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Victoria College Students' Carnival. Tuesday and Wednesday, June 27 & 28, 1911

Phase III. — "Prison Reform."

page 32

Phase III.

"Prison Reform."

Proving that the wildest desperadoes can be turned into the best of citizens.

"There is same soul of goodness is things evil,
Would men observingly distil it out."

Henry V.

Criminal Reminiscences.

William Psyches—

Since childhood's days I've always walked in ways considered dark,
I once got spanked for bigamy, and thought it quite a lark;
One day an interfering copper twigged me shoot a wife,
The Beak believed the blighter, and I landed here for life;
I'd shot at her often enough before—I only pinked her once—
No, I don't suppose I'll do it again for months, and months, and months.

"Being good is an awfully lonesome job."

Dr. Findlay

Since childhood's days I've always been a prima facie saint,
My darkest deeds I've e'er contrived of lighter line to paint;
My great imperialistic schemes set Joseph all agog:
He waded in, got badly left, while I withdrew incog.
He tried to put old England right, he only did it once,
And I don't suppose he'll do it again for months, and months, and months.

"Matri-money is the root of all evil."

When Bertie took his maiden trip a year or two ago,
We realised the danger, but poor Bertie did not know;
And now he's lost all sense of shame, and as the story goes,
He's writing to the papers on the way we should propose;
We've all of us done it ourselves before, and some of us more than once,
But I don't suppose he'll do it again for months, and months, and months.

"Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves."

When good Sir Bob got up to speak on our last Capping Day,
We listened for a little while, and then we went away;
But now he's taking joyful steps towards the happy goal,
And planning little schemes of professorial control;
We used to do it a lot before, and we'll admit at once,
We don't suppose we'll do it again for months, and months, and months.

Captive's Lament.

"There is no time like the present."

William, sweet William, farewell to your jemmy,
Your bulls-eye and crowbar, and all of their likes;
No more we'll go roving by moonlight, for demme
We're permanent boarders, my sweet William Psyches.
Oh! this is the haven of bootless endeavour;
Our dear Aunt Maria has just brought us here,
It may be for years, and it may be for ever,
Then Warder, hey, Warder, a bottle of beer!
It may be for years and it may be for ever,
Then Warder, hey, Warder, a bottle of beer!

William, the law's full of obsolete ritual
The dawn steals, the moon steals from mountain and hill,
But just because we seem to be more habitual,
They've landed us here on a score of true bills.
From scenes of our triumphs we hated to sever,
And now we're behind, not in front of, the bars.
It may be for years, and it may be for ever,
Then Warder, hey, Warder, produce the cigars!
It may be for years, and it may be for ever,
Then Warder, hey, Warder, produce the cigars!

page 35

William, sweet William, remember the friction—
A slight one—we had with that Cop. down the street.
Then little we dreamed that a previous conviction
Would turn that sweet victory into defeat,
Would take us for ever away from his beat.
William, sweet William, to think we who never
Sought notice or kudos, in this place should land,
It may be for years, and it may be for ever,
Then Warder, hey, Warder, pray strike up the band!
It may be for years, and it may be for ever,
Then Warder, hey, Warder, pray strike up the band!

page 35

The White Peril.

"A placid-eyed Mongolian From sandy Pechelee."

Stephens.

Un Hung Yet: Me tink 'um welly lotten, me no savee
Jack Johnson: Why de white man am de boss cock ob de roost.
U.H. Y.: But plapse he soon no longer make us slavee.
J.J.: He'll get de boost.
He make de darky work in de plantation
U.H.Y.: And Chinee cally basket plenty sum.
J. J.: Dis chicken he get spiky, me allee same no likee.
We'll see by Klum.

Chorus:
Massa, he tink 'urn classee, and so him passee
De Alien Ac'.
Chinee, who hide in coal sacks to dodgee poll tax,
Get sentee back.
Japan, she land a crusher on mighty Russia,
All same a joke
When we all lise in flenzy
De white man you wont see for smoke.

J.J.: De white man always think himself superior.
U.H. Y.: Him changee when um Chinee catchum gun.
J.J.: You'll fin' him feelin' queer in his interior
U.H.Y.: And wantee run.
J.J.: An' when de cullud gen'leman am top dog,
U.H.Y.: Engleesman him findee lots to do.
J.J.: An' den at our request he'll scrub flooree for Celestial
An' black man too.

Chorus:
Massa, he tink 'um classee, etc.

Orchestral Selection.

page 36

The Way in.

"Assume a virtue, if you have it not."—Hamlet.

Findlay and Typical Criminal.

Recitative: Findlay.

For those who wish to come to gaol and taste its varied pleasures,
I've introduced a score of most humanitarian measures;
And lest you cannot find the way or know not where the gate is,
I've studied up some entry tips and give them to you gratis.

Duet: Findlay and Typical Criminal.

Findlay: A criminal breeding will help your succeeding,
There's nothing like starting betimes; act
Typ. Crim.: Like starting betimes; act
Findlay: As though you were yearning your craft to be learning,
And firstly make off with my "Crimes Act"
Typ. Crim.: Make off with his "Crimes Act."
Findlay: Enough definitions to suit all conditions
You'll find its first pages adorning,
Typ. Crim.: He's great on adorning.
Findlay: You'll see that the right time for burgling's the night time,
Which ends at six sharp in the morning.
Typ. Crim.: It's sharp in the morning.

Findlay: By careful selection now pick out a section,
Some crime that you won't be surpassed in,
Typ. Crim.: I won't be surpassed in.
Findlay: There's excellent reason for not choosing treason,
If caught you're invariably grassed in.
Typ. Crim.: Don't want to be grassed in.
Findlay: Your fancy might girate towards being a pirate,
A calling now sadly neglected,
Typ. Crim.: How sadly neglected!
Findlay: Or perhaps if you try it, a well-managed riot
Might bring you here highly respected.
Typ. Crim.: I'm highly respected.

Typ. Crim.: I thank you, dear J. G., your manner is stagey,
Nor do I think much of your matter.
Findlay: Think much of my matter!
Typ. Crim.: I've tried all the stages of crime in your pages,
And find them fall flatter and flatter.
Findlay: Oh he doesn't flatter!
Typ. Crim.: I've hurled at the Bible a blasphemous libel,
Killed time by assaulting a parson,
Findlay: Assaulting a parson!
Typ. Crim.: A neat little murder I did with a girder,
But not half as neat as my arson.
Findlay: As neat as his arson!

page 37

The Australasian Students' Song Book.

A Handsome Volume of 282 pages, containing 162 Songs, words and music, as follows:
(1.)The Australian and New Zealand 'Varsity and College Anthems.
(2.)The Best Australian and New Zealand Varsity Songs.
(3.)The School Songs of Australia and New Zealand.
(4.)Other Atstralasian Songs, such as "On the Ball," "Waltzing Matilda," "The Cattle Hunters," "When Your Pants Begin to Go."
(5.)About eighty songs of general interest.

New Zealand well represented.
Accompaniments simple but effective.
All songs well within the range of average untrained male voices.

Chief Editors:—
  • F. A. Todd, B.A., Ph.D., Lecturer in Latin, University of Sydney.
  • J. G. Latham, M.A., LL.B., Lecturer in Law, University of Melbourne.
Chief Musical Editors:—
  • Franklin Peterson, Mus. Bac, Professor of Music, University of Melbourne.
  • Ernest Truman, A.R.C.O., City of Sydney Organist.

Of All Booksellers, Price 3s. 6d., or in Cloth, 6s.

Typ. Crim.: I'm quite fond of telling my skill with a dwelling,
Of how I crawl in on my slim knee;
Findlay: Crawls in on his slim knee!
Typ. Crim.: Deservedly noted, I'm frequently quoted
For entering by way of the chimney.
Findlay: By way of the chimney!
Typ. Crim.: When finished with thieving, a little receiving
I do just to make my expenses,
Findlay: To make his expenses!
Typ. Crim.: And tired of gorging on coining and forging,
I take up a course of pretences.
Findlay: A course of pretences!

Findlay: You're certainly crimey, your soul is so grimy,
For here you're peculiarly fitted;
Typ. Crim.: Oh yes, I am fitted.
Findlay: You're sure there's no section of criminal perfection
By chance you have missed or omitted?
Typ. Crim.: Not much I've omitted!
Findlay: You've earned, without swerving, the time you are serving,
We're all of us proud to possess you.
Typ. Crim.: I'm proud to possess you.
Findlay: For this paradise is the haven of vices,
Come in, my good fellow, and bless you!
Typ. Crim.: Come in and Lor' bless you!

page 38

Run Through Chorus III.

No longer the prisoners faint, o'er their labour,
Do time cracking pebbles or planting out trees,
But merrily trip to the sound of the tabour,
And drop in at Fuller's whenever they please.
They stoop to no order, bow down to no warder,
Have every indulgence the epicure needs—
A highly respectable, duly delectable
Life is the life that the prisoner leads.

Political friends of the crook have arisen,
(Perhaps for themselves they are carving a home!)
The rush that ensues just to get into prison
Is only surpassed by the founding of Rome.
They're free of conscription, supplied with Havanas,
The dun and his bills they escape from, the knaves.
They've plenty of leisure to cultivate manners,
'Tis they are the freemen, 'tis we are the slaves.

Capping Songs.

Sport Chorus.

"Oh for a beaker full of the warm, south!"

When air's like wine in sunny weather,
And the breeze blows cobwebs from the brains;
When Latin's folly, Law's a tether,
And the blood goes dancing through the veins,
Then hey! for where your fancy races,
Away from the city's stifling grip,
To the playing fields and open places—
And let the world of toilers slip!
Then here's to the long white road that beckons,
The climb that baffles, the risk that nerves;
And here's to the merry heart that reckons
The rought with the smooth, and never swerves!

Be it hockey stick, or oval leather,
Or skiff, or racquet, rod or gun,
Here's luck! for the sport we've had together,
For chances lost and battles won;
For the wicket true, and field in fettle,
And the man who's safe for a tingling catch;
For the losing team that shows its mettle,
And the man who wins his heat from scratch.
Then here's to the sportsman's road that beckons,
The climb that baffles, the risk that nerves;
And here's to the merry heart that reckons.
The rough with the smooth, and never swerves!

Utopia.

"And lo, 'twas but a dream!"

Oh we toiled and we swotted, we crammed, stuffed and potted,
Till this great idea came and smote us,
To fly from all care O, and seek in an aero
The beautiful Land of the Lotus.
The breezes conspired to float us
Where troubles won't worry remote us:
Never a Prof., never an off-
Icer comes to the Land of the Lotus.

We waste no conjectures on classes and lectures,
The thought of them once froze our marrow,
But here in the gloaming, by mugs that are foaming,
We heed not the flight of Time's arrow.
We rise not with lark or with sparrow,
We shun all the paths that are narrow,
Thoroughbred sports, knowing no Torts,
And freed from the horrors of Garrow.

page 40

The mystery that thickens round problems of Picken's
Disturbs not the trend of our musing;
The tangent of Theta is like the mosquiter
Unknown in this land of our choosing.

"The mosquitao was designed by Providence to make us think better of flies."

The somnolent drone of a stray bee
Is heard now and then, but no baby.
All of us laugh, nothing is half
As dyspeptic or mournful as Laby.

"Blubber: The useful product of a dead whale, and the useless product of a live baby."

The growl Chancellorian may grow more stentorian,
Von's letters be milder and soapier,
Your gallant Chief Justice may stay where the dust is,
We don't want him here in Utopia.
Aye, let him attack those poor drudges,
The Profs., with his "Stuffs!" and his "Fudges!"
'Baccy and beer, song and good cheer,
Oh that's of what we are the judges.

Our party's selected and highly respected,
And smiling with joy at our loss, tell
Of how on the day that we floated this way,
We dropped all the men of the Hostel.
We don't know the place they were dumped on,
Nor what kind of substance they bumped on;
Should they be found wandering around,
Address them and send them to Compton.

Our names grace no parchment; the fiend who is arch meant
Degrees as a form of repentance
For those who, beginning a life of much sinning,
Might wish to atone 'ere they went hence.
M.A, LL.B. won't denote us,
Post-prandials won't bother to quote us.
What do we care! Let 'em stay there,
While we're in the Land of the Lotus.