Classic Poem

O matre pulchra filia pulchrior

More than mother to me, gentle incubator,
O my Coach, (although I hate to ask it)
Kindly shove my last iambics in the grate or
Paper-basket.

When I built 'em, how my eye in frenzy roaming
Raked the Gradus and the English-Greek!
Like my Tutor's when I pass him in the gloaming,
Pipe in cheek.

Briny tears I spilt upon the blameless blotter,
Used the oaths that men of wrath employ,
Otherwise than when a Dutchman swears in Rotter-
dam for joy.

Nascitur, non fit , is stated of the Poet,
People have it in their protoplasms;
Personally when I try to scan, I know it
Gives me spasms!

I have timed a racing eight and seen the hairy
Tar with twenty barges block the way;
Heard on Monday nights the bells of Great St. Mary
Making hay;

Blindly I have braved a Don's expostulations,
Going to the length of saying " Pooh! "
And I know of language meet for most occasions;
Yes, I do!

Wrath is my redeeming trait; I have a hunger
For compelling all my enemies to rot;
But my feelings for the first iambic-monger
Beat the lot!

Woe to wooers of the Muse! she's too erratic;
Put the case concisely — c'est une folle!
I shall drop her and (to speak the homely Attic)
Take a Poll.

Many since Atrides' day have filtered through the
Poll degree (or none at all) unaided;
And I think I may without presumption do the
Same as they did.

So we sever, O my Coach. I leave the chase of
Giddy geese and Honour's airy scent,
By the " Special exit meant for use in case of
Accident. "