For out, alack! the Fathers of the mess
Strictly prohibited that form of dress,
Being by sad experience led to find
Disaster in the buttonry behind,
Which tore and scratched the leather-cushioned chairs,
And cost a perfect fortune in repairs!
It was a crushing blow. That Subaltern
Discovered that he had a lot to learn;
Removed his Coat, and laid it, weeping, in
Its long sarcophagus of beaten tin:
Buried it deep, and drew it thence no more;
Finished his Course, and sought an alien shore.
So runs the tale. I had it from the youth
Himself, and I suppose he told the truth.
(The words alone are mine; I need but hint
That his were too emotional for print.)
And as in India, though the chairs are hard,
His Coat—delicious irony—is barred;