The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed With a Memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge. Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes |
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 | The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed |  |
216
TALES OUT OF SCHOOL.
A DROPT LETTER FROM A LADY.
Your godson, my sweet Lady Bridget,
Was entered at Eton last May;
But really, I'm all in a fidget
Till the dear boy is taken away;
For I feel an alarm which, I'm certain,
A mother to you may confess,
When the newspaper draws up the curtain,
The terrible Windsor Express.
Was entered at Eton last May;
But really, I'm all in a fidget
Till the dear boy is taken away;
For I feel an alarm which, I'm certain,
A mother to you may confess,
When the newspaper draws up the curtain,
The terrible Windsor Express.
You know I was half broken-hearted
When the poor fellow whispered “Good-bye!”
As soon as the carriage had started
I sat down in comfort to cry.
Sir Thomas looked on while I fainted,
Deriding—the bear!—my distress;
But what were the hardships I painted,
To the tales of the Windsor Express?
When the poor fellow whispered “Good-bye!”
As soon as the carriage had started
I sat down in comfort to cry.
Sir Thomas looked on while I fainted,
Deriding—the bear!—my distress;
But what were the hardships I painted,
To the tales of the Windsor Express?
217
The planter in sultry Barbadoes
Is a terrible tyrant, no doubt;
In Moscow, a Count carbonadoes
His ignorant serfs with the knout;
Severely men smart for their errors
Who dine at a man-of-war's mess;
But Eton has crueller terrors
Than these,—in the Windsor Express.
Is a terrible tyrant, no doubt;
In Moscow, a Count carbonadoes
His ignorant serfs with the knout;
Severely men smart for their errors
Who dine at a man-of-war's mess;
But Eton has crueller terrors
Than these,—in the Windsor Express.
I fancied the Doctor at College
Had dipped, now and then, into books;
But, bless me! I find that his knowledge
Is just like my coachman's, or cook's:
He's a dunce—I have heard it with sorrow;—
'Twould puzzle him sadly, I guess,
To put into English to-morrow
A page of the Windsor Express.
Had dipped, now and then, into books;
But, bless me! I find that his knowledge
Is just like my coachman's, or cook's:
He's a dunce—I have heard it with sorrow;—
'Twould puzzle him sadly, I guess,
To put into English to-morrow
A page of the Windsor Express.
All preachers of course should be preaching
That virtue's a very good thing;
All tutors of course should be teaching
To fear God, and honour the King;
But at Eton they've regular classes
For folly, for vice, for excess;
They learn to be villains and asses,
Nothing else—in the Windsor Express.
That virtue's a very good thing;
All tutors of course should be teaching
To fear God, and honour the King;
But at Eton they've regular classes
For folly, for vice, for excess;
They learn to be villains and asses,
Nothing else—in the Windsor Express.
218
Mrs. Martha, who nursed little Willy,
Believes that she nursed him in vain;
Old John, who takes care of the filly,
Says “He'll ne'er come to mount her again!”
My Juliet runs up to her mother,
And cries, with a mournful caress,
“Oh where have you sent my poor brother?
Look, look at the Windsor Express!”
Believes that she nursed him in vain;
Old John, who takes care of the filly,
Says “He'll ne'er come to mount her again!”
My Juliet runs up to her mother,
And cries, with a mournful caress,
“Oh where have you sent my poor brother?
Look, look at the Windsor Express!”
Ring, darling, and order the carriage;
Whatever Sir Thomas may say,—
Who has been quite a fool since our marriage,—
I'll take him directly away.
For of all their atrocious ill-treating
The end it is easy to guess;—
Some day they'll be killing and eating
My boy—in the Windsor Express!
Whatever Sir Thomas may say,—
Who has been quite a fool since our marriage,—
I'll take him directly away.
For of all their atrocious ill-treating
The end it is easy to guess;—
Some day they'll be killing and eating
My boy—in the Windsor Express!
| The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | |