Arthur's Flogging
Oh Birch! thou common dread and doom of all boys,
Who found out first thy properties of pain?
Who gave thy tough lithe twigs their power to appal boys?
Who laid the red foundations of thy reign?
Who made thee haunt by night the dreams of small boys?
Who gave thee power o'er us thy trembling train?
Who made thee master of our bums, and lord?
Who flogged boys first? and what flogged boy first roared?
No tongue there is to say, no soul to know it;
In blood and tears were laid thy first foundations,
But by whose hand who knows, and who can show it?
So long the rod has ruled boys of all nations.
Oh, Birch! accept a schoolboy for thy poet,
Whose bum has blushed from frequent flagellations
These three years past; thou knowest it, Birch, and more;
And while I write is not my bottom sore?
Oh, Birch! whose mouth should sing thee if not mine?
Is there a schoolboy oftener flogged than I am?
Have I not marks upon me still of thine?
Is there a boy, I say, from here to Siam,
Between the ages of eighteen and nine,
Or has there been a boy since the age of Priam,
In days unknown of or in years unsearched,
Who has been oftener or more soundly birched?
Right well thou knowest the voice that now invokes
Thine oft experienced aid and inspiration;
By all the rods I have felt, and all their strokes,
By all the burning pangs of my probation;
By the salt brine in which thy keeper soaks
Thy twigs to make them fit for flagellation,
By their green buds that make one hate the spring,
By all their suppleness and all their sting;
By all the scars I ever took behind,
By all the cuts thou has ever given me, since
At my first flogging, still I keep in mind,
The first cut made my young posteriors wince;
By thy full power on boys of every kind,
Alike on smarting page and tingling prince;
By all my floggings, whereso'er I got 'em;
By all the weals upon my naked bottom;
By all the blood of mine that thou hast shed,
And all the blood of all my schoolfellows,
And all that ever made the birch twigs red,
From tender bottoms blushing like a rose;
By all the boyish bums that ever bled,
Or ever will bleed from thy backside blows,
As long as supple twig and swelling bud
Make high-born bottoms 'blush with noble blood'.
For, as all schoolboys know, the birch, like God,
Has no respect of persons; all that come
Within the rule and reach of the red rod,
Are equal in the rod's sight, all and some;
Down go all breeches at the master's nod,
No preference shown of bum to blushing bum;
The birch still red with blood of his inferiors,
May flog the far descended boys posteriors.
Yes, birch is democratic; for my part,
When on the flogging block, I've often wished
To be a boy that drives a plough or cart
By fields and streams where once I rode and fished;
If when we're flogged birch did not make us smart?
As it makes me smart every time I'm swished,
It were worth while to boast of long descent
If it could save our skins from detriment.
But crests and arms and quarterings and supporters,
And all emblazoned flourishes her field,
Are no defence for a boy's hinder quarters,
Nor will he find his coat of arms a shield
For his bare bottom, when, like other martyrs,
He writhes beneath the birch that leaves him wealed
All over his red quivering nether parts,
And smarts and roars, or only sobs and smarts.
His coat is birch per fesse, and total gules,
Poor fellow! 'tis an ancient coat, and good;
And, from of old, was borne in all boys' schools
Since the first flogging block was made of wood;
All dunces, truants, rebels, idlers, fools,
That e'er were birched have dyed it with their blood;
I too have often borne it. I, thy poet,
Thou knowest, Oh, Birch! and my posteriors know it.
Thou knowest my floggings, when and where I got 'em,
How I was flogged, how often, and what for;
Though I myself have in great part forgot 'em,
Now that the marks are on my flesh no more;
Thou knowest the new marks fresh upon my bottom,
All the scars, cuts, and weals that make it sore,
All the red ridges, all the parts half healed,
Since last my bottom gave thee a fair field.
By all these tokens, and each smarting sign,
Birch! hear once more a flogged boy's invocation,
Who never in his life had less than nine,
And never skulked or shirked his flagellation,
And never came off without marks of thine
To show for days in written indication;
He must have been well swished the day he got 'em,
To bear in sign of birch on his bare bottom
I sing of Arthur's Flogging; I, who heard
The boy himself sing out beneath the birch,
Louder and shriller than a singing bird,
Or screaming parrot on its gilded perch;
He has had this week three floggings; this, the third,
A good sound swishing, was for missing church.
And on this point no two boys ever differed,
That no boy gets more flogged than Arthur Clifford