Baccalaurea Artium”
was added to her name,
And Hitchin’s groves, and Granta’s
courts resounded
with her fame;
And when Rixator hurried down one day
by the express,
And asked if she would have him, I believe
she answered “Yes.”
For now they live together, and a wiser,
happier pair,
More learned and more loving, can scarce
be found elsewhere;
And they teach their children Euclid,
and
their babies all
can speak
French and German in their cradles, and
at five
can write good
Greek;
And he is a Professor and she Professoress,
And they never cease the Little-go in
gratitude to bless;
When love could not the Lover from the
path of duty sway,
And no amount of plucking could his Student
fair dismay.
Moral.
Faint heart ne’er won fair lady,
if in love you would
have luck,
In wooing, as in warfare, trust in nothing
else than pluck.
(1871).
“NUNC TE BACCHE CANAM.”
’Tis done! Henceforth nor
joy nor woe
Can make or mar my fate;
I gaze around, above, below,
And all is desolate.
Go, bid the shattered pine to bloom;
The mourner to be merry;
But bid no ray to cheer the tomb
In which my hopes I bury!
I never thought the world was fair;
That ‘Truth must reign
victorious’;
I knew that Honesty was rare;
Wealth only meritorious.
I knew that Women might deceive,
And sometimes cared
for money;
That Lovers who in Love believe
Find gall as well as honey.
I knew that “wondrous Classic lore”
Meant something most pedantic;
That Mathematics were a bore,
And Morals un-romantic.
I knew my own beloved light-blue
Might much improve their rowing:
In fact, I knew a thing or two
Decidedly worth knowing.
But thou!—Fool, fool, I thought
that thou
At least wert something glorious;
I saw thy polished ivory brow,
And could not feel censorious.
I thought I saw thee smile—but
that
Was all imagination;
Upon the garden seat I sat,
And gazed in adoration.
I plucked a newly-budding rose,
Our lips then met together;
We spoke not—but a lover knows
How lips two lives can tether.
We parted! I believed thee true;
I asked for no love-token;
But now thy form no more I view—
My Pipe, my Pipe, thou’rt
broken!
Broken!—and when the Sun’s
warm rays
Illumine hill and heather,
I think of all the pleasant days
We might have had together.
When Lucifer’s phosphoric beam
Shines e’er the Lake’s
dim water,
O then, my Beautiful, I dream
Of thee, the salt sea’s
daughter.
O why did Death thy beauty snatch
And leave me lone and blighted,
Before the Hymeneal match
Our young loves had united?
I knew thou wert not made of clay,
I loved thee with devotion,
Soft emanation of the spray!
Bright, foam-born child of
Ocean!
One night I saw an unknown star,
Methought it gently nodded;
I saw, or seemed to see, afar
Thy spirit disembodied.
Cleansed from the stain of smoke and oil,
My tears it bade me wipe,
And there, relieved from earthly toil,
I saw my Meerschaum pipe.
Men offer me the noisome weed;
But nought can calm my sorrow;
Nor joy nor misery I heed;
I care not for the morrow.
Pipeless and friendless, tempest-tost
I fade, I faint, I languish;
He only who has loved and lost
Can measure all my anguish.
By the waters of Cam, as the shades were
descending,
A Fellow sat moaning his desolate
lot;
From his sad eyes were flowing salt rivulets,
blending
Their tide with the river
which heeded them not—
“O! why did I leave,”—thus
he wearily muttered—
“The silent repose,
and the shade of my books,
Where the voice of a woman no sound ever
uttered,
And I ne’er felt the
magic of feminine looks?
“Then I rose when the east with
Aurora was ruddy;
Took a plunge in my Pliny;
collated a play;
No breakfast I ate, for I found in each
study
A collation which lasted me
all through the day.
“I know not what temptress first
came to my garden
Of Eden, and lured me stern
wisdom to leave;
But I rather believe that a sweet ‘Dolly
Varden’
Came into my rooms on a soft
summer eve.
“From that hour to this, dresses
silken and satin
Seem to rustle around me,
like wings in a dream;
And eyes of bright blue, as I lecture
in Latin,
Fill my head with ideas quite
remote from my theme.
“My life was once lonely, and almost
ascetic;
But now, if I venture to walk
in the street,
With her books in her hand, some fair
Peripatetic
Is sure to address me with
whisperings sweet.
“O, dear DR. OXYTONE, tell me the
meaning
Of this terrible phrase, which
I cannot make out;
And what is the Latin for “reaping”
and “gleaning?”
Is “podagra” the
Greek, or the Latin for “gout?”
“’And what do you mean by
“paroemiac bases?”
Did the ladies in Athens wear
heels very high?
Do give me the rules for Greek
accents, and Crasis?
Did CORNELIA drive out to
dine in a fly?
“’When were bonnets first
worn? was the toga becoming?
Were woman’s rights
duly respected in Rome?
What tune was that horrible Emperor strumming,
When all was on fire—was
it Home, Sweet Home?”
“Such questions as these (sweetest
questions!) assail me,
When I walk on our Trumpington-Road-Rotten-Row;
The voice of the charmer ne’er ceases
to hail me
(Is it wisely she charmeth?)
wherever I go.
“Locked up in my rooms, I sigh wearily
‘ohe!’
But cards, notes, and letters
pour in by each post;
From PHYLLIS, EUPHROSYNE, PHIDYLE, CHLOE,
AMARYLLIS and JANE, and a
numberless host.
“And now, I must take either poison
or blue-pill,
For things cannot last very
long as they are.”
He ceased, as the exquisite form of a
pupil
Dawned upon him, serene as
a beautiful star.
Much of syntax and “accidence moving”
our Fellow
Discoursed as they sat by
the murmuring stream,
Till, as young Desdemona was charmed
by Othello,
She listened, as one who is
dreaming a dream.
*
* * * * *
Now he, who was once a confirmed woman-hater,
Sees faces around him far
dearer than books;
And no longer a Coelebs, but husband and
“pater,”
Lauds in Latin and Greek MRS.
OXYTONE’S looks.
(1871)
THE SENIOR FELLOW.
When the shades of eve descending
Throw o’er cloistered
courts their gloom,
Dimly with the twilight blending
Memories long forgotten loom.
From the bright fire’s falling embers
Faces smile that smiled of
yore;
Till my heart again remembers
Hopes and thoughts that live
no more.
Then again does manhood’s vigour
Nerve my arm with iron strength;
As of old when trained with rigour
We beat Oxford by a length.
Once again the willow wielding
Do I urge the flying ball;
Till “lost ball” the men who’re
fielding
Hot and weary faintly call.
Then I think of hours of study,
Study silent as the tomb,
Till the rays of morning ruddy
Shone within my lonely room.
Once again my heart is burning
With ambition’s restless
glow;
And long hidden founts of learning
O’er my thirsty spirit
flow.
Soon fresh scenes my fancy people,
For I see a wooded hill;
See above the well-known steeple;
Hear below the well-known
rill;
Joyous sounds each gale is bringing,
Wafted on its fragrant breath;
Hark! I hear young voices singing,
Voices silent now in death.
Brothers, sisters, loved and loving,
Hold me in their fond embrace;
Half forgiving, half reproving,
I can see my Mother’s
face,
Mid a night of raven tresses,
Through the gloom two sad
eyes shine;
And my hand a soft hand presses,
And a heart beats close to
mine.
In mine ears a voice is ringing,
Sweeter far than earthly strain,
Heavenly consolation bringing
From the land that knows no
pain,
And when slowly from me stealing
Fades that vision into air,
Every pulse beats with the feeling
That a Spirit loved was there.
O how shall I write a love-ditty
To my Alice on Valentine’s
day?
How win the affection or pity
Of a being so lively and gay?
For I’m an unpicturesque creature,
Fond of pipes and port wine
and a doze
Without a respectable feature,
With a squint and a very queer
nose.
But she is a being seraphic,
Full of fun, full of frolic
and mirth;
Who can talk in a manner most graphic
Every possible language on
earth.
When she’s roaming in regions Italic,
You would think her a fair
Florentine;
She speaks German like Schiller; and Gallic
Better far than Rousseau or
Racine.
She sings—sweeter far than
a cymbal
(A sound which I never have
heard);
She plays—and her fingers most
nimble
Make music more soft than
a bird.
She speaks—’tis like
melody stealing
O’er the Mediterranean
sea;
She smiles—I am instantly kneeling
On each gouty and corpulent
knee.
’Tis night! the pale moon shines
in heaven
(Where else it should shine
I don’t know),
And like fire-flies the Pleiades seven
Are winking at mortals below:
Let them wink, if they like it, for ever,
My heart they will ne’er
lead astray;
Nor the soft silken memories sever,
Which bind me to Alice De
Grey.
If I roam thro’ the dim Coliseum,
Her fairy form follows me
there;
If I list to the solemn “Te Deum,”
Her voice seems to join in
the prayer.
“Sweet spirit” I seem to remember,
O would she were near me to
hum it;
As I heard her in sunny September,
On the Rigi’s aerial
summit!
O Alice where art thou? No answer
Comes to cheer my disconsolate
heart;
Perhaps she has married a lancer,
Or a bishop, or baronet smart;
Perhaps, as the Belle of the ball-room,
She is dancing, nor thinking
of me;
Or riding in front of a small groom;
Or tossed in a tempest at
sea;
Or listening to sweet Donizetti,
In Venice, or Rome, or La
Scala;
Or walking alone on a jetty;
Or buttering bread in a parlour;
Perhaps, at our next merry meeting,
She will find me dull, married,
and gray;
So I’ll send her this juvenile greeting
On the Eve of St. Valentine’s
day.
A CURATE’S COMPLAINT.
Where are they all departed,
The loved ones of my youth,
Those emblems white of purity,
Sweet innocence and truth?
When day-light drives the darkness,
When evening melts to night,
When noon-day suns burn brightest,
They come not to my sight.
I miss their pure embraces
Around my neck and throat,
The thousand winning graces
Whereon I used to dote.
I know I may find markets
Where love is bought and sold,
But no such love can equal
The tender ties of old.
My gentle washer-woman,
I know that you are true;
The least shade of suspicion
Can never fall on you.
Then fear me not, as fiercely
I fix on thee stern eyes,
And ask in terms emphatic,
“Where are my lost white
ties?”
Each year I buy a dozen,
Yet scarce a year is gone,
Ere, looking in my ward-robe,
I find that I have none.
I don’t believe in magic,
I know that you are true,
Yet say, my washer-woman,
What can those white ties
do?
Does each with her own collar
To regions far elope,
Regions by starch untainted,
And innocent of soap?
I know not; but in future
I’ll buy no more white
ties,
But wear the stiff ‘all-rounder’
Of Ritualistic guise.
There once was a time when I revelled
in
rhyme, with Valentines
deluged my cousins,
Translated Tibullus and half of Catullus,
and
poems produced
by the dozens.
Now my tale is nigh told, for my blood’s
running
cold, all my laurels
lie yellow and faded.
“We have come to the boss;”
[1] like a weary old
hoss, poor Pegasus
limps, and is jaded.
And yet Mr. Editor, like a stern creditor,
duns
me for this or
that article,
Though he very well knows that of Verse
and of
prose I am stripped
to the very last particle.
What shall I write of? What subject
indite of?
All my vis
viva is failing;
Emeritus sum; Mons Parnassus is
dumb, and my
prayers to the
Nine unavailing.—
Thus in vain have I often attempted to
soften
the hard heart
of Mr. Arenae;
Like a sop, I must throw him some sort
of a
poem, in spite
of unwilling Camenae.
* * * * * *
No longer I roam in my Johnian home, no
more
in the “wilderness”
wander;
And absence we know, for the Poet says
so,
makes the heart
of the lover grow fonder.
I pine for the Cam, like a runaway lamb
that
misses his woolly-backed
mother;
I can find no relief for my passionate
grief, nor
my groanings disconsolate
smother.
Say, how are you all in our old College
Hall?
Are the dinners
more costly, or plainer?
How are Lecturers, Tutors, Tobacco and
Pewters,
and how is my
friend, the Complainer?
Are the pupils of Merton, and students
of Girton,
increasing in
numbers, or fewer?
Are they pretty, or plain? Humble-minded
or
vain? Are
they paler, or pinker, or bluer?
How’s the party of stormers, our
so-called
Reformers?
Are Moral and Natural Sciences
Improving men’s Minds? Who
the money now
finds, for Museums,
and all their appliances?
Is Philosophy thriving, or sound sense
reviving?
Is high-table
talk metaphysic?
Will dark blue or light have the best
of the
fight, at Putney
and Mortlake and Chiswick?
I often importune the favour of Fortune,
that no
misadventure may
cross us,
And Rhodes once again on the watery plain,
may prove an aquatic
Colossus.
[N.B. since I wrote I must add a short
note,
by means of new
fangled devices,
Our “Three” was unseated,
and we were
defeated, and
robbed of our laurels by Isis.]—
O oft do I dream of the muddy old stream,
the
Father of wisdom
and knowledge,
Where ages ago I delighted to row for
the honour
and praise of
my College.
I feel every muscle engaged in the tussle,
I hear
the wild shouting
and screaming;
And as we return I can see from the stern
Lady
Margaret’s
red banner streaming;
Till I wake with a start, such as nightmares
impart,
and find myself
rapidly gliding,
And striving in vain at my ease to remain
on a
seat that is constantly
sliding.
Institutions are changed, men and manners
deranged, new
systems of rowing and reading,
And writing and thinking, and eating and
drinking,
each other are
quickly succeeding.
Who knows to what end these new notions
will
tend? No
doubt all the world is progressing,
For Kenealy and Odgers, those wide-awake
dodgers,
the wrongs of
mankind are redressing.
No doubt we shall soon take a trip to
the moon,
if we need recreation
or frolic;
Or fly to the stars in the New Pullman
Cars,
when we find the
dull earth melancholic.
We shall know the delights of enjoying
our
rights
without any duties to vex us;
We shall know the unknown; the Philosopher’s
stone shall be
ours, and no problems perplex us;
For all shall be patent, no mysteries
latent;
man’s mind
by intuitive notion,
The circle shall square, x and
y shall declare,
and discover perpetual
motion.
Meanwhile till the Earth has accomplished
its
birth, mid visions
of imminent glory,
I prefer to remain, as aforetime, a plain
and
bloated and bigoted
Tory.
*
* * * * *
Dear Mr. Editor, lately my creditor, now
fully
paid and my debtor,
I wonder what you will be minded to do,
when
you get this rhapsodical
letter.
If you listen to me (I shall charge you
no fee
for advice) do
not keep or return it;
To its merits be kind, to its faults rather
blind;
in a word, Mr.
Editor, burn it!
(1875).
[1] ‘iam fervenimus usque ad umbilicos.’ Martial iv. 91.
(OR, WHAT SHOULD A MAIDEN BE?)
[NOTE.—The following lines
were written by request,
to be read at a Meeting of the “Girls’
Friendly Society.”]
What should a maiden be? Pure as
the rill,
Ere it has left its first home in the
hill;
Thinking no evil, suspecting no guile,
Cherishing nought that can harm or defile.
What should a maiden be? Honest
and true,
Giving to God and to neighbour their due;
Modest and merciful, simple and neat,
Clad in the white robe of innocence sweet.
What should a maiden be? She should
be loath
Lightly to give or receive loving troth;
But when her faith is once plighted, till
breath
Leave her, her love should be stronger
than death.
What should a maiden be? Merry,
whene’er
Merriment comes with a natural air;
But let not mirth be an every-day guest,
Quietness sits on a maiden the best.
Like a fair lily, sequestered and meek,
She should be sought for, not others should
seek;
But, when the wild winds of trouble arise,
She should be calm and courageous and
wise,
What should her words be? Her words
should be few,
Honest and genuine, tender and true;
Words that overflow from a pure heart
within,
Guiltless of folly, untainted by sin.
What should her dress be? Not gaudy
and vain,
But unaffectedly pretty and plain;
She should remember these few simple words—
“Fine feathers flourish on foolish
young birds.”
Where should a maiden be? Home is
the place
Which a fair maid is most fitted to grace;
There should she turn, like a bird to
the nest,
There should a maiden be, blessing and
blest.
There should she dwell as the handmaid
of God,
And if He bid her ‘pass under the
rod,’
Let her each murmur repining suppress,
Knowing He chasteneth that He may bless.
But if earth’s blessings each day
He renew,
Let her give glory where glory is due;
Deem every blessing a gift from above,
Given, and designed for a purpose of love,
What will her future be? If she
become
Matron and mother, may God bless her home!
God to the matron all blessings will give,
If as God’s maiden the young maiden
live.
What will her future be? If she
should die,
Lightly the earth on her ashes will lie;
Softly her body will sleep ’neath
the sod,
While her pure spirit is safe with her
God.
TURGIDUS ALPINUS.
My miserable countrymen, whose wont is
once a-year
To lounge in watering-places, disagreeable
and dear;
Who on pigmy Cambrian mountains, and in
Scotch or Irish bogs
Imbibe incessant whisky, and inhale incessant
fogs:
Ye know not with what transports the mad
Alpine Clubman gushes,
When with rope and axe and knapsack to
the realms of snow he rushes.
O can I e’er the hour forget—a
voice within cries “Never!”—
From British beef and sherry dear
which my young heart did sever?
My limbs were cased in flannel light,
my frame in Norfolk jacket,
As jauntily I stepped upon the impatient
Calais packet.
“Dark lowered the tempest overhead,”
the waters wildly rolled,
Wildly the moon sailed thro’ the
clouds, “and it grew wondrous cold;”
The good ship cleft the darkness, like
an iron wedge, I trow,
As the steward whispered kindly, “you
“Up the high Alps, perspiring madman,
steam,
To please the school-boys, and become
a theme.”
Cf. Juv.
Sat. x, v. 106.
We who know not the charms of a glass
below Zero,
Come list to the lay of an Alpine Club
hero;
For no mortal below, contradict it who
can,
Lives a life half so blest as the Alpine
Club man.
When men of low tastes snore serenely
in bed,
He is up and abroad with a nose blue and
red;
While the lark, who would peacefully sleep
in her nest,
Wakes and blesses the stranger who murders
her rest.
Now blowing their fingers, with frost-bitten
toes,
The joyous procession exultingly goes;
Above them the glaciers spectral are shining,
But onward they march undismay’d,
unrepining.
Now the glacier blue they approach with
blue noses,
When a yawning crevasse further progress
opposes;
Already their troubles begin—here’s
the rub!
So they halt, and nem. con. call
aloud for their grub.
From the fountain of pleasure will bitterness
spring,
Yet why should the Muse aught but happiness
sing?
No! let me the terrible anguish conceal
Of the hero whose guide had forgotten
the veal! [1]
Now “all full inside” on the
ice they embark:
The moon has gone down, and the morning
is dark,
Dreary drizzles the rain, O, deny it who
can,
There’s no one so blest as the Alpine
Club man!
But why should I dwell on their labours
at length?
Why sing of their eyelids’ astonishing
strength?
How they ride up “aretes”
with slow, steady advance,
One leg over Italy, one over France.
Now the summit is gained, the reward of
their toil:
So they sit down contentedly water to
boil:
Eat and drink, stamp their feet, and keep
warm if they can—
O who is so blest as the Alpine Club man?
Now their lips and their hands are of
wonderful hue,
And skinless their noses, that ’erst
were so blue:
And they find to their cost that high
regions agree
With that patient explorer and climber—the
flea.
Then they slide down again in a manner
not cozy,
(Descensus baud facilis est Montis Rosae)
Now spread on all fours, on their backs
now descending,
Till broad-cloth and bellows call loudly
for mending.
Now harnessed together like so many—horses,
By bridges of snow they cross awful crevasses;
So frail are these bridges that they who
go o’er ’em
Indulge in a perilous “Pons Asinorum.”
Lastly weary and Jaded, with hunger opprest,
In a hut they chew goat’s flesh,
and court gentle rest;
But entomological hosts have conspired
To drive sleep from their eyelids, with
clambering tired.
O thou, who with banner of strangest device
Hast never yet stood on a summit of ice,
Where “lifeless but beautiful”
nature doth show
An unvaried expanse of rock, rain, ice,
and snow.
Perchance thou may’st ask what avails
all their toil?
What avails it on mountain-tops water
to boil?
What avails it to leave their snug beds
in the dark?
Do they go for a view? do they go for
a lark?
Know, presumptuous wretch, ’tis
not science they prize,
The lark, and the view (’tis all
mist) they despise;
Like the wise king of France with his
ten thousand men,
They go up their mountain—to
come down again.
[1] Cf. Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers, 1st Series, p. 296.
Year after year, as Summer suns come round,
Upon the Calais packet am I found:
Thence to Geneva hurried by express,
I halt for breakfast, bathe, and change
my dress.
My well-worn knapsack to my back I strap;
My Alpine rope I neatly round me wrap;
Then, axe in hand, the diligence disdaining,
I walk to Chamonix, by way of training.
Arrived at Coutlet’s Inn by eventide,
I interview my porter and my guide:
My guide, that Mentor who has dragg’d
full oft
These aching, shaking, quaking limbs aloft;
Braved falling stones, cut steps on ice-slopes
steep,
That I the glory of his
deeds might reap.
My porter, who with uncomplaining back
O’er passes, peaks, and glaciers
bears my pack:
* * * * *
By reasoning such as this, year after
year,
I overcome my men’s unreasoning
fear:
Twice has my guide by falling stones been
struck,
Yet still I trust his science and my luck.
A falling stone once cut my rope in twain;
We stopped to mend it, and marched on
again.
Once a big boulder, with a sudden whack,
Severed my knapsack from my porter’s
back.
Twice on a sliding avalanche I’ve
slid,
While my companions in its depths were
hid.
Daring all dangers, no disaster fearing,
I carry out my plan of mountaineering.
Thus have I conquered glacier, peak, and
pass,
Aiguilles du Midi, Cols des Grandes Jorasses.
Thus shall I onward march from peak to
peak,
Till there are no new conquests left to
seek.
O the wild joy, the unutterable bliss
To hear the coming avalanche’s hiss!
Or place oneself in acrobatic pose,
While mountain missiles graze one’s
sun-burnt nose!
And if some future season I be doom’d
To be by boulders crushed, or snow entombed,
Still let me upward urge my mad career,
And risk my limbs and life for honour
dear!
Sublimely acquiescent in my lot,
I’ll die a martyr for—I
know not what!
(1876)
[1] Written in 1876.
I made an ascent of the Eiger
Last year, which has ne’er
been surpassed;
’Twas dangerous, long, and laborious,
But almost incredibly fast.
We started at twelve from the Faulberg;
Ascended the Monch by the
way;
And were well at the base of our mountain,
As the peak caught the dawn
of the day.
In front of me Almer and Perren
Cut steps, each as big as
a bucket;
While behind me there followed, as Herren,
George, Stephen, and Freshfield,
and Tuckett.
We got to the top without trouble;
There halted, of course, for
the view;
When clouds, sailing fast from the southward,
Veiled over the vault of dark
blue.
The lightning shone playfully round us;
The thunder ferociously growled;
The hail beat upon us in bullets;
And the wind everlastingly
howled.
We turned to descend to the Scheideck,
Eyes blinded, ears deafened,
we ran,
In our panic and hurry, forgetting
To add a new stone to the
man.
Palinurus himself—that is Almer—
No longer could make out the
track;
’Twas folly, no doubt, to go onward;
’Twas madness, of course,
to go back.
The snow slope grew steeper and steeper;
The lightning more vividly
flared;
The thunder rolled deeper and deeper;
And the wind more offensively
blared.
But at last a strong gust for a moment
Dispersed the thick cloud
from our sight,
And revealed an astonishing prospect,
Which filled not our hearts
with delight:
On our right was a precipice awful;
On the left chasms yawning
and deep;
Glazed rocks and snow-slopes were before
us,
At an angle alarmingly steep.
We all turned and looked back at Almer.
Who then was the last on the
rope;
His face for a moment was clouded,
Then beamed with the dawn
of a hope;
He came to the front, and thence forward
In wonderful fashion he led,
Over rocks, over snow-slopes glissading,
While he stood, bolt upright
on his head!
We followed, in similar fashion;
Hurrah, what a moment is this!
What a moment of exquisite transport!
A realization of bliss!
To glissade is a pleasant sensation,
Of which all have written,
or read;
But to taste it, in perfect perfection,
You should learn to glissade
on your head.
Hurrah! with a wild scream of triumph,
Over snow, over boulders we
fly,
Our heads firmly pressed to the surface,
Our heels pointing up to the
sky!
We bound o’er the bergschrund uninjured,
We shoot o’er a precipice
sheer;
Hurrah, for the modern glissader!
Hurrah, for the wild mountaineer!
* * * * *
But, alas! what is this? what a shaking!
What a jar! what a bump! what
a thump!
Out of bed, in intense consternation,
I bound with a hop, skip,
and jump.
For I hear the sweet voice of a “person”
Of whom I with justice am
proud,
“My dear, when you dream about
mountains,
I wish you’d not jodel
so loud!”
THE BEACONSFIELD ALPHABET.
A’s my new policy called Annexation;
B is the Bother it causes the nation.
C is Lord Chelmsford, engaged with Zulus;
D the Disasters which give me ‘the
blues.’
E is the Effort I make to look merry;
F is my Failure—deplorable
very!
G is Sir Garnett, alas, not ubiquitous!
H stands for H——t, an
M.P. iniquitous.
I stands for India, a source of vexation:
J are the Jews, a most excellent nation.
K is the Khedive, whose plan is to borrow
L L. s. d.—I’ll
annex him to-morrow!
M’s the Majority, which I much prize;
N are the Non-contents whom I despise.
O’s the Opposition, so often defeated;
P is P——ll, that Home-ruler
(1879).
A’s Aristides, or Gladstone the
Good;
B is Lord B., whom I’d crush if
I could.
C are Conservatives, full of mad pranks;
D are the Dunces who fill up their ranks.
E stands for Ewelme, of some notoriety;
F for the Fuss made in Oxford society.
G stands for Gladstone, a hewer of wood;
H is my Hatchet of merciless mood.
I is the Irish Church which I cut down:
J are the Jobs which I kill with a frown,
K are the Knocks which I give and I take:
L are the Liberals whom I forsake.
M are the Ministry whom I revile;
N are the Noodles my speeches beguile.
O is the Office I mean to refuse:
P is the Premier—I long for
his shoes.
Q are the Qualms of my conscience refined;
R is the Rhetoric nothing can bind,
S is Herr Schliemann who loves much to
walk about
T ancient Troy, which I love much
to talk about.
U is the Union of Church and State;
V are my former Views, now out of date.
W is William, the People’s ‘True
Bill,’
X is the Exit from power of that ‘Will.’
Y is Young England, who soon will unite
Z in fresh Zeal for the ‘People’s
Delight.’
(1879)
SOLITUDE IN SEPTEMBER.
O BEATA SOLITUDO; O SOLA BEATITUDO.
(Inscription in the Grounds of Burg Birseck, near Basel.)
Sweet Solitude where dost thou linger?
When and where shall I look
in thy face?
Feel the soft magic touch of thy finger,
The glow of thy silent embrace?
Stern Civilization has banished
Thy charms to a region unknown;
The spell of thy beauty has vanished—
Sweet Solitude, where hast
thou flown?
I have sought thee on pampas and prairie,
By blue lake and bluer crevasse,
On shores that are arid and airy,
Lone peak, and precipitous
pass.
I have sought thee, sweet Solitude, ever
Regardless of peril and pain;
But in spite of my utmost endeavour
I have sought thee, fair charmer,
in vain.
To the Alps, to the Alps in September,
Unconducted by Cook, did I
rush;
Full well even now I remember
How my heart with emotion
did gush.
Here at least in these lonely recesses
With thee I shall cast in
my lot;
Shall feel thy endearing caresses,
Forgetting all else and forgot.
But I met a young couple “proposing”
On the top of the sunny Languard;
I surprised an old gentleman dozing,
“Times” in hand,
on the heights of Fort Bard.
In the fir woods of sweet Pontresina
Picnic papers polluted the
walks;
On the top of the frosty Bernina
I found a young mountain of—corks.
I trod, by the falls of the Handeck,
On the end of a penny cigar;
As I roamed in the woods above Landeck
A hair-pin my pleasure did
mar:
To the Riffel in vain I retreated,
Mr. Gaze and the Gazers were
there;
On the top of the Matterhorn seated
I picked up a lady’s
back hair!
From the Belle Vue in Thun I was hunted
By “’Arry”
who wished to play pool;
On the Col du Bonhomme I confronted
The whole of a young ladies’
school.
At Giacomo’s Inn in Chiesa
I was asked to take shares
in a mine;
With an agent for “Mappin’s
new Razor”
I sat down at Baveno to dine.
On the waves of Lake Leman were floating
Old lemons (imagine my feelings!),
The fish in Lucerne were all gloating
On cast-away salads and peelings;
And egg-shells and old bones of chicken
On the shore of St. Moritz
did lie:
My spirit within me did sicken—
Sweet Solitude, where shall
I fly?
Disconsolate, gloomy, and undone
I take in the “Dilly”
my place;
By Zurich and Basel to London
I rush, as if running a race.
My quest and my troubles are over;
As I drive through the desolate
street
To my Club in Pall Mall, I discover
Sweet Solitude’s summer
retreat.
MEDITATIONS OF A
CLASSICAL MAN ON A MATHEMATICAL PAPER
DURING A LATE FELLOWSHIP EXAMINATION.
Woe, woe is me! for whither can I fly?
Where hide me from Mathesis’ fearful
eye?
Where’er I turn the Goddess haunts
my path,
Like grim Megoera in revengeful wrath:
In accents wild, that would awake the
dead,
Bids me perplexing problems to unthread;
Bids me the laws of x and y
to unfold,
And with “dry eyes” dread
mysteries behold.
Not thus, when blood maternal he had shed,
The Furies’ fangs Orestes wildly
fled;
Not thus Ixion fears the falling stone,
Tisiphone’s red lash, or dark Cocytus’
moan.
Spare me, Mathesis, though thy foe I be,
Though at thy altar ne’er I bend
the knee,
Though o’er thy “Asses’
Bridge” I never pass,
And ne’er in this respect will prove
an ass;
Still let mild mercy thy fierce anger
quell! oh
Let, let me live to be a Johnian fellow!
* * * * * *
She hears me not! with heart as hard as
lead,
She hurls a Rhombus at my luckless head.
Lo, where her myrmidons, a wrangling crew,
With howls and yells rise darkling to
the view.
There Algebra, a maiden old and pale,
Drinks “double x,”
enough to drown a whale.
There Euclid, ’mid a troop of “Riders”
passes,
Riding a Rhomboid o’er the Bridge
of Asses;
And shouts to Newton, who seems rather
deaf,
I’ve crossed the Bridge in safety
Q.E.F.
There black Mechanics, innocent of soap,
Lift the long lever, pull the pulley’s
rope,
Coil the coy cylinder, explain the fear
Which makes the nurse lean slightly to
her rear;
Else, equilibrium lost, to earth she’ll
fall,
Down will come child, nurse, crinoline
and all!
But why describe the rest? a motley crew,
Of every figure, magnitude, and hue:
Now circles they describe; now form in
square;
Now cut ellipses in the ambient air:
Then in my ear with one accord they bellow,
“Fly wretch! thou ne’er shalt
be a Johnian Fellow!”
Must I then bid a long farewell to “John’s,”
Its stately courts, its wisdom-wooing
Dons,
Its antique towers, its labyrinthine maze,
Its nights of study, and its pleasant
days?
O learned Synod, whose decree I wait,
Whose just decision makes, or mars my
fate;
If in your gardens I have loved to roam,
And found within your courts a second
home;
If I have loved the elm trees’ quivering
shade,
Since on your banks my freshman limbs
I laid;
If rustling reeds make music unto me
More soft, more sweet than mortal melody;
If I have loved to “urge the flying
ball”
Against your Racquet Court’s re-echoing
wall;
If, for the honour of the Johnian red,
I’ve gladly spurned the matutinal
bed,
And though at rowing, woe is me! no dab,
I’ve rowed my best, and seldom caught
a crab;
If classic Camus flow to me more dear
Than yellow Tiber, or Ilissus clear;
If fairer seem to me that fragrant stream
Than Cupid’s kiss, or Poet’s
pictured dream;
If I have loved to linger o’er the
page
Of Roman Bard, and Academian sage;
If all your grave pursuits, your pastimes
gay,
Have been my care by night, my joy by
day;
Still let me roam, unworthy tho’
I be,
By Cam’s slow stream, beneath the
old elm tree;
Still let me lie in Alma Mater’s
arms,
Far from the wild world’s troubles
and alarms:
Hear me, nor in stern wrath my prayer
repel! oh
Let, let me live to be a Johnian Fellow!
(1865).
THE LADY MARGARET 5TH BOAT,
May, 1863.
1. BOYCOTT, W. 5. PALEY, G. A.
2. FERGUSON, R. S. 6. GORST, P. F.
3. BOWLING, E. W. 7. SECKER, J. H.
4. SMITH, JASON. 8. FISHER, J.
Steerer—BUSHELL, W. D.
Eight B.A.’s stout from town
came out M.A. degrees to take,
And made a vow from stroke to bow a bump or two
to make.
Weary were they and jaded with the din of London
town,
And they felt a tender longing for their long-lost
cap
and gown.
So they sought the old Loganus: well pleased,
I trow, was he,
The manly forms he knew so well once more again
to see:
And they cried—“O old Loganus,
can’st thou
find us e’er a boat,
In which our heavy carcases may o’er the waters
float?”
Then laughed aloud Loganus—a bitter jest
lov’d he—
And he cried “Such heavy mariners I ne’er
before did see;
I have a fast commodious barge, drawn by a wellfed
steed,
’Twill scarcely bear your weight, I fear:
for never
have I see’d
Eight men so stout wish to go out a rowing in a
‘height;’
Why, gentlemen, a man of war would sink beneath
your weight.”
Thus spake the old Loganus, and he laughed both
long and loud,
And when the eight men heard his words, they
stood abashed and cowed;
For they knew not that he loved them, and that,
sharply tho’ he spoke,
The old man loved them kindly, tho’ he also
loved his joke:
For Loganus is a Trojan, and tho’ hoary be
his head,
He loveth Margareta, and the ancient Johnian red.
So he brought them out an eight-oar’d tub,
and
oars both light and strong,
And bade them be courageous, and row their ship
along.
Then in jumped Casa Minor, the Captain of our crew,
And the gallant son-of Fergus in a “blazer”
bright and new;
And Thomas o Kulindon [*] full proudly grasped
his oar,
And Iason o Chalkourgos [*], who weighs enough
for “four;”
For if Jason and Medea had sailed with him for cargo,
To the bottom of the Euxine would have sunk the
good ship Argo.
Then Pallidulus Bargaeus, the mightiest of our crew,
Than whom no better oarsman ever wore the Cambridge
blue.
And at number six sat Peter, whom Putney’s
waters know;
Number seven was young Josephus, the ever-sleepless
Joe;
Number eight was John Piscator, at his oar a wondrous
dab,
Who, tho’ all his life a fisher, yet has never
caught a crab;
Last of all the martial Modius, having laid his
good sword by,
Seized the rudder-strings, and uttered an invigorating
cry:
“Are you ready all? Row, Two, a stroke!
Eyes
front, and sit at ease!
Quick March! I meant to say, Row on! and
mind the time all, please.”
Then sped the gallant vessel, like an arrow from
a bow,
And the men stood wondering on the banks to
see the “Old’uns” row;
And Father Camus raised his head, and smiled upon
the crew,
For their swing, and time, and feather, and their
forms, full well he knew.
They rowed past Barnwell’s silvery pool, past
Charon’s gloomy bark,
And nearly came to grief beneath the railway rafters
dark:
But down the willow-fringed Long Reach so fearful
was their pace,
(1863).
[* Transcriber’s note: The names “Thomas o Kulindon” and “Iason o Chalkourgos” were transliterated from the Greek as follows:
Thomas: Theta, omega, mu, alpha,
sigma.
o: omicron.
Kulindon: Kappa, upsilon, lambda,
iota, nu, delta, omega, nu.
Iason (Jason?): Iota, alpha, sigma,
omega, nu.
o: omicron.
Chalkourgos: Chi, alpha, lambda,
kappa, omicron, upsilon,
rho,
gamma, omicron, sigma.]
Ridicula nuper cymba, sicut meus est mos,
Flumineas propter salices et murmura Cami,
Multa movens mecum, fumo inspirante, iacebam.
Illic forte mihi senis occurrebat imago
Squalida, torva tuens, longos incompta
capillos;
Ipse manu cymbam prensans se littore in
udo
Deposuit; Camique humeros agnoscere latos
Immanesque artus atque ora hirsuta videbar:
Mox lacrymas inter tales dedit ore querelas—
“Nate,” inquit, “tu
semper enim pius accola Cami,
Nate, patris miserere tui, miserere tuorum!
Quinque reportatis tumet Isidis unda triumphis:
Quinque anni videre meos sine laude secundo
Cymbam urgere loco cunctantem, et cedere
victos.
Heu! quis erit finis? Quis me manet
exitus olim?
Terga boum tergis vi non cedentia nostri
Exercent iuvenes; nuda atque immania crura,
Digna giganteas inter certare palaestras,
Quisque ferunt, latosque humeros et brachia
longa,
Collaque Atlanteo non inferiora labore:
“Sed vis arte carens frustra per
stagna laborat:
Fit brevis inque dies brevior (proh dedecus
ingens!)
Ictus, et incerto tremulam movet impete
cymbam,
Usque volaturae similem, tamen usque morantem.
Ah! Stanleius ubi est? ubi fortis
et acer Ioenas
Et Virtus ingens, maiorque vel Hercule
Iudas?
Ah! ubi, laeva mei novit quem fluminis
ora,
Ile ‘Ictus,’ vitreis longe
spectandus ocellis,
Dulce decus Cami, quem plebs ignoblis
‘Aulam,’
Vulpicanem Superi grato cognomine dicunt?
Te quoque, magne Pales, et te mea flumina
deflent
O formose puer, quibus alto in gurgite
mersis
Mille dedit, rapuit mille oscula candida
Naias?
Quid decus amissum repeto, aut iam laude
perempta
Nomina Putnaeis annalibus eruta testor?
“Tu quoque qui cymbae tendis Palinurus
habenas
Ultro hortare viros; fortes solare benignis
Vocibus; ignavos accende, suosque labores
Fac peragant, segnique veta torpere veterno.
Sed quid ego haec? priscae si iam pietatis
imago
Ulla manet, si quid vobis mea gloria curae
est,
Camigenae, misero tandem succurrite patri,
Ereptosque diu vincendo reddite honores!
Tunc ego arundinea redimitus tempora vitta
Antiquo fruar imperior iustisque triumphis:
Tum demum Cloacina meos foedissima fluctus
Desierit temerare, et puro flumine labens
Camus ad Oceanum volvetur amabilis amnis.”
Dixit, et in piceas Fluvius sese abdidit
undas;
Sed me ridiculam solventem a littore cymbam
Nectaris ambrosii circumvolvuntur odores,
Decedente Deo; naresque impellit acutas
Confusi canis amnis et illaetabilis aura.
FATHER CAMUS.
Smoking lately in my “Funny,”
as I’m wont, beneath the bank,
Listening to Cam’s rippling murmurs
thro’ the
weeds and willows
dank,
As I chewed the Cud of fancy, from the
water there appeared
An old man, fierce-eyed, and filthy, with
a long
and tangled beard;
To the oozy shore he paddled, clinging
to my Funny’s nose,
Till, in all his mud majestic, Cam’s
gigantic form arose.
Brawny, broad of shoulders was he, hairy
were
his face and head,
And amid loud lamentations tears incessantly
he shed.
“Son,” he cried, “the
sorrows pity of thy melancholy sire!
Pity Camus! pity Cambridge! pity our disasters
dire!
Five long years hath Isis triumphed, five
long
years have seen
my Eight
“And do you, my Palinuris, steering
straight the gallant bark,
By voice and exhortation keep your heroes
to the mark.
Cheer the plucky, chide the cowards who
to do
their work are
loth,
And forbid them to grow torpid by indulging
selfish sloth.
Fool! I know my words are idle!
yet if any love remain;
If my honour be your glory, my discredit
be your pain;
If a spark of old affection in your hearts
be still alive!
Rally round old Father Camus, and his
glories past revive!
Then adorned with reedy garland shall
I take my former throne,
And, victor of proud Isis, reign triumphant
and alone.
Then no more shall Cloacina with my streams
her offerings
blend,
And old Camus clear as crystal to the
ocean shall descend!”
He spoke, and ’neath the surface,
black as pitch,
he hid his head,
And, punting out my Funny, I my homeward
journey sped.
But a strange ambrosial odour, as the
God sank
’neath the
flood,
Seem’d to float and hover round
me, creeping
upward from the
mud:
And for ever from the water’s troubled
face there
seem’d to
rise
A melancholy fragrance of dead dogs unto
the skies.
He has gone to his grave in the strength
of youth,
While life shone bright before
him;
And we, who remember his worth and truth,
Stand vainly grieving o’er
him.
He has gone to his grave; that manly heart
No more with life is glowing;
And the tears to our eyes unbidden start,
Our sad hearts’ overflowing.
I gaze on his rooms as beneath I pace,
And the past again comes o’er
me,
For I feel his grasp, and I see his face,
And his voice has a welcome
for me.
I gaze on the river, and see once more
His form in the race competing;
And I hear the time of his well-known
oar,
And the shouts his triumph
greeting.
Flow on, cold river! Our bitter
grief
No tears from thy waves can
waken:
Thy whisp’ring reed, and thy willow
leaf
By no sad sighs are shaken.
Thy banks are thronged by the young and
gay,
Who dream not of the morrow;
No ear hast thou for a mournful lay,
No sympathy with sorrow.
Flow on, dull river! Thy heedless
wave,
As it echoes shouts of gladness,
Bears forms as stalwart, and hearts as
brave,
As his whom we mourn in sadness.
But an arm more strong, and a heart more
bold,
And with purer feelings glowing,
Thy flowing waters shall ne’er behold,
Till time has ceased from
flowing.
(1866).
GRANTA VICTRIX.
Let penny-a-liners columns pour
Of turgid efflorescence,
Describe in language that would floor
Our Cayleys, Rouths, and Besants,
How Oxford oars as levers move,
While Cambridge mathematics,
Though excellent in theory, prove
Unstable in aquatics.
Our muse, a maiden ne’er renowned
For pride, or self-reliance,
Knows little of the depths profound
Of “Telegraphic”
science:
But now her peace she cannot hold
And like a true Camena,
With look half-blushing and half-bold,
Descends into the arena.
Sing who was he that steered to win,
In spite of nine disasters,
And proved that men who ne’er give
in
Must in the end be masters?
No warrior stern by land or sea,
With spurs, cocked hat, and
sword on,
Has weightier work than fell to thee,
Our gallant little Gordon.
Who when old Cam was almost dead,
His glory almost mouldy,
Replaced the laurels on his head?
Sweet Echo answers—“Goldie.”
Who was our Seven of mighty brawn
As valiant as a lion?
Who could he be but strapping Strachan,
Australia’s vigorous
scion?
Who rowed more fierce than lioness,
Bereft of all her whelps?
A thousand light-blue voices bless
The magic name of Phelps.
Who was our Five? Herculean Lowe,
(Not he of the Exchequer),
So strong, that he with ease could row
A race in a three-decker.
Cam sighed—“When shall
I win a race”?
Fair Granta whispered—“When,
Sir,
You see at Four, his proper place,
My Faerie-queen-like Spencer.”
’Tis distance robes the mountain
pale
In azure tints of bright hue,
‘More than a distance’ lends
to Dale,
His well earned double light-blue.
Proud Oxford burnt in days of old
Ridley the Cambridge Martyr,
But this year in our Ridley bold
Proud Oxford caught a Tartar.
And Randolph rowed as well beseemed
His school renowned in story,
And like old Nelson only dreamed
Of Westminster and glory.
These men of weight rowed strong and straight,
And led from start to finish;
Their slow and steady thirty-eight
No spurts could e’er
diminish:
Till Darbyshire, not given to lose,
Sees Cambridge rowing past
him;
And Goldie steps into his shoes;
Long may their leather last
him!
Glory be theirs who’ve won full
well
The love of Alma Mater,
The smiles of every light-blue Belle,
The shouts of every Pater!
Unlimited was each man’s store
Of courage, strength, and
fettle,
From Goldie downwards every oar
Was ore of precious metal.
Then fare-ye-well till this time year,
Ye heroes stout and strapping,
And then beware, forgive my fear,
Lest Oxford find you napping;
And, oh! when o’er your work ye
bend,
’Mid shouts of—“light-blue’s
winning,”
If ye would triumph in the end,
Remember the beginning!
P.S. The Muse true to her sex,
Less to be blamed than pitied,
A Post-script must of course annex
To state a point omitted.
When Granta glorying in success
With Camus pours her orisons;
One name she gratefully must bless,
That name is mighty Morrison’s.
THE GREAT BOAT-RACE.
1. HAWKSHAW 3rd Trinity.
5. KINGLAKE 3rd Trinity.
2. PIGOTT Corpus.
6. BORTHWICK 1st Trinity.
3. WATSON Pembroke.
7. STEAVENSON Trinity Hall.
4. HAWKINS Lady Margaret.
8. SELWYN 3rd Trinity.
Steerer,
ARCHER, Corpus.
BEFORE THE RACE.
Come, list to me, who wish to hear the
glories of our crew,
I’ll tell you all the names of those
who wear the
Cambridge Blue.
First HAWKSHAW comes, a stalwart bow,
as
tough as oak,
nay tougher;
Look at him ye who wish to see the Antipodes
to “duffer.”
Swift as the Hawk in airy flight, strong
as the guardsman SHAW,
We men of mortal muscles must contemplate
him with awe.
Though I dwell by Cam’s slow river,
and I hope
am not a bigot,
I think that Isis cannot boast a better
man than PIGOTT:
Active, and strong, and steady, and never
known to shirk,
Of Corpus the quintessence, he is always
fit for work.
The men of Thames will be amazed when
they
see our “Three”
so strong,
And doubt if such a mighty form to mortal
mould belong.
“What son is this?”
they, one and all, will ask
in awe and wonder;
The men of Cam will answer make, “A
mighty son of thunder.”
Next HAWKINS comes at “number 4,”
the sole surviving pet
Of the patroness of rowing, the Lady Margaret;
When they think of his broad shoulders,
and
strong and sinewy
arms,
Nor parents dear, nor brothers stern,
need foster fond alarms.
O! a tear of love maternal in Etona’s
eye will quiver
When she sees her favourate KINGLAKE also
monarch of the
river.
Oh! that I could honour fitly in this
unassuming song
That wondrous combination of steady, long,
and strong.
Then comes a true-blue mariner from the
ever-glorious “First,”
In the golden arms of Glory and the lap
of Victory nurst;
Though blue may be his colours, there
are better oarsmen few,
And Oxford when it sees him will perhaps
look still more blue.
Then comes the son of STEPHEN, as solid
as a wall;
We need not add, who know his name, that
he
hails from Trinity
AFTER THE RACE.
Dei mihi, Oxford wins!
(1864).
ADDRESSED TO HIS UNIVERSITY.
Wish ye, sons of Alma Mater,
Long lost laurels to replace?
Listen to a stout old Pater,
Once renowned in many a race.
Now, alas! I’m fat and forty,
And my form grows round to
view;
And my nose is rather “porty;”
But my heart is still light-blue.
’Tis as bad as an emetic,
E’en my ’baccy
I refuse,
When I hear that sports athletic
Interfere with Cambridge crews.
Once a Grecian runner famous
Scorned to fight his country’s
foes;
And to Greece, as some to Camus,
Caused innumerable woes.
When I hear the voice parental
Cry, “my youngster shall
not row!”
Then my wrath is transcendental,
Then my words with vigour
flow.
Sires, with hearts of alabaster,
Your stern “vetos”
yet you’ll rue,
When ye see a sixth disaster,
Overwhelm your loved light-blue.
But whatever to Cambridge happen,
Sons of Cam behave like men!
Rally round your royal Cap’en,
King of Lake,
and King of Fen!
Fortune helps the brave who court her,
Only to yourselves be true;
And perhaps, on Putney’s water,
Victory will crown light-blue.
When your Cox’en cries “all
ready,”
Be alert, dismiss all napping,
Get well forward, all sit steady,
Grasp the oar, avoid all “capping:”
Shoulders square, back straight, eyes
ever
Fixed upon the back before;
Then all eight, with one endeavour,
Dip at once the bladed oar.
Catch your stroke at the beginning,
Then let legs with vigour
work:
Little hope has he of winning,
Who his “stretcher”
loves to shirk.
Let your rigid arms extended
Be as straight as pokers two;
And until the stroke is ended,
Pull it, without jerking,
through!
Thus all disputations spurning,
Ye, ere many a year has past,
While old Fortune’s wheel is turning,
Victory shall taste at last.
Only wait and work together;
Trust in discipline and pluck—
Soon bad luck will run his tether,
And good rowing bring good
luck.
(1866).
THE SORROWS OF FATHER CAM.
1. WATNEY Lady Margaret. 5. STEAVENSON Trinity Hall
2. BEEBEE Lady Margaret. 6. BORTHWICK 1st Trinity.
3. PIGOTT Corpus 7. GRIFFITHS 3rd Trinity.
4. KINGLAKE 3rd Trinity. 8. LAWES 3rd Trinity.
Steerer, ARCHER, Corpus.
One night, as I silently wandered
By Cam’s slow meandering stream,
And many things mentally pondered,
I saw, as it were in a dream,
A black head emerge from the billows,
A broad body swim through the flood,
Till, beneath the o’ershadowing willows,
It sank gently down in the mud.
All alone—as a Scholar of Tyrwhitt
When examined in Hebrew he
sits—
On a log that mysterious spirit
Smokes in silence, and silently
spits.
And yet not alone sat the vision;
There came, as he sat on his
log,
A wag of delight and submission
From the tail of each demi-drowned
dog.
Black eels from his temples were hanging,
His teeth were like teeth
of a jack;
His lips were inaudibly “slanging”;
His eyes were all muddy and
black;
And water-snakes, round his neck twining,
Were hissing; and water-rats
swam
At his feet; so without much divining
I recognised Old Father Cam.
“All hail to thee, Camus the reedy!”
I cried, in alarm and surprise;
“Say, why are thy garments so weedy?
And why are these tears in
thine eyes?”
Then the River-god answered me sadly,
“My glory aquatic is
gone!
My prospects, alas! look but badly;
Not a race for four years
have I won.
“I have oarsmen as strong—–even
stronger—
Than when my first honours
I bore;
Their arms are as long—perhaps
longer;
Their shoulders as broad as
of yore,
Yet the prospects of light-blue look bluer;
I am losing my swing, form
and time;
For who can row well in a sewer;
Or pull through miasma and
slime?”
Thus murmured the River-god moaning;
But I bade him to dry his
old eye—
“In vain is this weeping and groaning;
Let your motto be, ‘Never
say die!’
Though your waves be more foul than Cocytus,
Though your prospects, no
doubt, are most blue;
Since Oxford is ready to fight us,
We will try to select a good
crew.
My friend Lady Margaret tells me
She can lend me a Bow and
a Two;
The Lady, I own, sometimes sells me,
But this time I am sure she’ll
be true.
For WATNEY is wiry and plucky,
And that BEEBEE’S A
1 all allow;
And our boat cannot fail to be lucky
With a double 1st Class in
the bow.
“Then Corpus its PIGOTT shall lend
us,
Young, healthy, and active,
and strong;
And Etona her KINGLAKE shall send us,
To row our good vessel along;
And Five from the head of the river,
Like Pallas from Jove’s
head appearing,
Shall add to the weight of the quiver
Of the feather-weight Argonaut
steering.
“Then BORTHWICK, the mighty and
massive,
Shall row like a Briton at
Six;
And GRIFFITHS, not prone to be passive,
Shall pull us to glory like
bricks.
Our ‘Stroke,’ people say,
on the feather
Is a trifle too fond of a
pause;
But while some say, ‘there’s
nothing like leather,’
I maintain there is nothing
like LAWES.
“Washerwomen, not over aquatic,
Says he rows ’like a
mangle’—what trash!
That his swing and his time are erratic;
That he puts in his oar with
a splash.
But these wonderful judges of rowing,
If we win will be loud in
applause;
And declare ’the result was all
owing
To that excellent stroke,
MR. LAWES.’
“Our Coach, on the bank briskly
riding,
Will keep his strong team
well together,
His Bucephalus gamely bestriding,
In spite of the wind and the
weather.
For the laws of the land you may send
me
To Counsel from chambers in
Town;
For the laws of the river commend me
To the CHAMBERS of Cambridge
renown.
“Then cheer up, beloved Father Camus!
Blow your nose! dry those
tears that are falling;
You will live once again to be famous,
In spite of the prospects
appalling.
Though dead dogs down your fair stream
are floating,
Father Cam will their odours
defy;
Though Oxford may beat us in boating,
Yet Cambridge will ‘never
say die!’”
(1865).
OXFORD. CAMBRIDGE.
1. R. T. RAIKES. 1. J. STILL. 2. F. CROWDER. 2. J. R. SELWYN. 3. W. FREEMAN. 3. J. A. BOURKE. 4. F. WILLAN. 4. J. FORTESCUE. 5. E. F. HENLEY. 5. D. F. STEVENSON. 6. W. W. WOOD. 6. R. A. KINGLAKE. 7. H. P. SENHOUSE. 7. H. WATNEY. 8. M. BROWN. 8. W. R. GRIFFITHS. Steerer—C. R. W. TOTTENHAM. Steerer—A. FORBES.
Attend, all ye who wish to see the names
of each stout
crew,
Who’ve come to town from cap and
gown to
fight for their
favourite blue.
OXFORD.
First TOTTENHAM comes, a well-known name,
that
cattle driving
Cox’en.
Who oft to victory has steer’d his
gallant team of Oxon.
O’er Putney’s course so well
can he that team in safety goad,
That we ought to call old Father Thames
the
Oxford-Tottenham
Road.
Then comes the Stroke, a mariner of merit
and renown;
Since dark blue are his colours, he can
never be dun-brown.
Ye who would at your leisure his heroic
deeds peruse,
Go, read Tom Brown at Oxford by
the other Tom—TOM HUGHES.
Next SENHOUSE, short for Senate-house,
but long
enough for seven,
Shall to the eight-oar’d
ship impart a sen-at-orial leaven.
Then Number Six (no truer word was ever
said in joke)
In keeping with his name of WOOD, has
heart and limbs of oak.
The voice of all aquatic men the praise
of “Five” proclaims;
No finer sight can eye delight than “HENLEY-upon-Thames.”
Then Number Four who is heaver far than
a number of Macmillan,
Though WILLAN’S his name may well
CAMBRIDGE.
Now, don’t refuse, aquatic Muse,
the glories to rehearse
Of the rival crew, who’ve donned
light blue, to
row for better
for worse.
They’ve lost their luck, but retain
their pluck,
and whate’er
their fate may be,
Light blue may meet one more defeat, but
disgrace
they ne’er
will see.
We’ve seen them row thro’
sleet and snow till
they sank—“merses
profundo”
(HORACE, forgive me!) “pulchrior
Cami evenit arundo.”
First little FORBES our praise absorbs,
he comes
from a learned
College,
So Cambridge hopes he will pull his ropes
with
scientific knowledge.
May he shun the charge of swinging barge
more straight
than an archer’s arrow,
May he steer his eight, as he sits sedate
in the
stern of his vessel
narrow!
Then comes the Stroke, with a heart of
oak, who
has stood to his
flag like twenty,
While some stood aloof, and were not proof
against dolce
far niente.
So let us pray that GRIFFITHS may to the
banks of Cam recall
The swing and style, lost for a while,
since the
days of JONES
and HALL.
Then WATNEY comes, and a pluckier seven
ne’er
rowed in a Cambridge
crew;
His long straight swing is just the thing
which
an oarsman loves
to view.
Then comes KINGLAKE, of a massive make,
who
in spite of failures
past,
Like a sailor true, has nailed light-blue
as his
colours to the
mast.
The Consul bold in days of old was thanked
by
the Patres hoary,
When, in spite of luck, he displayed his
pluck on
the field of Cannae
gory;
So whate’er the fate of the Cambridge
eight, let
Cambridge men
agree,
Their voice to raise in their Captain’s
praise
with thrice and
three times three.
Then Number Five is all alive, and for
hard work always ready,
As to and fro his broad back doth go,
like a
pendulum strong
and steady.
Then FORTESCUE doth pull it through without
(1866)
[1] Cf. Pickwick. “Here I am, but I hain’t a willan.”—FAT BOY.
I.
I cannot rest o’ the night, Mother,
For my heart is cold and wan:
I fear the return o’ light, Mother,
Since my own true love is
gone.
O winsome aye was his face, Mother,
And tender his bright blue
eye;
But his beauty and manly grace, Mother,
Beneath the dark earth do
lie.
II.
They tell me that I am young, Mother,
That joy will return once
more;
But sorrow my heart has wrung, Mother,
And I feel the wound full
sore.
The tree at the root frost-bitten
Will flourish never again,
And the woe that my life hath smitten
Hath frozen each inmost vein.
III.
Whene’er the moon’s shining
clear, Mother,
I think o’ my lover
that’s gone;
Heaven seem’d to draw very near,
Mother,
As above us in glory it shone.
Ah! whither hath fled all my gladness?
Ah! would from life I could
fly!
That laying me down in my sadness
I might kiss thee, my Mother,
and die!
AN APRIL SQUALL.
Breathless is the deep blue sky;
Breathless doth the blue sea lie;
And scarcely can my heart believe,
’Neath such a sky, on such a wave,
That Heaven can frown and billows rave,
Or Beauty so divine deceive.
Softly sail we with the tide;
Silently our bark doth glide;
Above our heads no clouds appear:
Only in the West afar
A dark spot, like a baneful star,
Doth herald tempests dark and drear.
And now the wind is heard to sigh;
The waters heave unquietly;
The Heaven above is darkly scowling;
Down with the sail! They come, they
come!
Loos’d from the depths of their
wintry home,
The wild fiends of the storm are howling.
Hold tight, and tug at the straining oar,
For the wind is rising more and more:
Row like a man through the dashing brine!
Row on!—already the squall
is past:
No more the sky is overcast;
Again the sun doth brightly shine.
Oh! higher far is the well-earn’d
bliss
Of quiet after a storm like this
Than all the joys of selfish ease:
’Tis thus I would row o’er
the sea of Life,
Thus force my way through the roar and
strife,
And win repose by toils like these.
THE TWO MAIDENS.
[The following Verses were written for a country Penny Reading].
Two Bedfordshire maidens in one village
dwelt;
Side by side in their Church every Sunday
they knelt;
They were not very pretty and not very
plain;
And their names were Eliza and Emily Jane.
Now Carpenter Smith was young, steady
and still,
And wherever he went, worked and played
with a will:
To bed he went early, and early did rise;
So, of course, he was healthy, and wealthy,
and wise.
But John he grew tired of a bachelor’s
life,
So he looked all around him in search
of a wife;
And his eyes, as they wandered, again
and again
Returned to Eliza and Emily Jane.
And whenever those maidens encountered
his eye,
Their pulses beat quickly (perhaps you
know why);
They each of them thought him a wonderful
Don,
And wished to be married to Carpenter
John.
But John, as you’ve heard, was a
prudent young man;
And determined their faults and their
merits to scan;
Says he, “If I marry, I’m
tied for my life;
“So it’s well to be cautious
in choosing a wife.”
Now I’m sorry to say that young
Emily Jane
Was disposed to be rather conceited and
vain;
In fact, for the truth I’m obliged
to confess,
Was decidedly fond of extravagant dress.
So she thought the best way to the Carpenter’s
heart
Was to purchase gay dresses and finery
smart;
In the carrier’s van off to Bedford
she went,
And many weeks’ wages in finery
spent.
Her dress it was blue, and her ribbons
were green,
And her chignon the highest that ever
was seen,
And perched on the top, heavy-laden with
flowers,
Was a bonnet, embosomed in beautiful bowers.
So red, as she walked to the Church, was
her shawl
That the bull in the farm-yard did bellow
and bawl;
And so high were her heels that on entering
the door
She slipped, and she stumbled, and fell
on the floor.
Says Carpenter Smith, “It’s
decidedly plain
“That I’d better keep clear
of that Emily Jane:”
So from Emily Jane he averted his eye,
And just at that moment Eliza passed by.
Now Eliza had thought, “If his heart
I subdue,
“It shall not be by dresses and
finery new:
“For a lover who’s taken by
ornaments gay
“Will love some one else ere a week
pass away.”
So her ribbons were lilac; white straw
was her bonnet;
Her dress was light grey, with dark braiding
upon it;
Her jacket was black; and her boots of
stout leather
Were fitted for walking in all sorts of
weather.
She was not very pretty, and yet in her
smile
There was something that charmed by its
freedom from guile:
And tho’ lowly her lot, yet her
natural grace
Made her look like a lady in figure and
face.
A rose from the garden she wore on her
breast,
And John, as her fingers he tenderly press’d,
Seemed to feel a sharp arrow (’twas
Cupid’s first dart)
Come straight from the rosebud and enter
his heart.
Now John and Eliza are husband and wife;
Their quarrels are few, and contented
their life;
They eat and they drink and they dress
in good taste,
For their money they spend on their wants,
not in waste.
But I’m sorry to say that Miss Emily
Jane
Has still an aversion to dress that is
plain;
And the consequence is that she always
has stayed,
And is likely to stay, a disconsolate
maid.
MORAL.
Young ladies, I hope you’ll attend
to my moral,
When you hear it, I’m sure you and
I shall not quarrel:
If you’re pretty, fine dress is
not needed to show it;
If you’re ugly, fine dress will
make all the world know it.
Young men, if you wish, as I trust you
all do,
A partner for worse or for better to woo,
Don’t marry a peacock dressed
out in gay feathers,
But a wife guaranteed to wear well
in all weathers.
BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—II.
“ONE GLASS OF BEER.”
Ne quid nimis.
Tom Smith was the son of a Bedfordshire
man;
(The Smiths, we all know, are a numerous
clan)
He was happy and healthy and handsome
and strong,
And could sing on occasion a capital song.
His father had once been a labourer poor,
But had always contrived to keep want
from the door;
And by work and by thrift had enough in
his pocket
To rent a small farm from his landlord,
and stock it.
He died: Tom succeeded: the
ladies all said
It was high time he went to the Church
to be wed;
And Sarah and Clara, and Fanny and Bess,
Confessed if he “offer’d”
perhaps they’d say “Yes.”
But Tom fixed his eyes on the Miller’s
young daughter,
And was only awaiting the right time to
court her;
So one day as he saw her walk out from
the mill,
He set off in pursuit with a very good
will.
Now Tom, I must tell you, had one little
fault,
He was rather too fond of a mixture of
malt;
In fact, if my meaning is not very clear,
I’m afraid he was rather too “partial
to Beer.”
Says Tom to himself as he followed the
maid,
“I should like just a glass, for
I’m rather afraid”—
No doubt at such times men are nervous
and queer,
So he stopped at the Public for one
glass of Beer.
He had his one glass, and then two or
three more,
And when he set out from the Public-house
door
He saw a sad sight, and he saw it with
groans—
Mary Anne on the arm of Theophilus Jones.
Yes, Theophilus Jones was a steady young
man,
Who enjoyed but was never too fond of
his can;
And while Smith in the public was stopping
to swill,
Jones had woo’d and had won the
fair maid of the mill.
Tom homeward returned like a runaway pup,
When the lash of the whipper-in touches
him up;
And he sighed to himself, “It’s
most painfully clear
That I’ve lost a good wife
for a bad glass of Beer.”
* * * * *
At length he was married to Emily Brown—
A tidier girl there was none in the town—
The church bells were ringing, the village
was gay,
As Tom met his bride in her bridal array.
For a twelvemonth or more things went
on pretty straight;
Tom went early to work, and was never
home late;
But after that time a sad change, it would
seem,
Came over the spirit of Emily’s
dream.
The Rector missed Tom from his place in
the choir;
In the evening his wife sat alone by the
fire;
When her husband came home he was never
too early,
And his manner was dull, and at times
even surly.
He was late in the autumn in sowing his
wheat;
His bullocks and sheep had disease of
the feet;
His sows had small litters; his taters
went bad;
And he took just a glass when he
felt rather sad.
The Rector’s “good lady”
was passing one day,
And looked in, her usual visit to pay—
“How dy’e do, Mrs. Smith?
Is the baby quite well?
Have you got any eggs, or young chickens
to sell?”
But Emily Smith couldn’t answer
a word;
At length her reply indistinctly was heard;
“I’m all of a mullock [1],
it’s no use denying—”
And with that the poor woman she burst
out a crying.
Then after a time with her apron she dried
The tears from her eyes, and more calmly
replied,
“I don’t mind confessing the
truth, ma’am, to you,
For I’ve found in you always a comforter
true.
Things are going to ruin; the land’s
full o’ twitch;
There’s no one to clean out a drain
or a ditch;
The gates are all broken, the fences all
down;
And the state of our farm is the talk
of the town.
We’ve lost a young horse, and another’s
gone lame;
Our hay’s not worth carting; the
wheat’s much the same;
Our pigs and our cattle are always astray;
Our milk’s good-for-nothing; our
hens never lay.
Tom ain’t a bad husband, as husbands
do go;
(That ain’t saying much, as I daresay
you know)
But there’s one thing that puts
him and me out o’ gear—
He’s always a craving for one
glass of Beer.
He never gets drunk, but he’s always
half-fuddled;
He wastes all his time, and his wits are
all muddled;
“We’ve notice to quit for
next Michaelmas year—
All owing to Tom and his one glass
of Beer!”
MORAL.
My friends, I believe we shall none of
us quarrel
If I try from this story to draw out a
moral;
Tom Smith, I am told, has now taken the
pledge;
Let us hope he will keep the right side
of the hedge.
But because men like Tom find it hard
to refrain,
It’s hard that we temperate folk
should abstain;
Tea and coffee no doubt are most excellent
cheer
But a hard-working man likes his one
glass of Beer.
What with ’chining [2] and hoeing
and ploughing and drill,
A glass of good beer will not make a man
ill;
But one glass, like poison, you never
must touch—
It’s the glass which is commonly
called one too much!
[1] Muddle.
[2] Machining, i.e. threshing by machinery.
FRED AND BILL.
Two twins were once born in a Bedfordshire
home;
Such events in the best managed households
may come;
Tho’, as Tomkins remarked in a voice
rather gruff,
“One child at a time for poor folks
is enough.”
But it couldn’t be helped, so his
wife did her best;
The children were always respectably drest;
Went early to school; were put early to
bed;
And had plenty of taters and bacon and
bread.
Now we all should suppose that the two,
being twins,
Resembled each other as much as two pins:
But no—they as little resembled
each other
As the man in the moon is “a man
and a brother.”
Fred’s eyes were dark brown, and
his hair was jet black;
He was supple in body, and straight in
the back,
Learnt his lessons without any trouble
at all;
And was lively, intelligent, comely, and
tall.
But Willy was thick-set; and freckled
and fair;
Had eyes of light blue, and short curly
red hair;
And, as I should like you the whole truth
to know,
The schoolmaster thought him “decidedly
slow.”
But the Parson, who often came into the
school,
Had discovered that Willy was far from
a fool,
And that tho’ he was not very quick
in his pace,
In the end “slow and steady”
would win in the race.
Years passed—Fred grew idle
and peevish and queer;
Took to skittles, bad language, tobacco,
and beer:
Grew tired of his work, when it scarce
was begun;
Was Jack of all trades and the master
of none.
He began as a labourer, then was a clerk;
Drove a hansom in London by way of a “lark;”
Enlisted, deserted, and finally fled
Abroad, and was thought by his friends
to be dead.
But Willy meanwhile was content with his
lot;
He was slow, but he always was found on
the spot;
He wasted no money on skittles and ale,
But put by his pence, when he could, without
fail.
To the Penny Bank weekly his savings he
took,
And soon had a pretty round sum in his
book:
No miser was he, but he thought it sound
sense
In the days of his youth to put by a few
pence.
And so he got on; he was no millionaire,
But he always had money enough and to
spare;
Could help a poor friend; pay his rent
and his rate;
And always put silver at church in the
plate.
His brother, meantime, who was thought
to be dead,
Had across the Atlantic to Canada fled;
Then had gone to New York; then New Zealand
had tried;
But always had failed thro’ perverseness
and pride.
He might have done well, but wherever
he went,
As soon as his money came in, it was spent;
As of old he tried all trades, and prospered
in none,
For he thought that hard work was “a
poor sort of fun.”
Then he heard of “the diggings,”
and there tried his luck;
He was never deficient in smartness and
pluck;
And by means of some work, and more luck,
in a year
He managed to make fifteen hundred pounds
clear.
Then he thought of old England and Bedfordshire
chums,
So back to his parish in triumph he comes;
And need I remark he found many a friend
Right willing to help him his nuggets
to spend?
He turned up his nose at his poor brother
Bill,
Who was always content to be plodding
up hill;
Hard work he disliked, he despised peace
and quiet,
So he spent all his time and his money
in riot.
There was never a horse-race but Fred
he was there;
He went to each meet, meeting, marker
and fair;
In a few words, his candle he burnt to
the socket,
Till he found one fine day not a rap in
His pocket.
Then his poor brother Bill came and lent
him a hand;
Gave him work and a share of his own bit
of land;
If he means to keep steady I cannot surmise—
Let us hope that at length Fred has learnt
to be wise.
But one thing is plain, if you mean to
get on,
You will find that success must by patience
be won;
In the battle of life do not trust to
your luck,
But to honest hard work, perseverance,
and pluck.
Don’t turn up your nose at a hard-working
chap,
For pride soon or later must meet with
mishap;
And wherever your lot in the world may
be cast,
“Slow and steady” goes safer
than “foolish and fast.”
Take warning by Fred, and avoid for a
friend
The man who would tempt you your savings
to spend;
Don’t waste your spare money in
riotous pranks,
But put it in Penny, or Post-office Banks.
BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—IV.
HOME, SWEET HOME.
I’m a Bedfordshire Chap, and Bill
Stumps is my name,
And to tell it don’t give me no
manner of shame;
For a man as works honest and hard for
his livin’,
When he tells you his name, needn’t
feel no misgivin’.
And works’s what I live by.
At dawn o’ the day,
While some folks is snorin’, I’m
up and away;
When I stops for my Bavor [1], ’twould
dew your heart good,
To see how I relish the taste o’
my food.
I’m fond o’ my hoein’,
and ploughin’, and drill,
And my hosses all knows me and works with
a will;
I’m fond o’ my ‘chinin’,
and thackin’ and drainin’,
For when work’s to be done, ‘taint
no use a complainin.’
I whistles a tune if the mornins be dark;
When I goes home o’ nights, I sings
sweet as a lark;
And you’ll travel some distance
afore you can find
A chap more contented and happy in mind.
And I’ll tell ye the reason, I’ve
got a good wife,
The joy o’ my heart, and the pride
o’ my life.
She ain’t made o’ gold, nor
ain’t much of a beauty,
But she’s allers a tryin’
to dew of her duty.
And a tidier home there ain’t none
in the town
Than mine and my Polly’s—I’ll
lay you a crown!
If it ain’t quite a palace, I’m
sure ’tis as clean:
And I’m King o’ my cottage,
and Polly’s the Queen.
But things wasn’t allers as lively
as now—
There’s thirty good years since
I fust went to plough;
I wor then but a lad, and a bad’un,
I fear,
Just a trifle tew partial to baccy and
beer.
So my maister he very soon gone me the
sack,
And my faither he gone me the stick to
my back;
But I cared for his bangins and blows
not a rap;
I wor sich a queer onaccountable chap!
To make a long story as short as I can;
When I’d done as a boy, I became
a young man;
And, as happens to most men at that time
o’ life,
I axed a young ’ooman if she’d
be my wife.
And Poll she consented. O, how my
heart beat,
When she gone me her hand, smilin’
wonderful sweet!
I could hear my heart beatin’, just
like a Church bell,
Till I thought as my weskit ’ud
bust pretty well.
But worn’t I main happy, and well
nigh a crazy,
When I heard her her say “Yes,”
blushin’ sweet as a daisy!
We was axed in the church—no
one dared to say nay;
So The Rector he spliced us, one fine
soommer day.
My Poll wor a steady young gal, and a
good ’un
For washin’ and scrubbin’,
and makin’ a pudden;
Not one o them gossiping gals, wot I hate,
But a quoietish ‘ooman, wi’
brains in her pate.
But soom how or other things didn’t
go right;
There wasn’t atwixt us no manner
o’ spite;
But I stayed out o’ Saturdays nights,
and I fear
Spent more nor I’d ought on my baccy
and beer.
And Poll she look’d sadly, but didn’t
say nought;
She was one as ’ud allers say less
than she thought;
But I know’d what she thought—so
a cloud kind o’ come,
And darkened the sun as once shone in
our home,
But it come to a pass—’twas
the fifth o’ November,
The day and the year I shall allers remember:
Twas midnight and past when I come to
my door,
Scarce able to stan’—well,
I won’t say no more?
Next mornin’ my head it wor well
nigh a splitten,
And I stagger’d and stagger’d,
as weak as a kitten;
But the wust of it all wor the dressin’
I got
From Polly—oh, worn’t
it main spicy and hot?
What she said I won’t tell you;
but you married men,
As knows wot it is to be pecked by a hen,
Wot I means yer to guess pretty plainish
’ull find,
When I tells you she gone me “a
bit of her mind.”
And now I’m as sober as sober can
be,
And me and my Poll, as we sits down to
tea,
Don’t care very far of an evenin’
to roam—
We’re allers so jolly contented
at home.
I wears no blue ribbon outside o’
my coat,
For a pint o’ good ale seems to
freshen my throat;
But offer me more and I’m bound
to refuse it—
For my Poll’s got a tongue, and
her knows how to use it.
So I takes just a pint, when there’s
coppers to spare—
A pint wi’ your dinner ain’t
no great affair—
But the time’ o’ the day as
suits Polly and me,
Is when we sits down of an evenin’
to tea.
For the young ‘uns sits round us
all smilin’ and clean;
And Sally knits stockings wot’s
fit for the Queen;
Little Bill reads a book, and Jemima she
sews,
And how happy our home is the parish all
knows.
* * * * * *
Now young men and maids, if ye’ll
listen to me,
I’ll give you some counsel all gratis
and free—
Young men if you want to be happy in life,
Remember Bill Stumps, and look out for
a wife.
Not one o’ them husseys as gossips
and chatters,
And is allers o’ mindin’ of
other folk’s matters,
But one as ’ull work, and be gentle
and kind,
And as knows when to gi’e you “a
bit of her mind.”
Young maids who are willing young wives
to become,
Remember, the sweetest of places is home;
But remember, no husband ’ull find
his home sweet,
If it ain’t bright and cheerful,
and tidy and neat.
If all’s of a mullock and dirty
and dusty,
When he pops home to dinner, he’ll
turn rayther crusty;
But be tidy, and careful in cookin’
his grub,
And, I’ll bet what you like, he
wont go to the Pub.
So send off the young’uns to school
afore nine;
And when they and faither come home for
to dine,
Don’t gi’e ’em cold
taters and bacon half-fried,
But a meal as ’ull cheer ’em
and warm their inside.
And don’t let the children go roamin’
o’ night,
But keep ’em at home for their faither’s
delight;
And I hope you may all be as happy and
jolly,
In your Bedfordshire homes, as Bill Stumps
and his Polly!
[1] Bedfordshire for Luncheon.