Poem by Norman Rowland Gale

The Female Boy

If cursed by a son who declined to play cricket,
(Supposing him sound and sufficient in thews,)
I'd larrup him well with the third of a wicket,
Selecting safe parts of his body to bruise.
In his mind such an urchin King Solomon had
When he said, Spare the stump, and you bungle the lad!

For what in the world is the use of a creature
All flabbily bent on avoiding the Pitch?
Who wanders about, with a sob in each feature,
Devising a headache, inventing a stitch?
There surely would be a quick end to my joy
If possessed of that monster—the feminine boy!—

The feminine boy who declines upon croquet,
Or halma, or spillikins (horrible sport!),
Or any amusement that's female and pokey,
And flatly objects to behave as he ought!
I know him of old. He is lazy and fat,
Instead of this Thing, fit for punishment drastic,
Give, Fortune, a son who is nimble and keen;
A bright-hearted sample of human elastic,
As fast as an antelope, supple and clean;
Far other than he in whose dimples there lodge
Significant signs of inordinate stodge.

Ay, give me the lad who is eager and chubby,
A Stoddart in little, a hero in bud;
Who'd think it a positive crime to grow tubby,
And dreams half the night he's a Steel or a Studd!
There's the youth for my fancy, all youngsters above—
The boy for my handshake, the lad for my love!

1. Out
2. Dark Blue
3. Quinquaginta Annos Natus
4. Star-Gazing
5. A Wigging

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