Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
Smith of Maudlin
By Walter Thornbury (18281876)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 purpose
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, “O
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!”