The Alleynian, March 1913


[“Lowe has yet to receive a pass in International football.”—The Press passim.]

I can recollect it clearly,
Every detail pretty nearly,
 Though it happened many, many years ago.
Yes, my children, I, your grand-dad,
A reserved seat in the stand had
 On the afternoon when someone passed to Lowe.
There he stood, poor little chappie,
Looking lonely and unhappy,
 While the other players frollicked with the ball.
For he knew he could not mingle,
In the fun with Coates and Dingle;
 He could simply go on tackling—that was all.
I had stopped to light my briar,
For the wind was getting higher,
 When a thousand voices screamed a startled “Oh!”
I looked up. A try or something?
Then sat gaping like a dumb thing.
 My children, somebody had passed to Lowe!
I remember how he trembled,
(For to him the thing resembled
 A miracle), then gave a little cry;
And spectators who were near him
Were too overcome to cheer him;
 There were sympathetic tears in every eye.
His astonishment was utter.
He was heard to gulp and mutter,
 “What on earth has happpened now, I’d like to know?”
And incredulous reporters
Shouted out to the three-quarters,
 “Do we dream? Or did you really pass to Lowe?”
There was sweat upon his forehead,
And his stare was simply horrid:
 He stood and goggled feebly at the ball.
It was plain he suffered badly,
For the crowd, now cheering madly,
 Saw him shudder, start to run, then limply fall.
Then a doctor, who was handy,
Fanned his face and gave him brandy;
 And at last, though the recovery was slow,
He regained his health and reason
By the middle of next season;
 But the shock came very near to killing Lowe.


Reproduced from Wodehouse Goes to School, vol. 3 of The Millennium Wodehouse Concordance, which notes that the poem originally appeared in London Opinion. For more on Lowe, see “The Fascinating Mr. Lowe.”