Here's a version of A C Swinburne's epic Eton Birching poem. I would challenge any of our female readers to read it from start to finish, and not find at least a little dampness in their knickers by the end (regardless of how repugnant they may actually find it).


Seventeen years of age, with round limbs, and broad shoulders, tall, rosy and fair,
And all over his forehead and temples, a forest of curly fair hair;
Good in the playing fiends, good on the water, or in it, this lad;
But at sums, or at themes, or at verses, oh! ain't Charlie Collingwood bad!

Six days out of seven, or five at the least, he's sent up to be stripped;
But it's nuts for the lower boys to see Charlie Collingwood whipped;
For the weals of the birch on his bottom, are more than the leaves on a tree,
And a bum that has worn so much birch out as Charlie's, is a jolly sight to see.

When his shirt is turned up, and his breeches are pulled right down to his heels,
From the small of his back, to the thick of his thighs, is one solid mass of red weals.
Ted Beauchamp, last year, began keeping a list of his floggings and he
Says they come in a year-and-a-half to a hundred and sixty and three.

And you see how this morning, in front of the flogging block, silent he stands,
And hitching his waistband up slightly, he feels his sore bum with his hands.
Then he lifts his blue eyes to the face of the Master, nor shrinks at his frown,
Nor at the sight of the birch, nor at sound of the sentence of judgement, "Go down."

Not a word Charlie Collingwood says, not a syllable, but in silence makes preparation
And kneels on the block, pulls down his breeches, then bends over for due flagellation
And again, we can see his bare red bottom exposed, round, fleshy, and plump,
And the bystanders look from the Master's cruel birch, to the schoolboy's sore, red rump

There are weals over weals, there are stripes upon stripes, there are cuts over cuts,
All over Charlie Collingwood's bare bottom and thighs, and isn't the sight of it nuts?
There, that livid weal on the fleshiest part of the buttocks, low down on the right,
He got that at yesterday morning’s flogging, oh! isn't his bottom a sight?

And that scar that's nearly healed, don't you see where the birch cut the flesh?
That's a token of Charlie's flogging last week, the birch will soon stamp it afresh.
And this morning, you saw he could hardly sit down, or be quiet in church,
It's a pleasure to see Charlie's bare bottom, it looks just made for the birch!

Now, look out, Master Charlie, it's coming; you won't get off this time, by God!
For your master's in, oh, such a fret! And he's picked out such a savage birch rod!
Such a jolly good birch, with the buds on, so stout, and so supple and lithe,
You've been flogged till you're hardened to flogging, but won't the first cut make you writhe!

You've been birched till you say you don't care as you used for a birching! Indeed?
Wait a bit, Master Charlie, I'll bet the third cut or the fourth makes you bleed.
Though they say a boy's bum grows harder, with floggings, and time makes it tough,
Yet the sturdiest boy's bottom will wince if the Schoolmaster flogs it enough.

Aye, the stoutest posteriors will redden, and flinch from the cuts as they come,
If they're flogged half as hard as the Master will flog Charlie Collingwood's bum.
We shall see a real, jolly good swishing, as good as a fellow could wish;
Here's a stunning good birch, and a jolly fine bottom just under it - Swish!

Oh, by Jove, he's drawn blood at the very first cut! in two places by God!
Aye, and Charlie's red bottom grows redder all over with weals from the rod.
As the force of the strokes make his burning buttocks clench, quiver and heave,
And he's hiding his face - yes, by Jove, and he's wiping his eyes on his sleeve!

Now, give it him well, Sir, lay into him well, till the pain makes him roar!
Flog him, then, till he stops, and then flog him again till he bellows once more!
Ah, Charlie, my boy, you don't mind it, eh, do you? it's nothing to bear;
Though small boys may cry at a flogging, that's natural, but Charlie just don't care.

That's right, Sir, don't spare him! That cut was a stinger, but Charlie don't mind;
All the birches in the kingdom, would only be wasted on Charlie's behind.
At each stroke, how the red flesh rises in ridges, the red weals tingle, and swell!
How his face blushes! I told you the Master would flog Charlie Collingwood well.

There are long, livid, red ridges and furrows across his broad, spread, nether cheeks,
And on both his plump, rosy, round buttocks the blood stands in droplets and streaks.
Well hit, Sir! Well caught! how he clenched in his bottom, and flinched from the cut!
And at each swish of the birch on his bum, how the strokes make it open and shut!

Well stuck, Sir, again, how it made the blood spin! There's a drop on the floor;
Each long, fleshy weal grows bloody, and Charlie can bear it no more.
Blood runs from each weal on his bum, and all Charlie's bottom is wealed,
'Twil be many a week ere’ Charlie’s bum, from this flogging, is thoroughly healed

Now just under the hollow of Charlie's bare back, where the bum flanks are all aslope,
The birch catches, and cuts him, and lower, at the point where the parting cheeks ope;
Where, between the white thighs, something hairy, the buttock’s cleavage reveals
Even there also, the birch twigs bend, and cut in, leaving tingling, bloody, red weals

Round his flanks also, like serpents, the birchen twigs bend round as they bite,
And you see on his naked, tender thighs, fresh livid weals, where all was once white
Not a twig on the rod has but raised a red ridge on his flesh, not a bud
But has drawn from his naked and writhing posteriors, a fresh drop of blood

And the Schoolmaster warms to his work now, as harder and harder he hits,
And picks out all the most sensitive parts, as though he'd cut Charlie to bits.
"So you'll fidget and whisper in school-time, and make a disturbance in church?
Can't sit still, Master Charlie, eh, can't you? Well, what do you think of the birch?

Oh it hurts you so, does it, my boy, to sit down, since I flogged you last morning?
A sore bottom made you fidget in church? Indeed, you can't help it, please God?
By the help of the birch, Master Charlie, I'll teach you to help it, please God!
If you don't mend your manners in future, it shan't be for want of the rod.

You're a big boy, no doubt, to be flogged; the more shame for you, at your age
But as long as you're here, I shall flog you;" he lays on the cuts in a rage.
"Aye, and if you were older and bigger, you'd come to the flogging block still,
"Boys are never too big to be birched!" as he lays on the birch with a will.

"If a boy's not too old to go wrong, he can't be too old to be whipped,
And he lays on the birch, till the twigs all with Charlie’s blood, are tipped.
There are streaks of the boy's blood, visible now on each rough birch bud
And blood has run down, wetting his breeches, and his bum is all covered with blood.

But I'd rather be shut up for days, in a hole you would scarce put a dog in,
And brought out each day to be birched, than miss Charlie Collingwood's flogging!
How each cut brings the blood to his face, and makes him bite half through his lips!
How the birch cuts his bottom all over, and makes the blood spin from his hips!

How his chubby bare buttocks, all bloody and wealed, with furrows like ruts!
Shrink, quivering with pain, at each stroke, that opens afresh wounds of past cuts!
How the schoolmaster seems to hit harder, the birch to sting more at each blow!
Till at last Charlie Collingwood, writhing with agony, bellows out aloud "Oh!"

That was all: not a word of petition, just a single, short cry, and no more;
And the younger boys laugh, that the birch should have made such a big boy roar.
For a moment the Master too pauses, but not for a truce or a parley,
Then the birch falls afresh, on the raw wealed flesh, with "Take that, Master Charlie."

The small boys watching, are wide eyed and silent; and they hear not a syllable come,
They hear only the swish of the birch, as it meets Charlie Collingwood's bum.
And the Master's face flushes with anger; he signs to Fred Fane with a nod;
And Freddy, reluctantly, hands him another stout, supple birch rod.

And again, as he flogs Charlie Collingwood's bottom, his face seems all aflame;
At each cut he reminds him of this thing, or that, and rebukes him by name.
Each cut makes the boy's naked buttocks quiver, and weals them all over afresh;
Until bum and thighs are all, once again, one bloody raw mass of wealed flesh.

Till the master, tired out with hard work, and quite satiate with flogging for once,
With one last cut, that stings to the quick, bids him rise for an Obstinate Dunce.
From the block, Charlie rises, with face flushed bright red, and dishevelled fair hair,
And watering eyes, and raw bloodied bum, and a grim, sullen look of 'Don't Care'.

As slowly he draws up his bloodied breeches, chancing all just a fleeting glimpse
Of a partially raised schoolboy’s “thing”, before fastening his breeches, with a wince
And stiffly he walks out of school, with a crowd of boys behind, dogging
The heels of their hero, all proud to have seen, Charlie Collingwood's flogging.

Etoniensis.

Here's another Swinburne classic:

Oh Birch! thou common dread and doom of all boys,
Who found out first thy properties of pain?
Who gave thy tough lithe twigs their power to appal boys?
Who laid the red foundations of thy reign?
Who made thee haunt by night the dreams of small boys?
Who gave thee power o'er us thy trembling train?
Who made thee master of our bums, and lord?
Who flogged boys first? and what flogged boy first roared?

No tongue there is to say, no soul to know it;
In blood and tears were laid thy first foundations,
But by whose hand who knows, and who can show it?
So long the rod has ruled boys of all nations.
Oh, Birch! accept a schoolboy for thy poet,
Whose bum has blushed from frequent flagellations
These three years past; thou knowest it, Birch, and more;
And while I write is not my bottom sore?

Oh, Birch! whose mouth should sing thee if not mine?
Is there a schoolboy oftener flogged than I am?
Have I not marks upon me still of thine?
Is there a boy, I say, from here to Siam,
Between the ages of eighteen and nine,
Or has there been a boy since the age of Priam,
In days unknown of or in years unsearched,
Who has been oftener or more soundly birched?

Right well thou knowest the voice that now invokes
Thine oft experienced aid and inspiration;
By all the rods I have felt, and all their strokes,
By all the burning pangs of my probation;
By the salt brine in which thy keeper soaks
Thy twigs to make them fit for flagellation,
By their green buds that make one hate the spring,
By all their suppleness and all their sting;

By all the scars I ever took behind,
By all the cuts thou has ever given me, since
At my first flogging, still I keep in mind,
The first cut made my young posteriors wince;
By thy full power on boys of every kind,
Alike on smarting page and tingling prince;
By all my floggings whereso'er I got 'em;
By all the weals upon my naked bottom;

By all the blood of mine that thou hast shed,
And all the blood of all my schoolfellows,
And all that ever made the birch twigs red,
From tender bottoms blushing like a rose;
By all the boyish bums that ever bled,
Or ever will bleed from thy backside blows,
As long as supple twig and swelling bud
Make high-born bottoms 'blush with noble blood'.

For, as all schoolboys know, the birch, like God,
Has no respect of persons; all that come
Within the rule and reach of the red rod,
Are equal in the rod's sight, all and some;
Down go all breeches at the master's nod,
No preference shown of bum to blushing bum;
The birch still red with blood of his inferiors,
May flog the far descended boys posteriors.

Yes, birch is democratic; for my part,
When on the flogging block, I've often wished
To be a boy that drives a plough or cart
By fields and streams where once I rode and fished;
If when we're flogged birch did not make us smart
As it makes me smart every time I'm swished,
It were worth while to boast of long descent
If it could save our skins from detriment.

But crests and arms and quarterings and supporters,
And all emblazoned flourishes her field,
Are no defence for a boy's hinder quarters,
Nor will he find his coat of arms a shield
For his bare bottom, when, like other martyrs,
He writhes beneath the birch that leaves him wealed
All over his red quivering nether parts,
And smarts and roars, or only sobs and smarts.

His coat is birch per fesse, and total gules,
Poor fellow! 'tis an ancient coat, and good;
And, from of old, was borne in all boys' schools
Since the first flogging block was made of wood;
All dunces, truants, rebels, idlers, fools,
That e'er were birched have dyed it with their blood;
I too have often borne it. I, thy poet,
Thou knowest, Oh, Birch! and my posteriors know it.

Thou knowest my floggings, when and where I got 'em,
How I was flogged, how often, and what for;
Though I myself have in great part forgot 'em,
Now that the marks are on my flesh no more;
Thou knowest the new marks fresh upon my bottom,
All the scars, cuts, and weals that make it sore,
All the red ridges, all the parts half healed,
Since last my bottom gave thee a fair field.

By all these tokens, and each smarting sign,
Birch! hear once more a flogged boy's invocation,
Who never in his life had less than nine,
And never skulked or shirked his flagellation,
And never came off without marks of thine
To show for days in written indication;
He must have been well swished the day he got 'em,
To bear in sign of birch on his bare bottom

I sing of Arthur's Flogging; I, who heard
The boy himself sing out beneath the birch,
Louder and shriller than a singing bird,
Or screaming parrot on its gilded perch;
He has had this week three floggings; this, the third,
A good sound swishing, was for missing church.
And on this point no two boys ever differed,
That no boy gets more flogged than Arthur Clifford.

The time was noon; the flogging room the scene;
And all the boys in Arthur's form were there;
And in they brought the culprit of thirteen,
A boy with bright dark eyes and bright gold hair,
Of slender figure and of careless mien,
Though now his flushed face wore a cloud of care,
And with eyes downcast like a shrinking girl's,
He came on blushing right up to his curls.

To him the doctor, in judicial wise,
What kept you, Clifford Minor, out of church?'
Then the boy lifted his dark violet eyes,
And saw the flogging block, and saw the birch,
And felt the blood to cheeks and forehead rise,
And wistfully looked round him as in search
Of any pretext to ward off his fate,
And answered boldly, 'Please, sir, I was late.'

What made you late, sir?' with a smile and frown
Of outward wrath and cruel inward joy,
Replied the master, 'Were you not up town
On some vain errand for some foolish boy?'
No answer. 'Clifford, take your trousers down.'
With piteous eyes uplifted, the poor boy
Just faltered, 'Please sir,' and could get no farther.
Again, that voice, 'Take down your trousers, Arthur.'

Then smiles were seen on many small boys' faces,
And smothered laughs on many a big boy's lips,
With stifled whispers and subdued grimaces,
While Arthur, with cold trembling finger tips,
Stood fumbling at his waistband and his braces,
Then bared the fleshy parts about his hips,
And let his trousers fall about his heels,
And showed a pair of buttocks full of weals

A pretty pair of buttocks, round and plump,
With red points here and there, that seemed to dot 'em,
And here and there a broken twig or stump
Of birch still sticking in the flesh to spot 'em;
And many a red ridge right across the rump,
And many a half-healed scar on Arthur's bottom;
There might you see in fair and open fight
The red rose making war upon the white

So with his parti-colored bottom bare,
With all its wounds for all the school to mock,
With naked buttocks delicately fair,
The parts unscarred as white as lady's smock,
A boy with violet eyes and yellow hair
Knelt, with his shirt up, on the flogging block;
And o'er him stood his master, fresh from church,
With a long, strong, lithe, new, green, sappy birch.

Once — twice — he whirled it whistling round his head,
Then struck with all a strong man's utmost might,
And Author's bottom blushed one burning red
All over, not an inch was left of white,
And from a score of weals at once it bled,
Great tingling weals that sprang up left and right
Under the birch, and from them every one
The drops of blood as thick as raindrops spun.

And all the cuts his bottom had before,
The parts where bits of birch were sticking still
Like spearheads in the wounds they made of yore,
When last the birch had all its cruel will,
Began to bleed afresh and smart once more
As sheer through the air the whistling twigs swept shrill,
There, they're very sharp and straight, and smote afresh
The tingling space of naked quivering flesh.

The first cut made the flogged boy flinch and start,
And from his lips pain forced a short sharp cry,
So hard it fell on such a tender part,
Still sore from floggings felt so recently;
Right through his flesh he felt the bitter smart,
Like a snake's sting down darted from on high,
And writhed, and roared out at the second blow—
'Oh! please, sir! oh! sir! Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!'

Swift as the birch on Arthur's bottom fell,
Hard as the birch on Arthur's bottom rung,
Like the deep notes of a funeral bell,
The master's words of keen rebuke were flung,
I'll flog you well for crying — flog you well;
I'll have no crying here, boy; hold your tongue;
I'll give you more to cry for, you young dog, you!
I'll flog you — flog you — flog, flog, flog, flog, flog you.'

At every pause, at every word, a blow
Fell, and made Arthur's bottom smart and bleed.
'Take that, sir,' 'Oh! sir, please, it hurts me so;
You don't know how you hurt me, sir, indeed;
Oh! sir, I'll never — Oh! sir, please, sir, Oh!'
And many a blood flake like a crimson bead,
At each fresh cut showed where each twig or bud
Had fallen, and drawn its one drop more of blood.

At each cut, Arthur, while his hands were free,
Pulled down his shirt and rubbed his bottom; but
Though some relief from torture it might be,
The gate of mercy was that instant shut;
And Arthur felt all through, but could not see,
How hard the doctor laid on the next cut,
And as the sharp twigs were afresh applied,
Fresh blood ran from fresh weals on his backside.

And over him in front stood Philip Shirley
And Edward Beauchamp, holding up his shirt;
And if he plucked it from them, they looked surly,
And they drew up again the blood-stained skirt,
And shook their fists aside at Arthur's curly
Head, or else grinned, and whispered, 'Does it hurt?'
And only held the spotted shirt up higher,
Till the birch seemed to set his bum on fire.

He clapped his hands behind — the birch twigs caught 'em
Across, and made them tingle too and bleed;
And harder still the birch fell on his bottom,
And left some fresh red letters there to read;
Weeks passed before the part inscribed forgot 'em,
The fleshy tablets, where the master's creed
Is written on boy's skin with birchen pen,
At each re-issue copied fair again.

This was the third edition, not the first,
Printed on Arthur's bottom in red text
That very week, with comments interspersed,
And cuts that left the student's eye perplexed,
Though in the love of flagellation versed,
You hardly could tell one cut from the next;
All the smooth creamy paper, white and pink,
Was crossed and scored and blotted with red ink.

The fair full page of white and warm young flesh
Was ruled across with long thick lines of red,
And lettered on the engraved backside with fresh
Large characters, by all boys to be read,
In hieroglyphs fine as a spider's mesh,
With copious coloured cuts illustrated,
Warm from the hand of the artist that begot 'em,
To adorn the bare blank page of Arthur's bottom.

All down the cream white margins, line on line,
Ran the red tracery of the engraver's tool,
With many a capital and flourish fine,
And ere the characters had time to cool
The well-soaked birch, still supple from the brine,
Made a fresh score in sight of the whole school,
Who saw the inscription on the bare flesh scored,
While Arthur writhed in agony, and roared.

Like a large crimson flower of tropic lands
That opens to the morning sun, and shuts
Again, at evening, and again expands,
So Arthur's bottom seems, between the cuts,
To vibrate under his tormentor's hands,
Who, gloating on it, as he flogs it, gluts
His eyes with the full prospect, while these great
Red cheeks contract at each cut, and then dilate.

Then faster still the next few cuts are plied
On those round naked fleshy hemispheres,
The rosy globes of Arthur's bare backside,
The glowing cheeks that stream with crimson tears;
Cut after cut on Arthur's naked hide,
And at each cut a fresh red streak appears,
And a fresh weal for each tough knotty bud,
And for each weal a fresh great flake of blood.

By Jove! I say, he's getting peppered, ain't he?'
Thus Philip Shirley whispers Edward Beauchamp,
And still the old one seems as fresh as paint, he
Swore he'd show all the school a sight to teach 'em
Next time; look there! the boy may well cry, mayn't he?
He thinks our bums were made for him to switch 'em,
Made to bear all the cuts he's pleased to allot 'em,
By Jove! just look at Clifford Minor's bottom!

All seamed with bloody weals and streaks vermilion,
That each cut makes blood run from in small streams,
He's got more cuts to show than Frank Tressilion,
And Frank's all scored behind with crimson seams.
I wouldn't have his bottom for a million,
There, the birch caught him nicely — how he screams!
Well, its a shame to try the poor lad farther.
I say, that stings, eh? How's your bottom, Arthur?'

He grins and whispers, but the boy scarce hears;
He struggles with the rising sobs, and chokes,
Striving in vain to swallow down his tears
And not cry out, since every cry provokes
Fresh punishment, and for each sob he fears
A fresh instalment of still sharper strokes;
And then the fresh cuts wring fresh tears and cries
From Arthur's quivering lips and streaming eyes.

His dark blue eyes look up, all dim with pain,
From under his rough tangled yellow hair,
And plead for mercy piteously, in vain;
The master never yet was known to spare;
Again his sinewy arm is raised, — again
The rod comes whistling down on Arthur there,
And his bare haunches quiver from the blow.
Oh! oh! oh! don't, please don't, sir! Oh! sir, oh!

Oh! let me off now, please, sir — please, sir, do, sir!
I'll never — oh! — be late nor — oh! — miss church;
Oh; please, sir — Oh! sir, if you only knew, sir.'
Cries Arthur, while the burning tears besmirch
His fair flushed cheeks, 'You'll cut my bottom through, sir,
Oh! please, do stop, sir — do put down the birch —
Do, do, sir! please, sir! please, it cuts me so, sir!
I will take care, if you won't flog me — oh, sir!

I will, indeed I will, sir, try and mind —
I won't, indeed I won't, be late again.'
But still the same birch lashed the boy behind,
And the same cuts fell on him thick as rain,
And with arm raised and body half inclined
To hit more hard and give more stinging pain
Through all the smarting bottom's breadth and length,
The master flogged the boy with all his strength.

As vigorously as his right hand could wield it,
He plied the birch, till many a fragment broke
On the bare bottom with no shirt to shield it,
The sensitive soft flesh without a cloak
All swollen and sore with crimson stripes that wealed it,
All blood bespotted from the tingling stroke;
Till Arthur with clenched teeth began to suck
His rosy lips in, and get up his pluck.

Down came the birch; this time he did not squeak;
Down came the birch; he hardly flinched from it;
Down came the birch; the blood rose to his cheek;
Down came the birch; blood followed where it hit;
Down came the birch; he'll not sit down this week;
Down came the birch; he didn't wince one bit;
Down came the birch; it cut him to the quick;
Down came the birch; he bore it like a brick.

He had cried at first as if he could not bear it,
With eyes o'erflowing and imploring mien;
But as the strokes went on he plucked up spirit
And smarting silently drew breath between,
As one who knows birch and won't seem to fear it,
With all the cheek of schoolboys of thirteen;
As each cut fell he seemed to draw his bum tight
To bear the smart, with buttocks clenched up drum tight.

Though when he cried he had been well flogged for crying,
He was flogged more now that he held his tongue;
He tried to hold out, and was flogged for trying;
He was like some boys who seem always wrong,
Who are flogged for telling truth, and flogged for lying;
It moved his master's bile that such a young
Boy should have cheek enough, even while he thrashed him,
Not to cry out beneath the twigs that lashed him.

This is the way with schoolmasters; their fashion
Is to flog boys for silence as for speech;
If a boy blubbers while they lay the lash on
They dry his tears with a fresh cut for each;
If he won't cry, it puts them in a passion,
And they lay twice as much upon his breech;
So, if you cry, you're flogged; and if you don't,
You're flogged for impudence because you won't.

So was it with young Clifford; for his master
First, for his first fault, flogged him till he cried,
And then because he cried, he flogged the faster,
Till the weals grew as thick on his bare hide
As grains one shakes out of a pepper caster,
Grains of red pepper on his red backside;
So that each cut drew down a fresh tear; but
Each tear as surely drew down a fresh cut.

So Arthur stopped; but when he left off crying,
The doctor flogged him harder than before
Because he sulked beneath the birch, defying
The hand that flogged him, and the strokes he bore;
With all his might he laid each lash on, trying
To increase the smart as he increased the score,
That each cut singly might give double pain,
And flogged the more because he flogged in vain.

For all the boys who saw him flogged would swear
That Arthur took his flogging like a trump
After the first cuts; and it wasn't fair
To lay so many on a youngster's rump;
A pretty boy, too, with his white limbs bare,
Round, rosy, naked buttocks, fair and plump,
As ever served a school for laughing stock,
Was Arthur Clifford on the flogging block.

A pretty boy with fair flushed upturned face,
Dark eyebrows and dark eyes, and yellow hair,
With buttocks exposed for flogging, in disgrace;
With the birch hanging over him in air,
With scar on scar and bloody trace on trace
Of flogging all across the parts laid bare,
All his fair limbs and features drawn with pain,
As the birch showered its strokes on him like rain.

The bright tears on his long dark lashes hung,
And on his soft cheeks stood like dew on peaches;
But though the birch twigs bit his flesh and stung,
And at each following stroke drew blood like leeches,
No word of plaint now fell from Arthur's tongue,
Though spots of red were on his shirt and breeches,
As the blood spun from his bare haunches, quivering
With pain that left his slender body shivering.

Till pausing, with an eye of sharp research,
The master scanned the boy's round plump backside,
To see where best to apply the impending birch,
Where to sting most, and mark the naked hide.
"Now, see, boys, what one gets for shirking church,"
With the eyes that glanced round all the school, he cried,
And raised the rod. 'You know now if you wish
For a good flogging, how to get it.' Swish!

Just where the broad bare bottom, smooth and plump,
Flaked with red drops like rose leaf fallen on snow,
Sloped toward the tender thighs — there, worn to a stump,
The frayed birch dealt its last and sharpest blow;
On either swelling cheek the whipped boy's rump
Had fresh red lines and starting blood to show,
Even where the round cheeks gradually divide,
The specks of blood sprang bright on either side.

'That's all, for this time; now get up, boy.' As
These words fell from the master's lips at last,
And Arthur heard, and rose, his bottom was
A map of bloody lines, where lashes part
Had left the fair flesh one red quivering mass
Of stripes and cuts and sores; so hard and fast
The birch had laid its strokes on, that his bottom
Not for a fortnight or a month forgot 'em.

He rose, and drew his trousers up, and turned
Back to his place; tears on his face were yet,
And still his smarting bottom throbbed and burned,
As he sat down with cheeks all flushed and wet,
And flinched, and then tried to seem unconcerned
As far as pain would let him, when he met
The next boy's laughing eyes, and felt him jogging
His arm, 'Well, Arthur, how d'ye like your flogging?'

ETONIENSIS