LITMIR.BIZ

      Of all the schools throughout the land

      St. Vedast's is the oldest, and

      All men are proud

      (And justly proud)

      Who claim St. Vedast's as their Al-

      Ma mater. There I went a cal-

      Low youth. Don't think I'm going to paint

      The glories of this school – I ain't.

      The Rev. Cecil Rowe, M.A.,

      Was classics Master in my day,

      A learned man

      (A worthy man)

      In fact you'd very rarely see

      A much more clever man than he.

      But if you think you'll hear a lot

      About this person, – you will not.

      The porter was a man named Clarke;

      We boys considered it a lark

      To play him tricks

      (The usual tricks

      Boys play at public schools like this),

      And Clarke would sometimes take amiss

      These tricks. But don't think I would go

      And only sing of him. Oh, no!

      This ditty, I would beg to state,

      Professes likewise to relate

      The latter words

      (The solemn words)

      Of her who kept the tuck-shop at

      St. Vedast's. I'd inform you that

      The porter was her only son

      (The reason was – she had but one).

      For many years the worthy soul

      Had kept the shop – the well-loved goal

      Of little boys

      (And larger boys)

      Who bought the tarts, and ginger pop

      And other things sold at her shop —

      But, feebler growing year by year,

      She felt her end was drawing near.

      She therefore bade her son attend,

      That she might whisper, ere her end,

      A startling tale

      (A secret tale)

      That on her happiness had preyed,

      And heavy on her conscience weighed

      For many a year. "Alas! my son,"

      She sighed, "injustice has been done.

      "Let not your bitter anger rise,

      Nor gaze with sad reproachful eyes

      On one who's been

      (You know I've been)

      For many years your mother, dear;

      And though you think my story queer,

      Believe – or I shall feel distressed —

      I thought I acted for the best.

      "When you were but a tiny boy

      (Your mother's and your father's joy),

      Good Mr. Rowe

      (The Revd. Rowe)

      Was but a little baby too,

      Who very much resembled you,

      And, being poorly off in purse,

      I took this baby out to nurse.

      "Alike in features and in size —

      So like, indeed, the keenest eyes

      Would find it hard

      (Extremely hard)

      To tell the t'other from the one – "

      "Hold! though your tale is but begun,"

      The porter cried, "a man may guess

      The secret of your keen distress.

      "You changed the babes at nurse, and I

      (No wonder that you weep and sigh),

      Tho' callèd Clarke

      (School Porter Clarke),

      Am really Mr. Rowe. I see.

      And he, of course, poor man, is me,

      While all the fortune he has known

      Through these long years should be my own.

      "Oh falsely, falsely, have you done

      To call me all this time your son;

      I've always felt

      (Distinctly felt)

      That I was born to better things

      Than portering, and such-like, brings,

      I'll hurry now, and tell poor Rowe

      What, doubtless, he will feel a blow."

      "Stay! stay!" the woman cried, "'tis true,

      My poor ill-treated boy, that you

      Have every right

      (Undoubted right)

      To feel aggrieved. I had the chance

      Your future welfare to advance

      By changing babes. I knew I'd rue it,

      My poor boy – but —I didn't do it."

      Young Mr. S. P. Iders Webbe,

      Solicitor, of Clifford's Inn,

      Sat working in his chambers, which

      Were far removed from traffic's din.

      To those in legal trouble he

      Lent ready ear of sympathy —

      And six-and-eightpence was his fee.

      To widows and to orphans, too,

      Young Mr. Webbe was very nice,

      And turned none from his door away

      Who came to seek for his advice:

      To these, I humbly beg to state —

      The sad and the disconsolate —

      His fee was merely six-and-eight.

      He'd heave a sympathetic sigh,

      And squeeze each bankrupt client's hand

      While listening to a tale of woe

      Salt

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