Classic and Contemporary Poetry
SMITH OF MAUDLIN, by GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY Poet's Biography First Line: My chums will burn their indian weeds Last Line: "here's mr. Smith of maudlin." Subject(s): Death; Dead, The | ||||||||
My chums will burn their Indian weeds 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." That night in High Street there will walk The ruffling gownsmen three abreast, The stiff-necked proctors, wary-eyed, The dons, the coaches, and the rest: Sly "Cherub Sims" will then propose Billiards, or some sweet ivory sin; Tom cries, "He played a pretty game Did honest Smith of Maudlin." The boats are out!the arrowy rush, 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, "Oh, For plucky Smith of Maudlin." Wine parties meta noisy night; Red sparks are breaking through the cloud; The man who won the silver cup Is in the chair erect and proud. Three are asleepone to himself Sings, "Yellow jacket's sure to win." A silence:"Men, the memory Of poor old Smith of Maudlin!" The boxing rooms: With solemn air A freshman dons the swollen glove; With slicing strokes the lapping sticks Work out a rubberthree 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." But all this time beneath the sheet 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." Ah! Then a dreadful hush will come, 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 doorthe third pair back Here's Mr. Smith of Maudlin." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND THE JACOBITE ON TOWER HILL by GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY THE JESTER'S SERMON by GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY THE THREE TROOPERS DURING THE PROTECTORATE by GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY |
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