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So they for me may wish,

But I must stay and cram ;
Oh, bother it! I'm just done up'

With this horrible Exam :"
With fingers trembling and warm,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A schoolboy sat in true schoolboy style,

His hand supporting his head,
Throb! throb ! throb!

And cram ! cram ! cram !
And still with a look of dolor and pain,
He studied and crammed with might and main,
To pass the dreaded Exam !

A. P. The Dunheved Mirror, Cornwall, December, 1876.

With fingers trembling and warm,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A schoolboy sat, in true schoolboy style,

His hand supporting his head.
Throb ! throb ! throb!

With srantic excitement and dread, And still with a look of dolor and pain,

He sat on the side of his bed. “ Throb ! throb! throb !

In my chamber next the roof; And work! work ! work !

From my friends I must keep aloof; French and German and Greek,

Greek and German and French, Till my brow grows damp, and my breath comes hard,

And my agonised hands I clench. “Work! work! work !

While my cousins are laughing beneath, And work! work ! work !

Till I scarcely can draw my breath ;
It's oh! to prepare ! prepare !

My head with knowledge to cram,
Not a word to say! not a moment to spare !

I'm going in for Exam ! “ Work ! work! work !

Till the brain begins to swim, And work! work! work !

Till my eyes are heavy and dim ; Greek and German and French,

French and German and Greek, Till over the problems I have a nap,

And work them out in my sleep. “ Throb! throb ! throb!

My courage is ebbing fast ! Work ! work! work !

I fear that my brain won't last ! Throb ! throb! throb!

O come and help me cram! I'm going to be a lunatic,

If plucked in this Exam ! "O men with cousins dear!

O men with mothers and wives ! I'd cram you, if I had you here,

Within an inch of your lives !
But Examiners' hearts are hard,

And their wisdom is but a sham ;
And little they care what we have to bear,

Or how hard we need to cram ! • Oh! but to play a game

With my happy friends below! Oh! but to make a pun,

Or try—but 'tis ali ‘no go?


With fingers inky and cold,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A scribbler sat through the dreary night,

Spinning “Copy,” at morn to be read. Scratch ! scratch ! scratch ! In a gas-lighted steamy den,

And still, in a voice of dolorous pitch, He sang the song of the pen.

II, “Scratch ! scratch ! scratch !

While engines are shaking the roof; Scratch ! scratch ! scratch !

Till the “Devil" appears with a proof. And it's oh ! to be a slave

Of the pen, whether steel or quill, Is as bad as being a worthless knave Doing his month at the “mill.'

III. “ Scratch ! scratch ! scratch !

Is it farce or tragedy grim, Making up the requisite batch,

With fact, and sancy, and whim? It fritters away my life,

In the flow of this inky stream. And over the copy I fall asleep,

And panctuate in a dream.


Oh! husband with slippered feet ;

Oh! wife in morning gown:
Coming down to breakfast, pleased to read

The latest news of the town
Think of the dismal scratch

Of these midnight slaves of the pen. Forgive them a caustic, or feeble phrase, And remember they are but men.

Funny Folks, January 9th, 1875.

THE SONG OF THE SWORD, Weary, and wounded, and worn, wounded and ready to die, A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn, on the field of the

battle to lie. The dead and the dying alone could their presence and pity

afford, Whilst, with a sad and terrible tone, he sing · the

Song of the Sword.

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Fight-fight-fight! though a thousand fathers die ; Fight-light-fightthough a thousand children cry! Fight-fight-fight! while mothers and wives lament; And fight--fight-light! while millions of money are spent.

* Fight--fight-fight! should the cause be foul or fair, Though all that's gained is an empty name, and a tax too

great to bear ; An empty name, and a paltry fame, and thousands lying

dead ; Whilst every glorious victory must raise the price of bread. War-war --war! fire, and famine, and sword ; Desolate fields and desolate towns, and thousands scattered

abroad, With never a home, and never a shed, whilst kingdoms

perish and fall; And hundreds of thousands are lying dead, .... and all

for nothing at all! “War-war-war! musket, and powder, and ballAh! what do we fight so for? ah ! why have we battles at all? 'Tis Justice must be done, they say, the nation's honour to

keep ; Alas! that Justice should be so dear, and human life so

cheap! War-war-war! misery, murder, and crime ; Are all the blessings I've seen in thee, from my youth to the

present time. Misery, murder, and crime--crime, misery, murder, and woe ; Ah! would I had known in my younger days half the horrors

which now I know." Weary, and wounded, and worn, wounded and ready to die, A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn, on the field of the

battle to lie. The dead and the dying alone could their presence and pity

assord, And thus with a sad and a terrible tone (oh! would that these

truths were more perfectly known !) he sang the Song of the Sword.


Oh! men with thoughtful minds,

Oh ! men with a reason fair,
Tread not in the paths that drunkards go-

From demon drink, stand clear.
Drink, drink, drink,

Both in slums and great highway, Is a curse that we too often meet

In our walks by night or day. But why do I thus depict

That fell demon of the soul? I do but so that my fellow men

Themselves from drink control.
Themselves from drink control,

Because of the scenes we see!
Oh, God! to think that man should seek

In drink his misery!
Drink, drink, drink,

But soon the time will come, And what will be the end ? a soul that's lost,

A drunkard's wretched home
Where sorrow is found, and mark the cost-

Neither victuals, fire, or light
With å starving wise near the close of life

To meet the drunkard's sight !
Drink, drink, drink,

From morning until night, Drink, drink, drink,

'Tis the drunkard's sole delight. Beer, brandy, gin, and rum,

Rum, brandy, gin, and beer, Till his health is gone and his wealth as well,

For the demon nought will spare. Drink, drink, drink,

In mansion as well as in cot, 'Tis drink, drink, drink,

With the highest and lowest sot ; While toiling thousands sleep

Their rest of calm content,
In gilded palaces round about,

The night's in riot spent.
Oh! that the world would shun,

That demon in form of drink;
And would reason within themselves

And from its presence shrink !
Oh! how might the soul of wayward man,

Rejoice in freedom then-
And be better sar in health and wealth-

And better far as men.
Oh! but that men would see,

The sorrow that drink entails !
The orphan's cry and the madman's shout,

As well the widow's wails.
A curse to body, as well as soul,

Sends thousands to their grave;
And makes of Man, God's noblest work,

A low dejected slave.


THE SONG OF A Sor. Words composed by Bro. J. B. Davies, P.M. (753). Dedicated to George Cruikshank, Esq., by his kind permission.

With a visage pale and wan,

With a vacant stare of eye ;
The wreck of a man, and a friend, I saw,

In a tavern standing by.
Drink, drink, drink,

Was the demon that urged him on;
And yet still with a husky voice did he call

For drink, till “his pence were gone."
Drink, drink, drink,

From morning until night!
Drink, drink, drink,

By the glare of bright gaslight.
Oh ! fearful sight to see,

And a dreadful thought to think,
That man, who should rule, a slave should be

To that fearful demon, drink.
Drink, drink, drink,

Till power of sense is gone,
Drink, drink, drink,

Till it's of health and wealth both shorn ;
Beer, brandy, gin and rum,

Rum, brandy, gin and beer,
Till the glorious form of manhood's lost

In the beast that you now appear!

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O, men,


While “ Tich, Tich, Tich,"

With gruesome and long-drawn face, “ The Doctor,” with voice of dolorous pitch,

Sang the Song of “the Case.” “ Tich, Tich, Tich,

In spite of all reproof; And Tich, Tich, Tich,

Though the members stand aloof, It's I that ought to be classed

Along with Chatham and Burke, And I'll never cease to raise my voice

Against such monstrous work!" “ Tich, Tich, Tich,

Till the brain begins to swim, Tich, Tich, Tich,

Till their eyes are heavy and dim. Stream, and minnow, and twitch,

Minnow, and twitch, and stream, Till over the tattoo they fall asleep,

And see it done in a dream." “O, men, so callous and blind

O, men, so bloated and richIt isn't Orton you're locking up,

But the real and only · Tich' Tich, Tich, Tich,

'Prison'd, dishonour'd, opprest, Stitching at once with his sewing-machine. A shroud as well as a vest.

(Four verses omitted here.)


Rape, and outrage, and murder,
And outrage, murder, and rape,
Till stories, long since disproved, appear
To assume a bodily shape.

with sisters dear !
O, men, with mothers and wives !
These are things that are wearing away
Bulgarian Christian lives.
Stump, stump, stump,
It's not uncongenial work,
To be damning away, with a double tongue,
The Tory as well as the Turk.
Turk, Turk, Turk !
My labour never flags,
Yet, what are its wages ? A Nottingham feast,
And a suit of political rags,
A broken party, a shattered name,
A smile from the “ Daily News,”
A bloody war, and a future so blank
That my mind the thought eschews.
Turk, Turk, Turk !
On the chill October night,
And Turk, Turk, Turk,
When the weather is warm and bright.
And yet, underneath the theme
A longing for power lurks.
So the people of England show me their backs,
And twit me about my Turks.
Oh, but to breathe the air
Of the Treasury Bench so sweet,
With never a soul above my head,
And Lord Beaconsfield under my feet !
Oh, but for one short hour,
To feel as I used to feel,
When the Liberal Government was in power,
And I was the man at the wheel !
Oh, but for one short hour !
A period however brief!-
No blessed leisure for Power or Hope,
But only time for grief !
A little writing eases my mind
A pamphlet, a postcard, a note-
Yet my pen must stop, for each hot ink-drop
May cost my party a vote.
With statements tattered and worn,
With facts distorted and cooked,
The statesman may hope that his share in the war
Will perchance be overlooked,
Turk, Turk, Turk !
'Tis vain the truth to shirk,
While thousands of bleeding corpses cry,
“Your pamphlets and speeches have made us die,
And we hope you are proud of your work.'
They are Fivi, by W. E. G. (David Bogue), London.

With spirits drooping and worn.

With eyelids as heavy as lead,
The members sat in their place in the House,

And wearily longed for bed ;
While Tich, Tich, Tich,

With gruesome and long.drawn face, “ The Doctor,” with voice of dolorous pitch, (Ah me! to have to listen to sich), Sang the Song of “the Case.”

Funny Folks, October 2nd, 1875.

THE SONG OF THE TURK IN 1877. With arguments tattered and worn, With facts long torn to a shred, The statesman rose in eloquent rage To ply his political trade. Stump, stump, stump, Is this the successor of Burke, Who, with a voice of dolorous pitch, Still sings his song of the Turk? Turk, Turk, Turk ! While the Czar is biting the dust. And Turk, Turk, Turk, The incarnation of lust. It's O to be a slave, Along with the barbarous Turk, Where women have never a so:ul to save, And only a body for-werk ! Turk, Turk, Turk ! Till the brain begins to swim. Turk, Turk, Turk, Till the audience is eager and grim.

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(Hood's Own--for Somebody Else.) In the loudest things that are worn,

With her cheek a peculiar red,
A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest,

This one idea in her head :

My work? May be! Had I a heart,

My tears might flow apace ;
But tears must stop--when every drop

carry away one's face ?"
In the loudest things that are known,

With her cheek a peculiar red,
A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest, –

This one idea in her head :
To be stitched, stitched, stitched,

Yet a little more tight in her skirt ;
The while with her voice disdainfully pitched
(Some ears at the sound, I wis, might have itched),
She sang the “ Song of the Flirt !"

Punch, September 18, 1880.

He sang


To be stitched, stitched, stitched,

Yet a little more tight in her skirt, The while, with her voice disdainfully pitched,

She sang the “Song of the Flirt !" “Work, work, work.

In the broiling drive and row, And work, work, work,

At the stifling crush and show.
And I'm so sick of it all,

That to-morrow I'd marry a Turk,
If he'd ask me I would ! For, after this,

Yes,-that would be Christian work ! “Work, work, work,

On the lawn in the lazy shade; Work, work, work,

In the blaze of the baked parade. Tea, and tennis, and band,

Band, and tennis, and tea :If I can but ogle an eldest son,

They're all the same to me. “ You men, do you dare to sneer,

And point to your sisters and wives ! Because they simper ' Not nice, my dear;'-—

As if they had ne'er in their lives
Been stitched, stitched, stitched,

Each prude in her own tight skirt,
And wouldn't have been, without a blush,

Had she had the chance—a Flirt ! “And why do I talk of a blush?

Have I much of Modesty known? Why, no. Though, at times, her crimson cheek

Grows not unlike my own.
Yet strange that, not for my lise,

Could I redden as she does, deep.
I wonder why colour called up's so dear,-

Laid on should come so cheap. “But, work, work, work,

With powder, and puff, and pad : And, work, work, work,

For every folly and fad !
With Imogen's artless gaze ?

No ?-Phryne's brazen stare !
With soul undone, but body made up,

I've all the fun of the fair.
So I work, work, work !

My labour never fags.
And what are its wages ? A Spinster's doom,

And a place on the roll of hags.
Still I ogle away by the wall,--

A playful kittenish thing ;
Autumn well written all over my face,

Though my feet have lost their spring. “So at times, when I'm out of breath,

And the men go off in a pack
To dangle about some chit just 'out,'-

Who smirks like a garrison hack,
I try for a short half hour

To feel as I used to feel
When a girl, if my boldness was all assumed,

My hair, at least, was real
“ And at times, for a short half hour,

It seems a sort of relief
To think of Fred, and the few bright days

Before he came to grief..

The Janitor's Song.
With features sallow and grim,

With visage sadly forlorn,
The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room,

Weary, and sleepy, and worn. 'Tis a fact, fact, fact !

He sat with a visage long;
And still as he sat, with a voice half cracked,

this Janitor's song: “Sweep, sweep, sweep,,

In dirt, in smoke, and in dust, And sweep, sweep, sweep,

Till I throw down my broom in disgust.
Stairs, and chapel, and halls,

Halls, and chapel, and stairs-
Till my drowsy head on my shoulder falls,

And sleep brings release from my cares. “ From the very first crack of the gong,

From the earliest gleam of daylight, Day after day and all day long,

Far into the weary night, It's sweep, sweep, sweep,

Till my broom doth a pillow seem ; Till over its handle I fall asleep,

And sweep away in my dream. “ Oh! students of high degree,

(I scorn to address a low fellow), “Oh! seniors most reverend, potent, and grave,

(In the words of the great Othello), My story's a sad one indeed,

Notwithstanding your laughter and sport ; My life is naught but a broken reed,

And my broom is my only support."
With features sallow and grim,

With visage sadly forlorn,
The Janitor sat in ihe Janitor's room,

Weary, and sleepy, and worn.
It's a fact, fact, fact,

He sat with a visage forlorn,
And still as he sat with a voice half cracked,
He sang the Janitor's song.

Carmina Collegensia



THE SONG OF THE SHIRK. With a countenance weary and worn,

With eyelids all heavy and red, An Undergrad sat, in his nightgown torn,

Reading his Paley in bed.

O, but for one short look

At the Euclid or Paley paper,
For one short glance, I soon would dance,

And cut about and caper.
A little peeping would ease my heart,

But from those papers hated,
My eyes must keep, for every peep

Might make me rusticated.
With a countenance weary and worn,

With his nose, alas ! awfully red,
The Undergrad blew out his candle's flame,

And settled himself in his bed.
“ Read, read, read,"

In his troubled sleep he said.
Examiners think on his piteous face,
If he's plucked, you know 'tis your disgrace,
So in the “ First “ Second " place
The man who reads Paley in bed.

P. M. W. Light Green, Cambridge (W. Metcalfe and Son), 1882.

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Read, read, read,

Till his voice is quite feeble and low, He can read no more, so in accents poor,

He sang of the dire Littlego. Read, read, read,

While the Rooks are cawing around; And read, read, read,

Till of Cabs I hear the sound.
If only last time I had passed,

Aná had left all this Littlego work,
I'd become a Jew or a "pious Hindoo,"

Or perhaps a barbarous Turk.
Read, read, read,

It's nothing but read all day; Read, read, read,

Till I read myself away, Paley and Euclid so hard,

Mathematics with Latin and Greek, I only wish I had read them besore,

For the Exam begins in a week. 0, men, who Examiners are,

Recollect when the period arrives 'Tis not only the papers you're setting this time,

But a limit to Undergrad's lives.
Read, read, read,

By days, by month, by year,
Reading forsooth so uncommonly hard,

That you feel excessively queer.
But why do I sing of them ?

Their hearts are like pieces of stone, I believe I ought to shun the thought

Of Examiners when I'm alone. It makes me almost mad

To think of that awful sight; 0, dear, that to some the papers are stiff,

While to others they're easy and light.
Read, read, read,

My reading will never stop ;
And what's its reward ? a name in a list,

Where the bottom's as good as the top.
This tumbled bed, with its shaky legs,

Yon room in disorder so great,
All attired with cards, tobacco, and wine,

It shows that I kept it up late.
Read, read, read,

How full my time has been.
My reading I bless (?) for I possess

No leisure to read Light Green.
Hard Latin and odious Greek,

Hard Greek and odious Latin,
Their very dread makes me think this bed

Is the worst I ever sat in.
Read, read, read,

Till my brain becomes infirm;
Read, read, read,

In this and the Lenten Term.
And then the men who have passcd,

As I see them in the street,
Will laugh at me, and twit, and jeer,

Whenever them I meet.
O, but to get through now-

A “Second " I would not mind,
With the “ General ” looming in front,

And the “Littlego " left behind.
Then to think of the feelings of those,

Who cannot these subjects acquire,
Is enough to give one the direst of woes

(Not to mention the wrath of your sire).

With face like a maiden's bare,

With hair on his head strewn thin, A youth ill at ease, in an easy chair, Sat stroking his cheeks and chin.

Stroke, stroke, stroke,
Yet never a symptom appeared,
Indulging, yet nowise enjoying the joke,
In penning this Brood on the Beard.

I wish, wish, wish,
Till wishing becomes a whirl,

Wish, wish, wish,
For the locks with a flowing curl.

Imperial, beard, moustache,

Moustache, imperial, beard,
I long for them each till the three become

Wove into a triad weird..
Young men with beards full grown,

Young men with moustaches neat ;
Say, is it not your lot to own,
The joys of life complete?

I shave, shave, shave,
My cheeks with lather besmeared,
Scraping the skin with razor keen,

To make it utter a beard.

But why should I dream of beards,

For the pleasure of manhood pine ; Or think of the looks my soul so craves,

That never may be mine?

That never may be mine. Tho' my heart with hope may pant, And mourn that some with such are blest,

Whilst I of such am scant.

I watch, watch, watch
My glass each morning and night ;

Watch, watch, watch,
But no sprouting gladdens my sight.
That shaving glass, that razor keen,

That strop I so often whet ;
Betray the desire that ne'er may tire

Of what I ne'er may get.

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