| |
| MY chums will burn their Indian weeds | |
| The very night I pass away, | |
| And cloud-propelling puff and puff, | |
| As white the thin smoke melts away; | |
| Then Jones of Wadham, eyes half closed, | 5 |
| Rubbing the ten hairs on his chin, | |
| Will say, “This very pipe I use | |
| Was poor old Smith’s of Maudlin.” | |
| |
| That night in High Street there will walk | |
| The ruffling gownsmen three abreast, | 10 |
| The stiff-necked proctors, wary-eyed, | |
| The dons, the coaches, and the rest; | |
| Sly “Cherub Sims” will then purpose | |
| Billiards, or some sweet ivory sin; | |
| Tom cries, “He played a pretty game,— | 15 |
| Did honest Smith of Maudlin.” | |
| |
| The boats are out!—the arrowy rush, | |
| The mad bull’s jerk, the tiger’s strength; | |
| The Balliol men have wopped the Queen’s,— | |
| Hurrah! but only by a length. | 20 |
| Dig on, ye muffs; ye cripples, dig! | |
| Pull blind, till crimson sweats the skin;— | |
| The man who bobs and steers cries, “O | |
| For plucky Smith of Maudlin!” | |
| |
| Wine-parties met,—a noisy night, | 25 |
| Red sparks are breaking through the cloud; | |
| The man who won the silver cup | |
| Is in the chair erect and proud; | |
| Three are asleep,—one to himself | |
| Sings, “Yellow jacket ’s sure to win.” | 30 |
| A silence;—“Men, the memory | |
| Of poor old Smith of Maudlin!” | |
| |
| The boxing-rooms,—with solemn air | |
| A freshman dons the swollen glove; | |
| With slicing strokes the lapping sticks | 35 |
| Work out a rubber,—three and love; | |
| With rasping jar the padded man | |
| Whips Thompson’s foil, so square and thin, | |
| And cries, “Why, zur, you ’ve not the wrist | |
| Of Muster Smith of Maudlin.” | 40 |
| |
| But all this time beneath the sheet | |
| I shall lie still, and free from pain, | |
| Hearing the bed-makers sluff in | |
| To gossip round the blinded pane; | |
| Try on my rings, sniff up my scent, | 45 |
| Feel in my pockets for my tin; | |
| While one hag says, “We all must die, | |
| Just like this Smith of Maudlin.” | |
| |
| Ah! then a dreadful hush will come, | |
| And all I hear will be the fly | 50 |
| Buzzing impatient round the wall, | |
| And on the sheet where I must lie; | |
| Next day a jostling of feet,— | |
| The men who bring the coffin in: | |
| “This is the door,—the third-pair back,— | 55 |
| Here ’s Mr. Smith of Maudlin!” | |
| |
