Classic Poem

Ille et nefasto te posuit die

Upon a god-forsaken day,
Black-lettered, fever-smitten,
The jobber marked you with his brand
To be the butt of Barnwell and
The mockery of Ditton.

Hack of the W. S. H.,
My Warranted Sound Hunter,
Whose state is feebly comatose,
Whose sense of humour — Heaven knows
It couldn't well be blunter.

That man, I say, had little heart
Or else a callous liver,
Who in your beauty's aftermath
Consigned you to the towing-path,
Your rider to the river.

Fate's irony so long has been
A mark for observation,
That three examples here will do, —
I might have managed it with two —
By way of illustration.

Safe home from hacking nigger-men
That never had a rag on,
His foot the gallant soldier sets
Upon his native soil, and gets
Run over by a waggon.

Your Anarchist who fears the Force
(No other fears afflict him),
Quite inadvertently is blown
To bits and figures as his own
One solitary victim.

The hardy missioner who makes
A point of being chary
Of brutal Anthropophagi
Is ultimately eaten by
A common cassowary.

He only never dies that has
A Life Insurance ticket:
It is, as history avers,
The unexpected that occurs:
(The same applies to cricket).

To take my case: — when you, my steed,
(I sat you like a feather,)
Through utter lassitude of mind
Mistook the purpose of the grind,
And down we went together;

How nearly then — had not the stream
Been singularly scanty —
You came to visiting the Styx,
And trying on your fancy tricks
Along with Rosinante,

Or those primeval quadrupeds,
New-roused from realms of Morpheus,
The famous prehistoric breed,
Enchanted by a second Reed,
A later quill than Orpheus'!

How nearly I myself had joined
The ranks of shady reges
Who used to patronise the Row
(I mean Bellerophon and Co.)
In Argos apt at gee-gees!

How nearly heard them pulverise
In pious Greek Te Deums
The digging-man that comes from King's,
Unearthing all their earthen things,
And stuffs 'em in Museums!