Now, to fill the bitter chalice Of my grief, my foes discreet Fain would make my lovely ALICE Lure me from my dear retreat. ALICE, ALICE, don’t succumb, O! Either to their smiles or sneers, Listen to your husband, JUMBO, Oh, have pity on his tears! ALICE, Darling, we’ll be jolly, We won’t wander from the Zoo, I’ll not go upon their trolly, Smash my trunk, pet, if I do! _Judy_, March 1, 1882, (Alas, poor Jumbo! He was afterwards accidentally killed by a locomotive engine.) ―――― THE SCHOOL BOY’S COMPLAINT 1 Forced from home and all its pleasures, Father’s house I left forlorn; To increase a master’s treasures, To Carthusia’s mansions borne. My lot was fixed, my place was taken; Paid for too in paltry gold; And thus by all my friends forsaken, Unwillingly at school enrolled. 2 Still in thought as free as ever, What are master’s rights, I ask, Though they think themselves so clever. Me to torture, me to task? Vainly Saunders, Chapman, Penny, Claim their right to power and rule, Though they seldom call us any Names but “stupid ass,” and “fool!” 3 Why did all-creating Nature Plant that tree, the school-boy’s bane? Sighs must fan it, tears must water; Cause of woe and bitter pain. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, Frowning from your desks of state, Think how many backs have smarted ’Neath the object of our hate! 4 Are there, as ye sometimes tell us, Mighty lords, who govern all, Suff’ring boys and masters jealous. Meeting in the Founders’ Hall? Do they order impositions, Learning in our brains to hammer? Will they teach our repetitions? Or instruct us in the grammar? 5 No, we never rule so cruel, Never shall our spirits brook; Desks and blocks shall turn to fuel, Lighted by the dread Black-Book. Now’s the hour, and now’s the season For one well-directed blow: Can they call such daring, treason? Hark! our injuries answer, No. 6 By the years which we have wasted In this dreary place of woe; By the mis’ries we have tasted, By the ills we undergo; By our suff’rings since we entered Chapman’s portals, op’ning wide; When our joy in freedom centred, Hope, alas! remained outside, 7 Deem us, therefore, fools no longer, ’Till some reason ye shall find, Worthier of regard and stronger Than _your_ judgment of our mind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings All your precepts vain belie; Destitute of human feeling, Subjects fit for mockery! F. N. From the _Charterhouse Collection of Poems, &c._ Collected by Edward Walford, M.A. ――――:o:――――