The Pearl/Volume 11/Frank Fane - A Ballad.

The master said to the Schoolboy, As it fell on a day, "All the rest are to go, Frank Fane is to stay. I set you all free From the birch and the cane, Not a boy shall be swished, Not a boy, but Frank Fane." Said the Merry Master, "Frank Fane is to stay, To be flogged with a flogging, As good as your play. Frank Fane is to stay, To be whipped in the hall, To be whipped, till his whipping Atones for you all. Any boy that enjoys A fine flogging to see, I give leave to stay here, With Frank Fane and me: They will see his white bottom, When they see it again, I don't think they'd fancy It belongs to Frank Fane." While the rest went a playing, In the hall there were four, Frank Fane and his Master, And two fellows more. There were three there for pleasure, And one there for pain; How they giggled and grinned, At the funk of Frank Fane! "Now loosen your braces, And lower your breeks, And show your companions Your bare nether cheeks. Make haste to the closet, And bring a good rod, Or I'll cut you to ribands, You shuffler, by God!" "O master! dear Master! Have pity for once!" "What, pity for a truant, A thief and a dunce! For once, and at once, You shall smart for all three, A three-fold example Your bottom shall be." Now his comrades they took him, Each grasping a hand, And gaily accomplished The Master's command. They swayed down his body, Rolled up his shirt-tail, And poised up his buttocks, That a stroke mightn't fail. Then they tied down his legs, That the skin might draw tight, That each lash might draw blood To the Master's delight; Then they twitched at his hair, And chucked up his chin, And cried out, "Good Master! It's time to begin." Now Arthur's and Redgy's Own bottoms were sore, But they knew that Frank Fane's Would be terrible more. And each was too glad To forget his own grief, In seeing Frank's flesh In the state of raw beef. Said Arthur to Redgy, "We've often been stripped, All three of us together, And jollily whipped;

But now we're both masters, And, crickey! it's fun, To see Frank Fane catching Three floggings in one." The first was three dozen, Laid in with a will, "Just enough," quoth the Master, "For a boy in the bill." Then he sat down and rested His arm for awhile And looked at his work, With a grim kind of smile. Then he gave a fresh sentence- "So much for the Dunce! Now five dozen for the Truant, But not all at once. This rod is all splintered, Go fetch me two more; No, two's poor allowance, So, Redgy, bring four!" "There'll be two for the Truant, And two for the Thief, And if that does not bring That fat bottom to grief- Then Keate was a fumbler, And Busby a fool, And I'm not a Master Of Whippingham School!" Then the right trusty Master Went at him like mad, And loud were the prayers And shrieks of the lad. Said Arthur, "You coward!" Said Redgy, "Keep cool! Your bottom's a credit To Whippingham School!" But the Master is pausing! Is it mercy or fear? Ah! no, it's to toss off A mug of strong beer. And refreshed with his tipple, He's at him again, He never seems tired Of swishing Frank Fane! He pauses once more. - "Boys!" He cries, "Hold him tight, I remember I've got A short letter to write. If the creature's rebellious, Let him taste this sweet cane, I'll be back in ten minutes To finish Frank Fane." So the cane on his shoulders Went rat-a-tap-tap, And in turns they examined His bum like a map; Such outlines! Such islands! Such mountains of weals And such pretty red rivers Running down t'wards the heels! Here's the Master returning, A cigar 'tween his lips, Hurrah! for the Master Who smokes while he whips! He knows how to tackle Two pleasures at once- The taste of the baccy The smart of the Dunce. So he puffed like a demon! And fiercely cut in, Till you hardly could pick out An inch of whole skin. Then he took a new country, And he striped the white thighs, Till the old hall re-echoed A tempest of cries. O! firm was his muscle! And supple his wrist, And he handled the Rod, With a terrible twist, But muscles grow weary, And arms lose their powers, There's an end for all nice things, For floggings - like flowers. Shrieks Frank Fane, "I'm dying!" Says Redgy," You a'nt, And if you go off In a bit of a faint, We'll soon thrash you back Into living again, You've not done with swishing Just yet - Master Fane!" Now the whipping is over, And the culprit is free, I don't think he'll sit down, This evening for tea! And when in a fortnight He's turned down once more, I fancy he'll find His bottom still sore.