Recipe

CHIDDEN still murmurs,
SLAPPED and RAPPED complain,
HURT, with a thousand tongues,
Whines out his pain.

This is the learning
Unto which we come:
PROPERLY WALLOPED
Is for ever dumb.

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland, born on July 21, 1865, was an English author, poet, journalist, and friend of major literary figures such as W.B. Yeats and Ezra Pound. Crosland's writing encompassed a wide range of subjects, and he was known for his satirical works. His legacy includes a robust body of prose and poetry, which has been recognized for its wit and social critique. He died on December 23, 1924.

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

To Dan Leno

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland, Simple Poetry

The Eagle

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland, Simple Poetry

The Baby In The Ward

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland, Simple Poetry

The Rhyme Of The Beast

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland, Simple Poetry

English

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To The "Muddied Oaf"

    My dear Muddied Oaf, -
    While still a youth and all unknown to fame,
    I went to school.
    And on a certain Saturday
    I put on a beautiful blue jersey, and some striped knickers,
    And betook myself into a damp field
    With my hands nice and clean,
    And my hair parted.
    Within an hour's time
    My shins had the appearance of a broken paint can,
    My garments were covered with mud,
    One of my teeth had somehow got swallowed,
    And my hair was out of joint.
    When I come to think of it,
    In that hour I must have been a Muddied Oaf,
    Though I did not know what to call myself.
    And no doubt on that and successive Saturday afternoons
    I won my various journalistic Waterloos,
    And contracted a stubborn cardi...

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

To The Cambridge Crew

    My dear Cambridge,
    You have pulled it off,
    As all men know.
    This ode
    Will make Oxford pretty sick;
    But the spoils are to the victor.
    If Oxford had rowed better
    And won,
    They should have had a nice new ode,
    Like good boys;
    But they have been and gone and lost,
    And are, therefore,
    Not fit subjects
    For immortal verse.
    Pah!
    I pass by Oxford!
    As for you, dear Cambridge,
    Here's to you:
    In spite of your long and honourable connection
    With the manufacture
    Of sossiges,
    There appears to be something in you,
    Which is more than can be said
    For some of the sossiges.
    Cambridge, my own,
    You have won the bowt rice!
    'Ave ...

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

The Student

A minx of seventeen, with rather fine
Brown eyes and freckles and a cheerful grin,
She saunters up the ward, and stricken sin
Nods and looks pleasant (why should one repine?).
She takes "her cases," looks for every "sign,"
Hammers and sounds the portly and the thin,
Plies them with questions till their cheap heads spin
And keeps them busy saying "ninety-nine."

It's my turn now! Oh, let me bare my chest
And spread a level sheet across my crib,
And be as wax for our meticulous Miss;
While she, poor dear, doing her anxious best,
Feels for the apex under the wrong rib
And wonders fiercely where my liver is.

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

The Two Ogres

Good children, list, if you're inclined,
And wicked children too
This pretty ballad is designed
Especially for you.

Two ogres dwelt in Wickham Wold
Each TRAITS distinctive had:
The younger was as good as gold,
The elder was as bad.

A wicked, disobedient son
Was JAMES M'ALPINE, and
A contrast to the elder one,
Good APPLEBODY BLAND.

M'ALPINE brutes like him are few
In greediness delights,
A melancholy victim to
Unchastened appetites.

Good, well-bred children every day
He ravenously ate,
All boys were fish who found their way
Into M'ALPINE'S net:

Boys whose good breeding is innate,
Whose sums are always right;
And boys who don't expostulate
When sent to bed at night;

And kindly boys who n...

William Schwenck Gilbert

Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter III.

FROM GEORGE PRINCE REGENT TO THE EARL OF YARMOUTH.^[1]


We missed you last night at the "hoary old sinner's,"
Who gave us as usual the cream of good dinners;
His soups scientific, his fishes quite prime--
His pâtés superb, and his cutlets sublime!
In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a
Stomachic orgasm in my Lord Ellenborough,
Who set to, to be sure, with miraculous force,
And exclaimed between mouthfuls, "a He-Cook, of course!--
"While you live--(what's there under that cover? pray, look)--
"While you live--(I'll just taste it)--ne'er keep a She-Cook.
"'Tis a sound Salic Law--(a small bit of that toast)--
"Which ordains that a female shall ne'er rule the roast;
"For Cookery's a secret--(this turtle's uncommon)--

Thomas Moore

To The Common Golfer

    My dear Common Golfer, -
    The game you affect
    Is a great game
    Played by yourself
    And all the crowned heads of Europe,
    Not to mention all the fat persons who desire to bant,
    All the thin persons who desire to become
    Vigorous and muscular, as it were,
    All the clerks who desire to pass for dukes,
    And all the dukes who relish the society of clerks.
    It is a great game:
    The people who play it are not the fault of the game.
    It is also a good game.
    If I am not mistaken,
    It is a game that originally came out of Scotland;
    Therefore it must be a good game.
    For everything that comes out of Scotland is good,
    Even the Scot.
    And golf being a great and good game
    I do not see any trem...

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland