by Doctor Mike on Thu Jan 31, 2008 12:39 am
The following poem is by an old Victorian Etonian, A C Swinburne, who attended Eton in the 1850's. The constant birchings which he both received, and witnessed, completely suffused and pervaded his sexuality for all his life. He never married.
The poem describes the public birching of a 17 year old boy from the perspective of the many younger "Lower School" boys, (who would have been aged between 10 and 13) witnessing the punishment. Birchings at Eton at that time were always in public, with boys of all ages witnessing, as a deterrent.
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 buttocks 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 red 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
There also, the birch twigs bend, and cruelly 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 the 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 his 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 bottom, 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 erect 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.
