Often, when o'er tree and turret, Eve a dying radiance flings, By that ancient pile I linger Known familiarly as “King's.”
And the ghosts of days departed Rise, and in my burning breast All the undergraduate wakens, And my spirit is at rest.
What, but a revolting fiction, Seems the actual result Of the Census's enquiries Made upon the th ult.?
Still my soul is in its boyhood; Nor of year or changes recks. Though my scalp is almost hairless, And my figure grows convex.
Backward moves the kindly dial; And I'm numbered once again With those noblest of their species Called emphatically‘ Men':
Loaf, as I have loafed aforetime, Through the streets, with tranquil mind, And a long-backed fancy-mongrel Trailing casually behind:
Past the Senate-house I saunter, Whistling with an easy grace; Past the cabbage-stalks that carpet Still the beefy market-place;
Poising evermore the eye-glass In the light sarcastic eye, Lest, by chance, some breezy nursemaid Pass, without a tribute, by.
Once, an unassuming Freshman, Through these wilds I wandered on, Seeing in each house a College, Under every cap a Don:
Each perambulating infant Had a magic in its squall, For my eager eye detected Senior Wranglers in them all.
By degrees my education Grew, and I became as others; Learned to court delirium tremens By the aid of Bacon Brothers;
Bought me tiny boots of Mortlock, And colossal prints of Roe; And ignored the proposition That both time and money go.
Learned to work the wary dogcart Artfully through King's Parade; Dress, and steer a boat, and sport with Amaryllis in the shade:
Struck, at Brown's, the dashing hazard; Or ( more curious sport than that ) Dropped, at Callaby's, the terrier Down upon the prisoned rat.
I have stood serene on Fenner's Ground, indifferent to blisters, While the Buttress of the period Bowled me his peculiar twisters:
Sung‘ We wo n't go home till morning’; Striven to part my backhair straight; Drunk ( not lavishly ) of Miller's Old dry wines at : -
When within my veins the blood ran, And the curls were on my brow, I did, oh ye undergraduates, Much as ye are doing now.
Wherefore bless ye, O beloved ones: - Now unto mine inn must I, Your‘ poor moralist,’ betake me, In my‘ solitary fly.’
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