This paean to the aphrodisiac benefits of a good birching is from the November 1879 edition of The Pearl:
The Spell Of The Rod
When Lucy’s fine rump was first bared for a thrashing
She kicked and she screamed, as her arse we kept lashing.
She cried out for mercy in her dire distress
Promising amendment as we lowered her dress.
She had been most naughty, and a bad rude girl,
Who presumed the hair on her fanny to curl;
But the birch reached her quim as well as her bum —
The height of her agony was glorious fun.
Her frightened looks, and deep blushes of shame
Set our hearts pit-a-pit, and our senses in flame;
The old cockolorums our cunnies would grope,
Then tossed us on sofas and had a fine stroke.
To all you slow-coaches, who a rise scarce can get:
Come, pay your respect to Our Lady St. Bridget;
She’ll warm up your blood till it boils in your veins
And your penis all his pristine vigour regains.
Let the birch be your love, St. Bridget your saint,
Never flinch from the rod, nor think of a faint;
Swish! Swish! Let it fall, till the glow of desire
Will run through your senses, and set them on fire.
Ah! then you can fuck! and fuck, ah! so well!
That my Muse quite fails your joys to foretell.
But with oceans of spending, the fuck never ending,
Your ecstasy goes on, for a long time extending.