 These two poems were first published in The Rocket, the newspaper of St Stephen's College, and are reproduced by kind permission of the editor R. Murdoch. If you can write a poem in the inimitable style of either John Prescott or Sir Henry Newbolt ('There's a breathless hush in the close tonight...') please send your contributions to publisher@blackbigbooks.com
ODE TO A TOAST FAG
(after Newbolt)
Come gather round me by the grate
Raise high your mugs of tea
Pile high the muffins on the plate
And lend your ears to me.
But where’s the butter, where’s the jam?
The fags are all on strike
There’s no-one left to slice the ham
Or fetch the things we like.
The fags who used to lay the fire
And bring us a jam puff
Have gone and left us in the mire.
They say they’ve had enough!
But hark! A footstep on the stair,
A knock, a treble tone –
‘Please let me be your toast fag, sir!
I’ll do it on my own.’
The boy lifts high his toasting fork
Puts crumpets on the table
He knows that action outweighs talk
He’s loyal, fearless, able.
For soon the boy becomes a man
School days are left behind
We fight the good fight while we can
And cherish ties that bind.
Our bullets spent, our captain slain,
Then round the shattered wheel,
Like Drake upon the Spanish Main
We draw our blades of steel.
There’s fire upon the afterdeck
The rigging’s all ablaze
The ensign’s bleeding from the neck
But steadfast is his gaze.
‘I’ll be your toast fag, do not fret
As long as battle rages!’
His fork is now a bayonet
His name in history’s pages.
That man was once the stripling youth
Who dared to toast a crumpet
He loved his school and told the truth.
For him we’ll sound the trumpet!
J. Prescott
THE RUNAWAY HORSE
It takes a knight in armour bright
To save one maiden fair
It takes a rather special boy
To bravely save a pair.
Now gather round and pay good heed
Pray tender me your ear
A song I sing of pluck and speed
And how to conquer fear.
That day upon the clifftop road
A boy became a man.
He’s now the subject of my ode
I’ll try to make it scan.
Two boys are strolling into town
They hear the sound of hooves
A huge black horse is hurtling down
How speedily it moves!
Between the shafts the horse runs free
The girls are in despair
A cry for help, a tearful plea
Cuts sharply through the air.
But one brave boy has heard them shriek
Alone he makes his stand.
The horse’s breath is on his cheek
He leaps with outstretched hand!
With all his strength he hangs on tight
The foaming beast slows down
The awful hooves are rendered quiet
Their cargo safe and sound.
The girls cry out ‘Sir Galahad!
Who are you, youth so fair?’
The boy replies: ‘A college lad.
Trust me – my name is Blair.’
J. Prescott
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