That's a token of Charlie's last flogging, the rod will soon stamp it afresh.
And this morning you saw he could hardly sit down, or be quiet in Church;
It's a pleasure to see Charlie's bottom, it looks just cut out for the birch.
Now, look out, Master Charlie, it's coming: you won't get off this time, by God!
For your Master's in, oh, such a wax! and he's picked you out, oh, such a rod!
Such a jolly good rod, with the buds on, so stout, and so supple and lithe,
You've been flogged till you're hardened to flogging, but won't the first cut make you writhe?
You've been birched till you say you don't care as you used for a birching! Indeed?
Wait a bit, Master Charlie, I'll bet the third cut or the fourth makes you bleed.
Though they say a boy's bottom grows harder with whipping, and times make it tough,
Yet the sturdiest boy's bottom will wince if the Schoolmaster whips it enough.
Aye, the stoutest posteriors will redden, and flinch from the cuts as they come,
If they're flogged half as hard as the Master will flog Charlie Collingwood's bum.
We shall see a real jolly good swishing, as good as a fellow could wish;
Here's a stunning good rod, and a jolly big bottom just under it — Swish!
Oh, by Jove, he's drawn blood at the very first cut! in two places by God!
Aye, and Charlie's red bottom grows redder all over with marks of the rod.
And the pain of the cut makes his burning posteriors quiver and heave.
And he's hiding his face — yes, by Jove, and he's wiping his eyes on his sleeve!
Now; give it him well, Sir, lay into him well, till the pain makes him roar!
Flog him, then, till he stops, and then flog him again, till he bellows once more!
Ah, Charlie, my boy, you don't mind it, eh, do you? it's nothing to bear.
Though a small boy may cry for a flogging, that's natural, but Charlie don't care.
That's right, Sir, don't spare him! that cut was a stinger, but Charlie don't mind;
All the rods in the kingdom would only be wasted on Charlie's behind,
At each cut, how the red flesh rises, the red weals tingle and swell!
How he blushes! I told you the Master would flog Charlie Collingwood well.
There are long red ridges and furrows, across his great, broad, nether cheeks,
And on both his plump, rosy, round buttocks, the blood stands in drops and in streaks.
Well hit, Sir! Well caught! how he drew in his bottom, and flinched from the cut!
At each touch of the birch on his bum, how the smart makes it open and shut!
Well struck, Sir, again, how it made the blood spin! there's a drop on the floor,
Each long, fleshy furrow grows ruddy, and Charlie can bear it no more.
Blood runs from each weal on his bottom, and all Charlie's bottom is wealed,
Twill be many a day ere the scars of this flogging are thoroughly healed.
Now just under the hollow of Charlie's bare back, where the flanks are aslope,
The rod catches and stings him, and now at the point where the downward ways ope;
Round his flanks, now like serpents, the birchen twigs twining bend round as they bite,
And you see on his naked, white belly, red ridges, where all was so white.
Where between his white thighs, something hairy, the body's division reveals,
Falls the next cut, and now Charlie Collingwood's bottom is all over weals.
Not a twig on the rod, but has raised a red ridge on his flesh, not a bud,
But has drawn from his naked and writhing posteriors, a fresh drop of blood.
And the Schoolmaster warms to his work now, as harder and harder he hits,
And picks out the most sensitive places, as though he'd cut Charlie to bits.
"So you'll fidget and whisper in school-time, and make a disturbance in Church?
"Can't sit still, Master Charlie, eh, can't you? Well, what do you think of the birch?
"Oh, it hurts you so, does it, my boy, to sit down, since I flogged you last night?
"It was that made you fidget all church time? Indeed, you can't help it, please God—