"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, But Examiners' hearts are hard, And their wisdom is but a sham; And little they care what we have to bear, "Oh! but to play a game Or try-but 'tis all 'no go THE SLAVE OF THE PEN. I. 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. Ah! 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 afford, 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- Both in slums and great highway, That fell demon of the soul? Because of the scenes we see ! 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- With a starving wife near the close of life 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; 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 far in health and wealthAnd better far as men. Oh! but that men would see, The sorrow that drink entails! The orphan's cry and the madman's shout, A curse to body, as well as soul, THE SONG OF "" THE CASE." (A Reminiscence of the late Ssssion). With spirits drooping and worn, The members sat on their seats in the House, "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, "O, men, so callous and blind— 'Prison'd, dishonour'd, opprest, Stitching at once with his sewing-machine. A shroud as well as a vest." (Four verses omitted here.) 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, Funny Folks, October 2nd, 1875. THE SONG OF THE TURK IN 1877. WITH arguments tattered and worn, The statesman rose in eloquent rage Stump, stump, stump, Is this the successor of Burke, Who, with a voice of dolorous pitch, Turk, Turk, Turk! While the Czar is biting the dust. The incarnation of lust. It's O to be a slave, Along with the barbarous Turk, Where women have never a soul to save, And only a body for-work! Turk, Turk, Turk! Till the brain begins to swim. Turk, Turk, Turk, Till the audience is eager and grim. Rape, and outrage, and murder, Till stories, long since disproved, appear O, men, with sisters dear! O, men, with mothers and wives! These are things that are wearing away 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, A broken party, a shattered name, 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! "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, "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 life, Could I redden as she does, deep. I wonder why colour called up's so dear,- "But, work, work, work, With powder, and puff, and pad : And, work, work, work, For every folly and fad! With Imogen's artless gaze? With soul undone, but body made up, "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, To dangle about some chit just 'out,'- 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, To think of Fred, and the few bright days My work? May be! Had I a heart, 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. 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, "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, It's sweep, sweep, sweep, Till my broom doth a pillow seem; "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, With visage sadly forlorn, The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room, 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, 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 before, For the Exam begins in a week. O, 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 It makes me almost mad To think of that awful sight; O, dear, that to some the papers are stiff, While to others they're easy and light. Read, read, read, My reading will never stop; All attired with cards, tobacco, and wine, How full my time has been. 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; In this and the Lenten Term. 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). O, but for one short look At the Euclid or Paley paper, For one short glance, I soon would dance, A little peeping would ease my heart, With a countenance weary and worn, The Undergrad blew out his candle's flame, In his troubled sleep he said. Examiners think on his piteous face, If he's plucked, you know 'tis your disgrace, P. M. W. Light Green, Cambridge (W. Metcalfe and Son), 1882. THE BROOD ON THE BEARD. With face like a maiden's bare, Yet never a symptom appeared, I wish, wish, wish, Till wishing becomes a whirl, For the locks with a flowing curl. Imperial, beard, moustache, I long for them each till the three become Young men with beards full grown, 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, I watch, watch, watchMy 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. |