“The Schoolmistress” – a birching poem

William Shenstone, the C18th poet, is perhaps most famous for coining the word “floccinaucinihilipilification”, recognised by the Oxford English Dictionary as the longest word in the English language. Yet methinks that one of his poems, “The Schoolmistress”, deserves wider fame.

It’s astoundingly long, so I’ve extracted the more interesting verses:

In every village mark’d with little spire,
Embower’d in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name,
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Awed by the power of this relentless dame,
And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent,
For unkempt hair, or task uuconn’d, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,
Which Learning near her little dome did stow,
Whilom a twig of small regard to see,
Though now so wide its waving branches flow,
And work the simple vassals mickle woe;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
But their limbs shudder’d, and their pulse beat low,
And as they look’d they found their horror grew,
And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield;
Her apron, dyed in grain, as blue, I trow,
As in the harebell that adorns the field;
And in her hand, for scepter, she does wield
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill’d,
And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join’d,
And fury uncontroll’d, and chastisement unkind.

Right well she knew each temper to descry,
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise;
Some with vile copper prize exalt on high,
And some entice with pittance small of praise;
And other some with baleful sprig she ‘frays:
Even absent, she the reins of power doth hold,
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways;
Forewarn’d, if little bird their pranks behold,
‘Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

Ah! luckless he, and born beneath the beam
Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write!
As erst the bard by Mulla’s silver stream,
Oft as he told of deadly dolorous plight,
Sigh’d as he sung, and did in tears indite;
For brandishing the rod, she doth begin
To loose the brogues, the stripling’s late delight!
And down they drop, appears his dainty skin,
Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin.

O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure
His little sister doth his peril see;
All playful as she sate she grows demure,
She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee;
She meditates a prayer to set him free;
Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny,
(If gentle pardon could with dames agree)
To her sad grief that swells in either eye,
And wrings her so that all for pity she could die.

No longer can she now her shrieks command,
And hardly she forbears, through awful fear,
To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand,
To stay harsh justice in its mid career.
On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear!
(Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow!)
She sees no kind domestic visage near,
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow,
And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe.

But, ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace?
Or what device his loud laments explain?
The form uncouth of his disguised face?
The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain?
The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain?
When he, in abject wise, implores the dame,
Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain;
Or when from high she levels well her aim,
And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke proclaim

The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay,
Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care;
By turns, astony’d, every twig survey,
And from their fellows’ hateful wounds beware,
Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share;
Till fear has taught them a performance meet,
And to the well-known chest the dame repair,
Whence oft with sugar cates she doth them greet,
And gingerbread y-rare; now, certes, doubly sweet!

See to their seats they hye with merry glee,
And in beseemly order sitten there;
All but the wight of bum y-galled, he
Abhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm, and chair,
(This hand in mouth y-fix’d, that rends his hair;)
And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast,
Convulsions intermitting! does declare
His grievous wrong, his dame’s unjust behest,
And scorns her offer’d love, and shuns to be caress’d.

His face besprent with liquid crystal shines,
His blooming face, that seems a purple flower,
Which low to earth its drooping head declines,
All smear’d and sully’d by a vernal shower.
O the hard bosoms of despotic Power!
All, all, but she, the author of his shame,
All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour;
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower shall claim,
If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame.

Making the girls learn poetry by heart, and recite it, was one of the hottest things for me at our recent 1824 “Yorkshire School” roleplay. I rather think Shenstone’s piece may have to be used at some future scholastic re-creation!