So, Redgy, bring four!"
"There'll be two for the Truant,
And two for the Thief,
And if that does not bring
That fat bottom to grief—
Then Keate was a fumbler,
And Busby a fool,
And I'm not a Master
Of Whippingham School!"
Then the right trusty Master
Went at him like mad,
And loud were the prayers
And shrieks of the lad.
Said Arthur, "You coward!"
Said Redgy, "Keep cool!
Your bottom's a credit
To Whippingham School!"
But the Master is pausing!
Is it mercy or fear?
Ah! no, it's to toss off
A mug of strong beer.
And refreshed with his tipple,
He's at him again,
He never seems tired
Of swishing Frank Fane!
He pauses once more. — "Boys!"
He cries, "Hold him tight,
I remember I've got
A short letter to write.
If the creature's rebellious,
Let him taste this sweet cane,
I'll be back in ten minutes
To finish Frank Fane."
So the cane on his shoulders
Went rat-a-tap-tap,
And in turns they examined
His bum like a map;
Such outlines! Such islands!
Such mountains of weals
And such pretty red rivers
Running down t'wards the heels!
Here's the Master returning,
A cigar 'tween his lips,
Hurrah! for the Master
Who smokes while he whips!
He knows how to tackle
Two pleasures at once—
The taste of the baccy
The smart of the Dunce.