C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
George Walter Thornbury (1828–1876)
Smith of Maudlin
M
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,
Rubbing the ten hairs on his chin,
Will say, “This very pipe I use
Was poor old Smith’s of Maudlin.”
The ruffling gownsmen three abreast,
The stiff-necked proctors, wary-eyed,
The dons, the coaches, and the rest:
Sly “Cherub Sims” will then propose
Billiards, or some sweet ivory sin;
Tom cries, “He played a pretty game—
Did honest Smith of Maudlin.”
The mad bull’s jerk, the tiger’s strength;
The Balliol men have wopped the Queen’s—
Hurrah!—but only by a length,
Dig on, ye muffs, ye cripples, dig!
Pull blind, till crimson sweats the skin!
The man who bobs and steers cries, “Oh,
For plucky Smith of Maudlin.”
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.”
A silence:—“Men, the memory
Of poor old Smith of Maudlin!”
A freshman dons the swollen glove;
With slicing strokes the lapping sticks
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.”
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,
Feel in my pockets for my tin:
While one hag says, “We all must die,
Just like this Smith of Maudlin.”
And all I hear will be the fly
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—
Here’s Mr. Smith of Maudlin.”