TALES OUT OF SCHOOL. A DROPPED LETTER FROM A LADY.

Your godson, my sweet Lady Bridget, Was entered at Eton last May; But really, I’m all in a fidget Till the dear boy is taken away; For I feel an alarm which, I’m certain, A mother to you may confess, When the newspaper draws up the curtain, The terrible Windsor Express. You know I was half broken-hearted When the poor fellow whispered “Good bye!” As soon as the carriage had started I sat down in comfort to cry. Sir Thomas looked on while I fainted, Deriding—the bear!—my distress; But what were the hardships I painted To the tales of the Windsor Express? The planter in sultry Barbadoes Is a terrible tyrant, no doubt; In Moscow, a Count carbonadoes His ignorant serfs with the knout; Severely men smart for their errors Who dine at a man-of-war’s mess; But Eton has crueller terrors Than these,—in the Windsor Express. I fancied the Doctor at College Had dipped, now and then, into books; But, bless me! I find that his knowledge Is just like my coachman’s or cook’s: He’s a dunce—I have heard it with sorrow;— ’Twould puzzle him sadly, I guess, To put into English to-morrow A page of the Windsor Express. All preachers of course should be preaching That virtue’s a very good thing; All tutors of course should be teaching To fear God, and honour the King; But at Eton they’ve regular classes For folly, for vice, for excess; They learn to be villains and asses, Nothing else in the Windsor Express. Mrs. Martha, who nursed little Willy, Believes that she nursed him in vain: Old John, who takes care of the filly, Says “He’ll ne’er come to mount her again!” My Juliet runs up to her mother, And cries, with a mournful caress, “Oh, where have you sent my poor brother? Look, look at the Windsor Express!” Ring, darling, and order the carriage; Whatever Sir Thomas may say,— Who has been quite a fool since our marriage,— I’ll take him directly away. For of all their atrocious ill-treating The end it is easy to guess; Some day they’ll be killing and eating My boy—in the Windsor Express!