The Last Trump by Banjo Paterson
Trumped Relationships in ‘The Last Trump’
The humorous narrative poem ‘The Last Trump‘ tells the story of a young man’s faux pas when playing cards, leading to his banishment by his potential father-in-law. Paterson uses clever rhymes, wit, and hyperbole to poke fun at rigid societal customs around courtship and marriage.
The poem opens dramatically with the father chastising the young suitor for his egregious error of leading the wrong card during a game of bridge. Paterson exaggerates the father’s anger through emphatic language – “fury in his eye,” declaring the young man’s “hopes of love are fled.”
The exaggerated reaction satirizes the extreme rigidity around proper etiquette expected of young gentlemen courting a woman at the time. Paterson wittingly critiques this by portraying the card mistake as an unforgivable sin dooming the couple’s marriage prospects.
When the young suitor explains he was trying to prevent the opponents from holding the top trump, Paterson Adds a clever final twist. The father declares no man who would risk leading a 13th trump is fit to marry his daughter, and condemns him to be buried outside “beside a ruined stump.”
The amusing irony is that the young man’s caution is what doomed him, rather than rashness. Paterson humorously implies the absurdity of rigid customs through this. While seemingly just a comic narrative, the poem contains social commentary on the complexes around love and manners.
The simple ABAB rhyme scheme, sharp wit, and energetic pacing give the poem a lighthearted, humorous feel. Paterson masterfully blends entertainment with insight through this comic tale.
The Last Trump
“You led the trump,” the old man said
With fury in his eye,
“And yet you hope my girl to wed!
Young man! your hopes of love are fled,
’Twere better she should die!
“My sweet young daughter sitting there,
So innocent and plump!
You don’t suppose that she would care
To wed an outlawed man who’d dare
To lead the thirteenth trump!
“If you had drawn their leading spade
It meant a certain win!
But no! By Pembroke’s mighty shade
The thirteenth trump you went and played
And let their diamonds in!
“My girl! Return at my command
His presents in a lump!
Return his ring! For understand
No man is fit to hold your hand
Who leads a thirteenth trump!
“But hold! Give every man his due
And every dog his day.
Speak up and say what made you do
This dreadful thing—that is, if you
Have anything to say!”
He spoke. “I meant at first,” said he,
“To give their spades a bump,
Or lead the hearts, but then you see
I thought against us there might be,
Perhaps, a fourteenth trump!”
They buried him at dawn of day
Beside a ruined stump:
And there he sleeps the hours away
And waits for Gabriel to play
The last—the fourteenth—trump.
