Punch (65.1873)

August 16, 1873.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

01

“THE BETTER THE DAY,” &c.

Rustic (to Curate who dabbles in Photography). “ I’d be Turr’ble much
Obliged, Zue, if you’d Map off my Pictur’, Zur ! ”

Curate. “'Well, my Man, I’ll take your Likeness for you. When
will you Come ?”

Rustic. “Well, Zur, if you’ve no ’bjections, I be moastly Cleaned up
AND HAS MOAST TlME o’ ZUNDAY MARNIN’s, ZUR ! ! ”

PUNCH TO HIS SIXTH-FORM BOYS

heaving St. Stephen's School for the Autumn Holidays, August 5, 1873.

When Long Vacation, cheery,

To big and little men,

With their school-labour weary,

Brings August round again,

For his dear Sixth-form fellows,

Of old St. Stephen’s School,

Punch, their head-master zealous,

Has always made a rule,—

Knowing what men and hoys are,

With no work and all play,

How tiresome tasks and toys are,

In undivided sway,—-
Good boys in good to press on,

Bad boys from had to turn—-
To set the Sixth a lesson
In the holidays to learn.

But this year, where’s the use on’t,

What good at boys to storm,

With discipline so loosened,

The Sixth—so out of form F
Such a five months of shirking !

Such squabbles, high and low !

The little done of working,

So slovenly and slow!

Such constant impositions!

And blunders so profuse !

Of logic such deficience !

Of rhetoric such abuse !

The one mouse of achievement
To the mountain of profession!
Pledges but to deceive meant:

“ Non piossumus ” in possession.

All the years that I’ve presided
Over St. Stephen’s School,

From priepostors so misguided
I ne’er had worse misrule.

Be it long e’er I again see
A Sixth so far below
The standard I would fain see
Even juniors outgrow.

For with old hoys so much under
The mark as you to-day,

Your master cannot wonder
If young ones go astray.

Hence six months’ waste of trouble,

On fond hopes fondly nurst,

Blown, like a soap-suds bubble,

But, bubble-like, to burst.

To think, how flashing forward,

For your last remove set free,

You sprang into the vaward,

My W. E. G!

0 time, and dreams that jump it!

Not five short years have gone,

Since your triumphant trumpet
Shrill sounded the move-on !

All to your “ Boot and saddle ! ”
Sprang fiery and fast:

Eggs in mares’ nests long addle
Seemed stirred to life at last.

Now, with blunted sword and broken,
Frayed surcoat, shattered shield,

Big with black thoughts unspoken,
You falter from the field.

Can I have heart, my William:,

To set thee tasks just now F
No—I not quite so silly am,

A cowed heart more to cow.

A course of treatment bracing
More good is like to do,

Fit you, next half, for facing
The work you ’ll have to do:

Work, that must needs be heavier
For all now left undone—

(See the Bard) “ Non fit levior
Mora ” the task we shun—

Tonics we must exhibit;

Your blood lacks steel, ’tis clear :

Too much sugar I prohibit,

And butter, pray, forbear.

To all your Sixth-form fellows
The same regime applies.

’Tis not in wind or bellows
Your point of weakness lies.

In stamina you ’re deficient,

That which gives “ grit ” and “ go; ”
As you men are, and fish ain’t,

Your blood should warmer flow.

Nay, even of hysteria

Some symptoms I have seen,

To which complaint superior
Our sex, till now, has been :

1 should of this your rushes

Of blood to the head accuse—

The worst of that sort of gush is
The weakness that ensues.

So Punch, your own M.H., thinks
The thing to recommend—

(Ask Bouverie what he thinks,

That deed good-natured friend!)—

Of all restoratives open
Sea-bathing is the best,

And a sea he knows, which no pen
Has yet puffed into request—

The Sea of Opposition—

Proved richer, by analysis,

In salts, for demolition

Of feebleness and fallacies,

Than any sea with fish in

’Twixt John o’ Groat’s and Calais’ is:
Where, with Gull for your physician,
Fool’s Paradise your palace is.