The following poem appeared in The Shirburnian, March 1910:


O day on which it always rains,
O day which one associates
Slightly with glad and smiling guest,
But most with platitudes and plates.
I ask you (since the muse ordains)
What dismal doom upon you rests
That men, on you, take so much pains
To make such bad and ancient jests?

And why beneath a dazzling green
Do parents, obviously bored
And clearly undisturbed by glee,
Sit down to so-called festive board
And when the same is cleared, I ween,
Emit ‘Hear! Hear!s’ ecstaticly
While others say not what they mean
But merely talk unceasingly?

Are you the great and festal day
Of some society of men,
Founded at pre-historic date,
Who made it their ambition then
Whatever other folk might say
To pamper up and set in state
And feed in quite a royal way
All persons who are prone to prate?

And why, for you, do mothers wrap
In smart and somewhat dear attire
And then delight to soaking stay
On garden paths renowed for mire
The whence they hope of tea to lap.
While fathers watching Grecian play,
To show their wit do glibly clap
The words they can’t translate, O day?

What horrid doom, what fearful fate
O’erhands you like an angry sea
And sinks you in a seething pool
Of lunches, speeches, rain and tea?
And answer made the doleful date
‘I am the day so wet and cool
‘On which ‘til comme il faut to date
‘The dolt who founded Sherborne School.’