Fate made us soft: this shoving is no joke,
Our necks are nigh disjointed, our backs are nearly broke;
Too soon, too soon, ye cannot get out yet.
With punches yon cowards on us poor wretches drop,
Your cruel mates frown because the way we stop,
You should not have called us names quite yet.
Ah! Parodies, we’ve heard you are so sweet:
O let us out to hear “Amens” repeat
His soft “Dryhilldics.” No, too soon, not yet.
The Tonbridgian. March, 1879. C. C. H.