  Of all the schools throughout the land St. Vedast's is the oldest, and All men are proud (And justly proud) Who claim St. Vedast's as their Al- Ma mater. There I went a cal- Low youth. Don't think I'm going to paint The glories of this school—I ain't. The Rev. Cecil Rowe, M.A., Was classics Master in my day, A learned man (A worthy man) In fact you'd very rarely see A much more clever man than he. But if you think you'll hear a lot About this person,—you will not. We boys considered it a lark To play him tricks (The usual tricks Boys play at public schools like this), And Clarke would sometimes take amiss These tricks. But don't think I would go And only sing of him. Oh, no! This ditty, I would beg to state, Professes likewise to relate The latter words (The solemn words) Of her who kept the tuck-shop at St. Vedast's. I'd inform you that The porter was her only son (The reason was—she had but one). For many years the worthy soul Had kept the shop—the well-loved goal Of little boys (And larger boys) Who bought the tarts, and ginger pop And other things sold at her shop— But, feebler growing year by year, She felt her end was drawing near. She therefore bade her son attend, That she might whisper, ere her end, A startling tale (A secret tale) That on her happiness had preyed, And heavy on her conscience weighed For many a year. "Alas! my son," She sighed, "injustice has been done. Nor gaze with sad reproachful eyes On one who's been (You know I've been) For many years your mother, dear; And though you think my story queer, Believe—or I shall feel distressed— I thought I acted for the best. "When you were but a tiny boy (Your mother's and your father's joy), Good Mr. Rowe (The Revd. Rowe) Was but a little baby too, Who very much resembled you, And, being poorly off in purse, I took this baby out to nurse. So like, indeed, the keenest eyes Would find it hard (Extremely hard) To tell the t'other from the one——" "Hold! though your tale is but begun," The porter cried, "a man may guess The secret of your keen distress. "You changed the babes at nurse, and I (No wonder that you weep and sigh), Tho' callÈd Clarke (School Porter Clarke), Am really Mr. Rowe. I see. And he, of course, poor man, is me, While all the fortune he has known Through these long years should be my own. To call me all this time your son; I've always felt (Distinctly felt) That I was born to better things Than portering, and such-like, brings, I'll hurry now, and tell poor Rowe What, doubtless, he will feel a blow." "Stay! stay!" the woman cried, "'tis true, My poor ill-treated boy, that you Have every right (Undoubted right) To feel aggrieved. I had the chance Your future welfare to advance By changing babes. I knew I'd rue it, My poor boy—but—I didn't do it."
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