Lapsus Calami (Apr 1891)/Of W. S. (Sir)

Lapsus Calami
by James Kenneth Stephen
Sincere Flattery of W. S. (Sir)

This parody of Sir Walter Scott originally appeared under the title "The Hundred" in the Eton College Chronicle, 14 November 1877; it was reprinted in the "Sincere Flattery" section of the first two editions of Lapsus Calami but omitted from subsequent editions. It was restored in the posthumous edition.

1787864Lapsus Calami — Sincere Flattery of W. S. (Sir)James Kenneth Stephen

VIII. Of W. S. (Sir).

The Hundred Yards Race.

You ask me for a prophecyAbout the hundred: I replyThat man can do no more than try;And so commence and cast aboutTo find the lucky athletes out.The goddess of the football fieldSome valuable hints may yield:Inured to grisly war's alarms:She knows of many a feat of arms,Full many a tale has she to tellOf those who nobly fight and well:'Twas hers to sing the artful J.,Whose progress nothing could delay:Twas hers to sing Hunt's reckless rushThrough flooded fields and slimy slush,The while with gentle words he triedTo win like prowess from his side.These, and a host of such as they,She sings no longer, sad to say:But champions still remainWho furnish many a glorious themeUntil the past doth almost seemTo live in them again. For now the war-like goddess sings,Obedient to my questionings,Of Douglas's unrivalled grace,Of Elliot foremost in the race,And Stephen's more majestic pace:Of Chitty's meteoric flight.And Anderson as swift as light;Hawke's rapid swoop upon the ball,Wellesley who never tires at allWhate'er of toil betide:Macaulay's oft repeated bound,Swift Bayley's feet that shun the ground,The Professorial stride:Of Bryan Farrer fast as strong,Of Lawrence' limbs so lithe and long,Of Booth's wild gallop in the van.She sings the deathless praise:How stoutly Polhill-Turner ran.How Spring-Rice flashed across the field.How Peirse was never known to yield.She tells in stirring lays:She tells in frightened periodsHow Ridley's steps disturbed the infernal godsBut hold! my muse is running wildOn this too stirring theme:It was her weakness from a child;Excuse it, gentle reader, pray.Now from her eyes I dare to sayProphetic flashes gleam. Put not, rash man, thy hopes in allWho can pursue the flying ball:Not all of these shall dare to runWhen fate reserves the prize for one:Or if it shall most kindly beCan never favour more than three.Not all that I have named shall striveThe deadly struggle to survive:Smith may despise all worldly pelf,Start others but not start himself;And Chitty may be turned reporterIn Hundred, hurdle race and Quarter,And with his note-book scour the plainWith Chronicle upon the brain.Yet some will start: and now we reachThe wisdom I design to teach:My task I quickly will dispose of.There are but three your prophet knows ofWho may be safely backed for placesIn this, the shortest of the races,Macaulay, Lawrence, Elliot theseAre they: the order if you pleaseI'll leave to you, and so remainYours truly till we meet again,Poeta Etonensis quiStipendium meret Chronicli.
Eton College Chronicle, Nov., 1877.