Ban and Arriere Ban [8]
While the loud lark sings free,
Piping his matin psalm
Above the grey sad sea!
FRESHMAN'S TERM
Return again, thou Freshman's year,
When bloom was on the rye,
When breakfast came with bottled beer,
When Pleasure walked the High;
When Torpid Bumps were more by far
To every opening mind
Than Trade, or Shares, or Peace, or War,
To senior humankind;
When ribbons of outrageous hues
Were worn with honest pride,
When much was talked of boats and crews,
When Proctors were defied:
When Tick was in its early bloom,
When Schools were far away,
As vaguely distant as the tomb,
Nor more regarded--they!
When arm was freely linked with arm
Beneath the College limes,
When Sunday grinds possessed a charm
Denied to College Rhymes:
When ices were in much request
Beside the April fire,
When men were very strangely dressed
By Standen or by Prior.
Return, ye Freshman's Terms! They DO
Return, and much the same,
To boys, who, just like me and you,
Play the absurd old game!
A TOAST
[Kate Kennedy is the Patron Saint of St. Leonard's and St.
Salvator. Her history is quite unknown.]
The learned are all 'in a swither,'
(They don't very often agree,)
They know not her 'whence' nor her 'whither,'
The Maiden we drink to together,
The College's Kate Kennedie!
Did she shine in days early or later?
Did she ever achieve a degree?
Was she pretty or plain? Did she mate, or
Live lonely? And who was the pater
Of mystical Kate Kennedie?
The learned may scorn her and scout her,
But true to her colours are WE,
The learned may mock her and flout her,
But surely we'll rally about her,
In the College that stands by the Sea!
So here's to her memory! here to
The mystical Maiden drink we,
We pledge her, and we'll persevere too,
Though the reason is not very clear to
The critical mind, nor to ME.
Here's to Kate! she's our own, and she's dear to
The College that stands by the Sea.
DEATH IN JUNE--FOR CRICKETERS ONLY
[June is the month of Suicides]
Why do we slay ourselves in June,
When life, if ever, seems so sweet?
When "Moon," and "tune," and "afternoon,"
And other happy rhymes we meet,
When strawberries are coming soon?
Why do we do it?' you repeat!
Ah, careless butterfly, to thee
The strawberry seems passing good;
And sweet, on Music's wings, to flee
Amid the waltzing multitude,
And revel late--perchance till three -
For Love is monarch of thy mood!
Alas! to US no solace shows
For sorrows we endure--at Lord's,
When Oxford's bowling ALWAYS goes
For 'fours,' for ever to the cords -
Or more, perhaps, with 'overthrows'; -
These things can pierce the heart like swords!
And thus it is though woods are green,
Though mayflies down the Test are rolling,
Though sweet, the silver showers between,
The finches sing in strains consoling,
We cut our throats for very spleen,
And very shame of Oxford's bowling!
TO CORRESPONDENTS
My Postman, though I fear thy tread,
And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,
'Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread,
MY mortal foe is much severer, -
The Unknown Correspondent, who,
With undefatigable pen,
And nothing in the world to do,
Perplexes literary men.
From Pentecost and Ponder's End
They write: from Deal, and from Dacotah,
The people of the Shetlands send
No inconsiderable quota;
They write for AUTOGRAPHS; in vain,
In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora,
They write that Allan Quatermain
Is not at all the book for Brora.
They write to say that 'they have met
This writer 'at a garden party,
And though' this writer 'MAY forget,'
THEIR recollection's keen and hearty.
'And will you praise in your reviews
A novel by our distant cousin?'
These letters from Provincial Blues
Assail us daily by the dozen!
O friends with time upon your hands,
O friends with postage-stamps in plenty,
O poets out of many lands,
O youths and maidens under twenty,
Seek out some other wretch to bore,
Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours,
And leave me to my dusty lore
And my unprofitable labours!