The Rodiad pt. 1: A Classic Poem on the Joys of Being Whipped

A short entry today on a poem I ran across randomly while scouring through all the unusual and free stuff at Archive.org. This slightly pornographic poem has been flying around the underbelly of Victorian, then Edwardian, now just British literary circles since at least 1872, when it first published in The Library Illustrative of Social Progress, themselves a larger collection of slightly pornographic Victorian works owned by Henry Spencer Ashby, a biographer and writer, who published similar works under the name of Pisanus Fraxi, but was not the author of this poem. There have been various names put forth as the author, but none of them has ever been substantiated.

I say slightly pornographic because by today’s standards with plentiful fucking videos available to all ages over the internet, these works barely raise an eyebrow. But I got a chuckle when I read it, so I am presenting part of the poem here for your amusement. The full 18 page text can be seen here, if you so desire, but more will be added next week.

Enjoy and Caveat Emptor.

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Henry Spencer Ashby

 

THE RODIAD

“ Schools without birch,” and “ All corrections cruel,

Beyond ten lines by heart, and water gruel ; ”

“ All moral force.” A nice look out in truth,

For us, the Teachers of ingenious youth;

Who, when we must not mark our discipline

In bright red letters on their hinder skin,

And once have lost command of their posteriors,

Will soon be taught who are the true superiors.

But don’t think me a sentimental fool ;

I ’m a schoolmaster of the good old school, —

One to whose ear no sound such music seems

As when a bold big boy for mercy screams —

Mercy, which with my will he will not get

Till his low breeches with his blood be wet, —

One who enjoys more than any farce

The writhings of a flagellated ;

When the sharp ends of long fresh-budded rods

Wrap round the thighs and twinge the burning cods ;

Or the more spicy play of waxy whips,

Dissects the buttocks and tatoos the hips.

For want of better sport, I hold with glee

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Some naughty urchin tight across my knee ;

And while his puny pipe for pardon begs,

Stripe the white skin between his straddling legs.

But now for years my chief delight has been

To scourge the obnoxious stripling of sixteen —

Horsed at nice angle on the sturdy back

Of one whose faithful aid I never lack

My John, who, with his grip and grin, enjoys

The bounds and twistings of rebellious boys.

Some masters love the wooden horse that holds

The fast bound victim in its leathy folds ; —

But why this apparatus, which affrights

Ridiculous parents in their sleep o’ nights —

Each fancying in his dreams his naughty whelp

There strapped and stripped, and yelling out for help !

Nor do I like the block — he never feels

The proper smart, who there unharnessed kneels ;

Or if the other lads must hold him down,

It makes a scandal in the neighbouring town.

Stick to the living horse, — if freely shewn,

The brute’s excitement will increase your own :

Coarse birch, broad shoulders, and a rattling bum,

Are all you want from now to “kingdom come.”

Have no display — e’en let your trusty groom

Keep all the tackle in his private room ;

And fresh and fresh the “ toby ticklers ” bring,

Shaped to your hand and balanced to your swing ;

While in your desk is laid one slender cane —

Which you can say you always use with pain.

Oh, hour that comes too late and goes too soon ;

My day’s delight, — my flogging hour at noon ; —

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When I count up the boys that stay behind,

And class their bottoms in my cheerful mind !

I whipped him yesterday the first — to-day,

He’s the bonne bouche with which to choose the play,-

For nothing charms the true school-master more

Than tickling up afresh the half-healed sore.

What ! here ’s a virgin deaf and dumb with dread —

Now, he shall lose his schoolboy maidenhead;

I ’ll switch him softly, which will lead him on

To some great fault before the week is done —

When two fine birches shall address his rump,

Till every twig is broken from the stump ;

With the whole school about him gaily gathered —

To see the “ new boy ” gloriously lathered.

My third ’s an amateur. But I must try.

Who first will cry, “ Peccavi,” — he or I ;

But then his hide’s so tough, his arse so thin,

It’s scanty satisfaction if I win.

The next’s a roarer — e’er his skin is clipped,

He howls as if he were already whipped, —

“ Oh, dear ! my bot-bot-bottom ! — No. I can’t —

Can’t bear it — oh, my arse ! I ‘1 tell my aunt.

Pray, pray, not there — I’m fainting ; I ’m so ill ;

Oh, it’s so sore! I’ll die — I will! I will!”

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And all this uttered with such strange grimace,

You ’d die of laughter could you see his face —

Such wild contortions o’er his features pass,

He should by rights be flogged before a glass.

My fifth ‘s a miracle — the biggest fool

And plumpest breech I ’ve got in all the school ;

Sent with a solemn charge that I must fain

Reduce his bottom and improve his brain —

But either efforts hitherto in vain.

I use all means — I beat him like a drum ;

I tie him up for hours with naked bum —

Where all the lads may lash him for a lark ;

Shoot with their steel pens at him for a mark :

Aim their sharp pea-guns at his rosy hole;

Lick him, and kick him with the thickest sole.

Then I, to finish, furiously rush in,

And work the rod on his obdurate skin ;

Which, after some three days’ relief front pain,

Heals up, and is all jolly soon again —

For more fun try Books by Rex Hurst


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