thomo the lost posted this in 
on 
April 21st, 2003Young Ethelred was only three
Or somewhere thereabouts when he
Began to show in diverse ways
The early stages of the craze
For learning the particulars
Of motor bikes and motor cars.
It started with a little book
To enter numbers which he took,
And ‘though his mother often said
“Now do be careful Ethelred.
Oh dear, oh dear what should I do
If anything ran over you?”
Which Ethelred could hardly know
And sometimes crossly told her so…
It didn’t check his zeal a bit
But rather seemed to foster it.
Indeed it would astonish you
To hear of all the things he knew
He’d guess the make and get it right
Of every car that came in sight.
He knew as well it’s MPG
It’s MPH and LSD,
What gears it had, what brakes and what;
In short he knew an awful lot.
Now when a boy thinks day and night
Of motor cars with all his might
He gets affected in the head
And so it was with Ethelred.
He took long drinks from mug and cup
To fill his radiator up.
And went about upon all fours
And usually, to get indoors
He pressed a button then reversed
And went in slowly back most first.
He called himself a Packford Eight
And wore a little number plate
Attached behind with bits of string
He looked just like the real thing.
He drove himself to school and tried
To park himself (all day) outside.
At which the head became irate
And caned him on his number plate.
And then one day an oily smell
Hung around him and he wasn’t well.
“That’s odd,” he said, “I wonder what
Has caused this rumbling pain I’ve got?
No car should get an aching tum
From taking in petroleum.”
At that he cranked himself but no…
He couldn’t get himself to go.
He merely whirred a bit inside
And gave a faint chug-chug, and died.
Now since his petrol tank was full,
They labelled him inflammable
And wisely saw to it that he
Was buried safely out at sea.
So if at any time your fish
Should taste a trifle oilyish
You’ll know that fish has lately fed
On what remains of Ethelred.
I happened to recall the first two lines of this poem and googled them to get the rest. I first read it when I was nine (that was fifty nine years ago), and found it delightful. Thank yoy for posting this!
I too recall young Ethelred from a book of selected verse belonging to my father. There were no doubt far more comendable works that I should have read and retained but alas the fate of poor Ethelred was a source of fscination and perhaps a cautionary note to me to curb my enthusiasm for motor cars.
Thanks you for enhancing the memory now some fifty years old.
I learned this poem many years ago from an English school textbook that the company employing my father printed. There are other poems but I have struggled to find them in recent years. I believe H A Field was a contributor to Punch magazine and that is probably where the poems first appeared.
One of the others covered a cyclist:
The thing young Stephen (?) chiefly liked
Was racing others when he biked,
Now you and I when we ride out
We sit erect and look about
To Mark such scenes on either side
As man or nature may provide.
Did Stephen cycle thus wise? No,
His back was bended like a bow,
With such a hump amid his ships
His head was lower than his hips,
And all along his nose were scars
From bumping on the handlebars……….
Another one:
The greatest fault of Philip (?) King's
Was walking on the edge of things………
(He falls from a bridge parapet into a freight train bound for Scotland later in the poem!)
Many thanks for that.This poem was read out at school by one of the boys in my class in Camberley in France Hill House which was taken over during WW2 to educate we evacuees.I have always remembered the part of the poem up to "And sometimes crossly told her so"
Many thanks for that.This poem was read out at school by one of the boys in my class in Camberley in France Hill House which was taken over during WW2 to educate we evacuees.I have always remembered the part of the poem up to "And sometimes crossly told her so."
HI, great poetry! can you tell me, who was H A Field and the title of the book? Is it still in print? Think my grandson would appreciate it !! Karol Eager
I cannot help you on the biography of H A Field other than to say that as I recall, he was an Englishman and he wrote this poem in the 1920s (plus or minus). I heard it at school in 1963 and it was old then as I recall my father was familiar with the poem.
As is the bizarre things of childhood, this poem has stuck in my mind since I heard it then. Sorry I can't help you more.
This poem was published in "a Punch Anthology" in 1935 and presumably previously published in "Punch". I memorised it when I found the anthology in the early 50s in my mother's library. It — and Robert W. Service — have given me encouragement in my own poetry.
Amazingly I remembered the whole of this poem from school, 50 odd years ago. (About the only thing I did remember actually!). As mentioned , it was in a copy of Punch Anthology, though I hadn't realised it was published in 1935. Other tales I seem to remember from the book were, 'The Transmigration od Bowles' and 'Contents of a Small Boy's Pocket'. I'd love to find a copy to read it all anew…
Sorry – typo. It was the 'Transmigration of Bowles'