1 Of the two hundred fellows at School I'm no fool, So I flatter myself, yet confess My cunning is less Than a new boy's whose virulent blows Brought blood to my nose. 2 When the term was young at its birth, And no dearth Of money perplexed us, I saw Bear-sullen and raw A new boy uncombed and uncouth, An ink-spotted youth. 3 Whose visage suggestive of woe Attracted me so That I went to him full of good feeling, An angel of healing Self-appointed, and said 'Tis relief To pour out one's grief 4 To one whose experience immense Has given him sense.' He drying his eyes on his cuff Pluckt heart up, enough To answer, all snivel and snuffling: 'Some beggars were scuffling 5 And hurt him' (I think 'twas his knee Suffered most in the spree.) Then fled. Now it chanced I'd a share In that little affair, Hit some one, who knows? Did I care For the how, when or where? 6 Then I asked him, 'Describe me this youth, With spirit and truth;' He produced a description, full, fervid, In speech unreserved, Of myself as I stood at the time Of that Corridor crime: 7 Wound up his long speech, with a vow, (I've forgotten it now— The words in their fullness and flavour) To instruct in behaviour The person who smote him; then I With eagle-grey eye, 8 In manner most melodramatic Transfixed the lunatic And said, 'I am he, do your worst O Urchin accursed!' And he glared at me hard for a space, Then full in my face 9 Threw himself, laying hold of my throat He fixed there and smote.— Tho' I beat on his head with my fist He would not desist; This continued, not much to my glory. To finish my story— 10 I was pummelled, kicked, scratched, torn, and smitten, Bemauled and bebitten, Till I gave up the field, and departed, Upset and downhearted. With a new boy you don't know, don't quarrel, Is my long-winded anecdote's moral.
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