COLLEGE 
 
 C /V R O L S 
 
 BY JOHN 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 BULLOCH 
 1 
 
/\.jOoX^ 
 
 V3/^6 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR6003.U42C6 1894 
 
 College carols, 
 
 3 1924 013 592 567 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013592567 
 
COLLEGE 
 CAROLS 
 
 BY JOHN 
 MALCOLM 
 BULLOCH 
 
 ABERDEEN 
 D. WYLLIE 
 AND SON 
 MDCCCXCIV 
 
Of this edition 
 ^00 copies have been printed. 
 
ro THE CURIOUS 
 
 These College Carols originally appeared as a series, by 
 
 "The Jack Daw of Rhymes," in Alma Mater, the 
 
 magazine conducted by the undergraduates of Aberdeen 
 
 University, between November, 1888, and February, 
 
 1894. The present selection, less than half the original 
 
 number, has been made on the basis of representing the 
 
 greater part of the student's experiences. Seven of 
 
 them, however, were not included in the complete series. 
 
 Three — "The Boon of Bohn," published in February, 
 
 1887, "Greit for Greek," and "The Student and his 
 
 Bow-wow," -were contributed to Alma Mater; and 
 
 four—" In the Quad," " The Weary Student," " On 
 
 a Mantle-shelf," and " By Torchlight," to other 
 
 periodicals. They have all been subjected to 
 
 revision, and some notes, which it is hoped 
 
 are not superfluous, have been added. 
 
OF THE STUDENT'S LIFE 
 
 Be it spent in the North, 
 By the Clyde or the Forth, 
 
 Or yet in the Kingdom of Fife, 
 The maddest, most merry. 
 The saddest to bury, 
 
 The sunniest season of life. 
 
HEREIN IS CONTAINED 
 
 At the Sign of the Crown 7 
 
 Our Noble Selves 9 
 
 "King's" 10 
 
 Gulielmus Elphinstone Loquitur 11 
 
 In the Quad 13 
 
 The Cage 14 
 
 On a Gown 15 
 
 The Bajan's Epistle 16 
 
 Bacchus and the Bajan 17 
 
 Greek 19 
 
 Aiya/ifJM 20 
 
 The Boon of Bohn 2i 
 
 A Mathematic Monody 22 
 
 The Magistrand 23 
 
 The Library Pound 24 
 
 Trim Little Maids at King's 25 
 
 The Registrar and the Maid 27 
 
 The Whirling Wheel 28 
 
 In Summer Session 29 
 
 The Weary Student 30 
 
 The Rhyme of the Rostrum 31 
 
 O Tempora ! 3j 
 
 In Chapel 35 
 
 Otium cum Dignitate 37 
 
 John 39 
 
 s 
 
Page 
 
 East and West. . .... 41 
 
 Botany Bays ... .... 42 
 
 The Pocket Gray. . . 43 
 
 A Modern Hamlet . . . .45 
 
 Orals ... .... 47 
 
 The Surgical Dummy 49 
 
 Meditations of the Med. . . -5° 
 
 Whither? . . . 51 
 
 Remember March . 52 
 
 Checkmate . . . '53 
 
 The Student and his Bow-wow . . 54 
 
 Blase . . • ■ 55 
 
 The Second-hand Bookseller ... 57 
 
 Made in Germany . . 59 
 
 The "Howl". . 61 
 
 Stage Struck . 63 
 
 A Student Night . 65 
 
 By Torchlight . . 67 
 
 The " Shine" . . 68 
 
 At the Festive Board . 69 
 
 A Famous Hostel . . . 71 
 
 Our Lady of Digs . . 73 
 
 On a Mantle-shelf . 75 
 
 A Land and its People . . . . 76 
 
 The Return of the Native . . . • • 77 
 
 Some Explanations . . . . 79 
 
Ar THE SIGN OF THE CROIVN 
 
 The prince may be proud of his palace ; 
 
 The baron may brag of his keep ; 
 The sailor may wither with malice 
 When far from the billowy deep ; 
 While some, with a pottage 
 Of love in a cottage, 
 Have never a sigh or a frown : 
 But me bend the knee 
 To the sea 
 
 And the Dee — 
 Our home is The Sign of the Crown. 
 
 You speak of the beer at the Dragon, 
 The chops at the Turbot and Brill, 
 The whisky they sell at the Waggon, 
 The port at the Maid of the Mill ; 
 You tell of the very 
 Old brandy and sherry 
 Purveyed at the Merry Old Clown : 
 But naught, I can swear. 
 Can compare 
 
 With the fare 
 That they serve at The Sign of the Crown. 
 
Was ever a hostel so jolly ? 
 
 Were ever there kindlier hosts ? 
 Was life ever fuller of folly ? 
 Were ever there heartier toasts ? 
 Or where was ambition 
 A greater tradition 
 As there with the gods of the govra ? 
 Their merriment rings, 
 And it clings 
 
 To old King's— 
 Our glorious Sign of the Crown. 
 
 When one of one's worry is weary, 
 
 And everything seems in a maze ; 
 Whenever the future is eerie. 
 It's balm to return to the days 
 When life was beginning — 
 The losing, the winning, 
 The curious up and the down — 
 In fancy we spin 
 To our kin 
 
 At the inn 
 That we love as The Sign of the Crown. 
 
OUR NOBLE SELFES 
 
 They talk about Arenas of the South, 
 
 And eulogise the Isis and the Cani. — 
 Which glory in a Porson and a Routh — 
 
 The Harvard and the Yale of Uncle Sam ; 
 And possibly our rivals may amass 
 More knowledge than the College 
 By the Dee, 
 But none of them can possibly surpass 
 Our weather and our heather 
 And our sea. 
 
 If you study at St. Thomas's or Bart, 's. 
 
 You have to breathe an atmosphere of fog ; 
 The Proctor inconsiderately parts 
 
 The easy-going student from his dog ; 
 There is wondrous fascination (they aver) 
 To shiver as a river 
 Devotee : 
 But as for me, I'd any day prefer 
 Our weather and our heather 
 And our sea. 
 
 Now Manchester may beat us in the race 
 
 Of science and of laboratory lore ; 
 And Birmingham (though scarce a pretty place) 
 
 In teaching modern languages may score ; 
 Again, we hear of gallant little Wales, 
 Of Jena, and Vienna, 
 
 And " Paree : " 
 But then we weigh against them in the scales 
 Our weather and our heather 
 And our sea. 
 
''KING'S" 
 
 " 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." 
 
 Though this rhymer piped his verses 
 
 For the " King's" of classic Cam., 
 Yet it fits our northern monarch — 
 
 Both maintain their sway by cram ; 
 And there is a family likeness. 
 
 If you take the time to con — 
 Though we don't possess a Proctor, 
 
 Yet we boast a stately Don. 
 
 "I remember, I remember" — 
 
 So did Mr. Thomas Hood- 
 How I cut my name o' Sundays 
 
 On the Chapel's oaken wood. 
 I have visions of a blackboard 
 
 Filled with Anti-Darwin whims. 
 And I sometimes dream of Barb'ra, 
 
 And some very tragic trims. 
 
 Dear old " King's ! " " that in the distance 
 
 Overlooks the sandy tracts. 
 And the hollow ocean ridges 
 
 Roaring into cataracts. " 
 Here again I simply echo 
 
 What another writer sings : 
 One indeed must range the poets 
 
 Ere its meed is paid to " King's.'' 
 
GULIELMUS ELPHWSrONE LOSIUITUR 
 
 A moonless night — I stood in the Quad., 
 And listened alone to the bell's vibrations 
 
 That came from the Tower with its Crown cloud-clad ; 
 The echoes resounded as incantations. 
 
 The hour was twelve — 
 It always is upon such occasions. 
 
 The wind arose with a mirthless moaning : 
 A voice was heard with a weary wailing ; 
 
 It grew with the gale to a gruesome groaning, 
 And then, as if all were unavailing. 
 
 It sank to the pitch of a priest intoning. 
 
 /, Gulielmus Elphinstoru, 
 
 Who once possessed a prelate^ s throne, 
 
 Have truly naught to call my mvn, 
 
 Unless, indeed, my tomb. 
 At times — to-night — / cannot rest 
 And see the halls I raised and blest — 
 My Courts of Learning — sore opprest 
 
 By Damocletian doom. 
 
 Four hundred years my hoary crown. 
 In summer's smile and winter's frown. 
 Has swayed each shade of College gown. 
 
 From sombre black and red. 
 But now, alas ! I hear them say 
 That "poor old ' /swing's- has had its day," 
 And must, like other kings, give way 
 
 To democratic dread. 
 
The Futui'e shows me crumbling walls, 
 A grass-grozun Quad, , deserted halls, 
 A musty chapets mould'ring stalls. 
 
 Where purblind bats abide. 
 The mob's iconoclastic cry 
 Declares that ' ' King's '' must surely die : 
 And all, forsooth, to gratify 
 
 Mere vulgar civic pride. 
 
 A gleam of light, and the moon shone out ; 
 
 A crozier flashed with a jewelled spangle ; 
 The voice burst forth with an angry shout, 
 
 To die away in a murmuring jangle ; 
 Then silent all : 
 
 And darkness fell on the grey Quadrangle. 
 
IN THE SlUAD. 
 
 When the tyro dons his mortar, 
 
 And in gown, which will grow shorter, 
 
 Has been clad, 
 He is wont to swagger daily, 
 Like an overbearing baillie, 
 
 In the Quad. 
 
 There's the philosophic fellow. 
 
 Who sees life through glasses yellow — 
 
 Which is sad — 
 Be the weather dull or bracing. 
 You are sure to find him pacing 
 
 In the Quad. 
 
 When the "Buttery Willie Collie," 
 As the townsfolk call the jolly 
 
 Undergrad., 
 Wants a picturesque sensation, 
 He will hold a demonstration 
 
 In the Quad. 
 
 Thus the academic cloister 
 Often echoes with a royster 
 
 That is mad ; 
 Yet 'tis said, though facts belie it, 
 That a sweet, idyllic quiet 
 
 Rules the Quad. 
 
THE CAGE 
 
 It's Uttered with letters in dozens, 
 
 And many a feminine note — 
 The latter from sisters and cousins, 
 
 The owners would tell you by rote. 
 A pile of colonial papers. 
 
 And various placards engage 
 The crowd of inquisitive gapers 
 
 Who eagerly study the Cage. 
 
 How many society meetings 
 
 In puzzling profusion appear, 
 Extending the warmest of greetings 
 
 To all who are anxious to hear 
 A lecture on latter day fiction, 
 
 A hoary debate on the stage, 
 A speech on the curse of eviction — 
 
 They all get their turn in the Cage. 
 
 What fighting it causes for places 
 
 To see the result of exams ! 
 One readily knows from the faces 
 
 The verdict that blesses or damns. 
 Its tidings will frequently sadden. 
 
 And often a sorrow assuage. 
 While sometimes its messages madden — 
 
 There's such a toss up with the Cage. 
 
 It's here that the fellow who loses 
 
 His microscope tells you his tale, 
 And this is the channel one chooses 
 
 To offer a notebook for sale. 
 In fact it is ever supplying 
 
 Your wants like a diligent page. 
 And thus you are constantly eying 
 
 The contents displayed in the Cage. 
 
ON A GOWN 
 (After Austin Dobson.) 
 
 See what a rascally rag ! 
 
 Once was it royally red — 
 Tattered to many a tag, 
 
 All of its dignity dead. 
 
 One might imagine the shred 
 Motley of jester or clown — 
 
 Yet in the days that are fled 
 This was a 'Varsity Gown, 
 
 Never did conqueror's flag 
 
 Flaunt with a jauntier spread ; 
 Source of such innocent brag, 
 
 Ah, what a lustre it shed ! 
 
 Proudly the wearer would tread 
 Under the shade of the Crown — 
 
 Now but the veriest thread, 
 This was a 'Varsity Gown. 
 
 Soon it was sport for the wag — 
 
 Merry the life that it led— 
 Daubed by impertinent gag. 
 
 Torn by the roysterer dread. 
 
 Age has been hard on its head, 
 Dyed it the dingiest brown — 
 
 Yet, ere its brilliancy sped. 
 This was a 'Varsity Gown. 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Toga ! thy spirit has bred 
 Many a man of renown ; 
 
 Proudly, my Masters, 'tis said — 
 This was a 'Varsity Gown ! 
 
rHE BAJAN'S EPISTLE 
 
 As bold Dicky Whittington started to roam 
 
 In search of a fortune and gear, 
 The Bajan sets darmgly out from his home 
 
 To tackle a College career. 
 
 His mater who mops up a tear 
 As he signals a careless " ta-ta," 
 
 Will whisper the phrase in his ear — 
 ' ' Be sure to write home to mamma ! " 
 
 To study too close at his book, though the tome 
 
 Is writ by a classical seer, 
 Is hinted as bad for his cranial dome, 
 
 Which ought to be perfectly clear. 
 
 The impudent atheist sneer 
 He's told to eschew by papa, 
 
 Hut this final advice he must hear — 
 " Be sure to write home to mamma ! " 
 
 Perchance he is warned to keep free of the foam 
 
 Of mythical flagons of beer, 
 Those merry, apochryphal Pools of Siloam 
 
 To studentdom said to be dear. 
 
 The pipe or the cigarette's cheer 
 May fetch a lugubrious "Ah !" 
 
 But something is thought to be queer 
 If he doesn't write home to mamma. 
 
 ENl'OY 
 The dam, there is reason to fear. 
 
 Hears seldom her lambikin baa ! 
 Dear Bajan, pray pardon the jeer, 
 
 And write off at once to mamma ! 
 
BACCHUS AND THE BAJAN 
 
 In the "good old days" — 
 In the good old phrase 
 
 Of those who lament the past — 
 When the knight, we're told, 
 Was so brave and bold, 
 
 And the might of the king was vast. 
 Both man and boy, 
 And the maiden coy, 
 
 And the yokeljwho tilled the dale 
 Did nothing but drink — 
 You would almost think — 
 
 From the flagon of foaming ale. 
 
 The tavern teemed, 
 And the larder gleamed 
 
 With pewter and earthen jug ; 
 The cellar cool 
 Was divinely full 
 
 Of wine for the sleek and smug. 
 And the profs, could'crack, 
 O'er the College sack, 
 
 A joke or a rousing tale ; 
 They cheered their guests 
 With a round of jests. 
 
 And a flagon of foaming ale. 
 
The undergrad., 
 Though the merest lad, 
 
 Would revel in pots of beer ; 
 And the Bajan laughed 
 As he freely quaffed — 
 
 'Twas part of his class career. 
 Now all has gone — 
 Though the Dee and Don 
 
 Run still to the waves that wail ; 
 And some lament 
 That our days are spent 
 
 No more o'er the foaming ale. 
 
GREEK 
 
 " Greit for Greece ! " 
 
 Byron wept 
 " She shall cease ; 
 
 Poor inept ! 
 Shed a tear ; 
 
 Heave a sigh : 
 Greece, I fear, 
 
 Is like to die.'' 
 
 "Greit for Greek !" 
 
 Profe. to-day 
 In their pique 
 
 Often say. 
 "At its close. 
 
 Knowledge ends, 
 Culture goes, 
 
 Doom descends.'' 
 
 "' Greit for Greek ! '— 
 
 Tell us why. 
 Greek is weak," 
 
 Bajans cry. 
 " We must know 
 
 Deutsch and French ; 
 Greek must go : 
 Dig its trench 1 " 
 
AirAMMA 
 
 You've heard of the story of little Bo-Peep, 
 
 The shepherdess maiden of old, 
 Who herded a flock of the woolliest sheep 
 
 That browsed on a wonderful wold ; 
 
 But, somehow or other cajoled. 
 They strayed : which occasioned a fama — 
 
 'Twas thus from the alphabet strolled 
 That mystical letter Digamma. 
 
 I fancy the creature had fallen asleep — 
 
 The weather was probably cold ; 
 At least, you're aware it got buried so deep 
 
 In archaeological mould. 
 
 That for ages and ages untold 
 It stood like a mute in a drama — 
 
 My metaphor's muddled, behold — 
 That mystical letter Digamma. 
 
 At last, lackaday, from oblivion's keep, 
 
 A digger, prospecting for gold. 
 Unearthed from the heart of the Hellenist heap 
 
 This sign that had strayed from the fold. 
 
 Some dote on the brave and the bold ; 
 And some bow the knee to the Lama ; 
 
 Some worship the man who unrolled 
 That mystical letter Digamma. 
 
 ENFOr 
 
 O tyro ! it since has patrolled 
 
 Philology's vast panorama. 
 And this is the reason you scold 
 
 That mystical letter Digamma. 
 
rHE BOON OF BOHN 
 
 When first I entered Classic Land, 
 
 And viewed the vast domain of Greek, 
 I did not clearly understand 
 
 How distant was the rising peak. 
 
 I toiled for many a weary week. 
 My little progress made me moan ; 
 
 At last I found a path unique — 
 The Royal Road that leads by Bohn. eS' 
 
 It was as if a wizard's wand. 
 
 The gift of some majestic sheik, 
 Had started from the stony strand 
 
 To point the finger, so to speak ; 
 
 And grammar, syntax, case oblique 
 Had almost in a twinkling flown. 
 
 Would I had sooner learned to seek 
 The Royal Road that leads by Bohn ! iI3" 
 
 Thus, guided by the friendly hand, 
 
 I skipped the petty pedant Greek 
 For Homer and his Trojan band. 
 
 On to the great dramatic clique. 
 
 The roadway was a golden streak. 
 With scarce an intercepting stone ; 
 
 One route alone is always sleek — 
 The Royal Road that leads by Bohn. C3" 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Dear Road, where many tyros sneak. 
 
 My debt to thee I fully own ; 
 Before it let our incense reet — 
 
 The Royal Road that leads by Bohn. ta 
 
A MATHEMATIC MONODY 
 
 Devoid of Mathematic brain, 
 
 I puzzle over x and y ; 
 Dull propositions are a pain, 
 
 I never yet digested ir. 
 
 'Twere hard to give the reason why. 
 But Maths, have always been my thorn. 
 
 And thus I never cease to cry 
 "Ah, why was Euclid ever born?" 
 
 I don't object to Dr. Bain, 
 
 Or Mr. Mill, although he's dry ; 
 I'm docile under Hegel's rein. 
 
 And into Ego love to pry ; 
 
 I know the shades of 5c and km : 
 But then my heart is rudely torn 
 
 By props, and problems that I try — 
 ' ' Ah, why was Euclid ever born ? " 
 
 It is not that I am inane, 
 
 I'm not an intellectual guy ; 
 And yet I study Maths, in vain, 
 
 And shall, in vain, until I die. 
 
 I've tried to work when night is nigh, 
 And turned again at early morn : 
 
 It's useless ; I am forced to sigh 
 ' ' Ah, why was Euclid ever born ? " 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Some lucky birds were made to fly. 
 And some the lowly earth adorn ; 
 
 They merely waddle — such am I : 
 "Ah, why was Euclid ever born ? " 
 
THE MAGIsrRAND 
 
 When Paul became a man 
 
 He left his childish toys, 
 
 And there and then began 
 
 To taste maturer joys. 
 And so with him who jeers 
 At budding Bajan boys — 
 His Majesty the Magistrand 
 Is something gallant, great, and grand, 
 And always lets you understand 
 His years. 
 
 He finds it hard to sit 
 
 And grind at such an age — 
 You see he's almost fit 
 
 To earn a living wage. 
 He often has his knife 
 In men the world thinks sage — 
 His Majesty the Magistrand 
 Declines to take at secondhand 
 His views on literature, or land, 
 Or life. 
 
 This elevated state 
 
 Of manners and of mind 
 Is, as in Magistrate, 
 
 In Magistrand defined : 
 Although it's not the chain 
 That Baillies love to wind. 
 His Majesty the Magistrand 
 Has yet a symbol of command ; 
 You know the Magistrandish wand — 
 A cane. 
 
THE LIBRARY POUND 
 
 The blessings surrounding the 'Varsity man 
 
 Give life a luxurious tone — 
 He masters his work on the wonderful plan 
 
 Prescribed by beneficent Bohn. 
 Though many a pleasure, thus lavishly lent, 
 
 Makes life's angularities round, 
 There's none to compare with the benefit sent. 
 
 Disguised in the Library Pound. 
 
 And yet it is strange that the magical spell 
 
 Is never remembered in rhyme — 
 No wild panegyrical choruses swell. 
 
 No lyrics in unison chime. 
 But Virgil has chanted the glory of war. 
 
 And Cowper the Sofa and hound, 
 While Dibdin belauded the life of the tar — 
 
 Then why not the Library Pound ? 
 
 The session advances, your coffers run low, 
 
 And tighter the strings of the purse ; 
 I scarcely need say that the farther you go 
 
 The famine gets rapidly worse. 
 You needn't despair, if you're up to the trick — 
 
 No easier one could be found ; 
 For want of the needful you never need stick — 
 
 Just draw on the Library Pound. 
 
 (iood Banker, that settles without a demur 
 
 Whenever your clients are " broke ! " 
 One never is forced to resort to the slur 
 
 Of parting with watch or with cloak ; 
 One hasn't to enter your office by stealth, 
 
 Your charities ever abound ; 
 'Tis only but right that I drink to your health, 
 
 Mine uncle, the Library Pound ! 
 
TRIM LITTLE MAIDS AT "KING'S" 
 
 Comes a train of little ladies, 
 
 Bajans by a new decree ; 
 Each a little bit afraid is, 
 
 Wondering what the Quad, can be. 
 
 Is it only for our brothers, 
 
 Cigarette equipt ? 
 Is it sanctioned by our mothers ? 
 
 Were it better skipped ? 
 
 Is a college education 
 
 Charmed, as poets sing? 
 And is maiden graduation. 
 
 After all, the thing ? 
 
 Student girls — perhaps we blunder — 
 'Gainst the lady teacher strike ; 
 
 And we wonder — how we wonder ! — 
 What the life at " King's" is like. 
 
 Trim little maids at " King's" are we, 
 Types of the unrestricted She, 
 Bent on the crown of a real degree — 
 Trim little maids at " King's ! " 
 Everything is a source of fun, 
 As in the song that the Princess spun, 
 Fame and a name may now be won 
 By trim little maids at " King's ! " 
 Trim little maidens, wise and wary, 
 Tired of a ladies' seminary. 
 Take to a 'Varsity vagary — 
 Trim little maids at " King's I " 
 
Why should we mind Mrs. Linton's wail ? 
 Why should we care when the fogeys rail ? 
 Why need the feminine instinct fail 
 Trim little maids at " King's?" 
 Then let us take to the trencher trim, 
 Furled on a curl it can scarce look prim ; 
 Gowns are improved when the wearer's slim, 
 Like trim little maids at " King's." 
 Trim little maidens, free and airy, 
 Tired of a ladies' seminary. 
 Seek other training tutelary — 
 Trim little maids at " King's ! " 
 
rHE REGISTRAR AND THE MAID 
 
 The Registrar. Where are you going to, 
 My Pretty Maid ? 
 Where are you going to, 
 My Pretty Maid ? 
 The Maid. I'm going to College, 
 
 Sir (she said). 
 Sir (she said). 
 Sir (she said) ; 
 I'm going to College, 
 Sir (she said). 
 
 The Registrar, Pray, fill up this schedule. 
 My Pretty Maid ? 
 Pray, fill up this schedule. 
 My Pretty Maid ? 
 The Maid. A primary fiinction. 
 
 Sir (she said), 
 Sir (she said). 
 Sir (she said), 
 A primary function. 
 
 Sir (she said). \^ 
 
 The Registrar. How old may I call you. 
 My Pretty Maid ? 
 How old may I call you, 
 My Pretty Maid ? 
 
 The Maid. I'd rather not tell you. 
 
 Sir (she said). 
 Sir (she said). 
 Sir (she said), 
 I'd rather not tell you. 
 Sir (she said). 
 
rHE IVHIRLING WHEEL 
 
 In days of old, ere the world grew cold, 
 
 In the days of the shield and spear, 
 The maid and the matron saved their gold 
 
 By making their wardrobe gear. 
 
 The poor man's spouse and the dame of the peer 
 Were deft at the rock and the sing-song reel ; 
 
 'Tis now but an echo — we no more hear 
 The witching wile of the whirling wheel. 
 
 Oh ! these were the days ere the maid unrolled 
 
 A creed of her sex's sphere. 
 The doctrine that simply seems to hold 
 
 The Dame of the Distaff sere. 
 
 The maid of to-day is a Girtoneer ; 
 Engrossed by the books of Skeat or Peile, 
 
 She finds no charm for the weary ear 
 In the witching wile of the whirling wheel. 
 
 Their gowns were made with a dainty fold 
 
 Of dimity crisp and clear ; 
 The maid on her simple sampler told 
 
 Her name and her birthday year. 
 
 The modem maid has an inbred sneer 
 For the nimble hand and the housewife's zeal : 
 
 But yet it's a spell that can always cheer — 
 The witching wile of the whirling wheel. 
 
 The girl of to-day is of mental mould, 
 
 And traverses man's career ; 
 She scorns, 'tis said, to be now cajoled 
 
 By the epithets, "darling," "dear;" 
 
 At times she stands as a pamphleteer ; 
 And learns from Bain what it is to feel : 
 
 But, as for me, I must still revere 
 The witching wile of the whirling wheel. 
 
IN SUMMER SESSION 
 
 It's hard to sweat 'neath sweltering sky 
 
 At bone or book, 
 When one would rather ply 
 The fly 
 O'er rippling brook, 
 Or lounge all day, 
 In merry May, 
 By shady nook. 
 
 No doubt it's very sweet to wake 
 
 At six or so, 
 When Sol is said to " take 
 
 The cake " — 
 The phrase is low : 
 But then the med. 
 Is seldom bred 
 A Cicero. 
 
 But then, alas ! the sun by noon 
 
 Becomes so hot 
 That one will either swoon 
 Or moon — 
 Which one should not. 
 One longs, in vain, 
 That Bain or Quain 
 Gave place to Scott. 
 
 Again, when night, with grateful chill. 
 
 Succeeds the heat. 
 You're forced to take your fill 
 Of Mill— 
 And take it neat. 
 To serenade 
 Some pretty maid 
 Were far more sweet. 
 
THE WEARY STUDENT 
 
 I'm sick of sin (a + ^) ; 
 
 I'm weary of tedious trig. , 
 The significations of t;, 
 
 Discussed by the classical prig. 
 
 In fact, the philosopher's wig 
 Is not for my indolent frame. 
 
 In knowledge we burrow and dig : 
 But what is the end of the game ? 
 
 I've dabbled in mental substrata, 
 
 Like many another young sprig ; 
 In Euclid's elaborate data — 
 
 The Pons (which in Doric is " brig ; ") 
 
 On each intellectual twig 
 I've hopped like a sparrow that's lame. 
 
 In youth it's a rollicking jig : 
 But what is the end of the game ? 
 
 I would I were wafted to Gaeta — ■ 
 
 The trip could be done in a gig — 
 Away from perplexing errata, 
 
 Those husks of the scholiast pig. 
 
 I then were as gay as a grig — 
 Though certainly careless of fame ; 
 
 And the fame of a pundit is big : 
 But what is the end of the game? 
 
 ENFOr 
 
 Professors — for cramming a fig ! 
 
 This grinding is terribly tame ; 
 What knowledge you wish us to swig ! 
 
 But what is the end of the game ? 
 
THE RHYME OF THE ROSTRUM 
 
 In our ancient Alma Mater, 
 An ambitious young debater 
 
 Finds a fitting opportunity to shine ; 
 And I don't refer to classes, 
 Or examination passes : 
 
 I am speaking of the oratoric shrine. 
 I picture the Society elate, 
 Where the student gathers weekly for debate. 
 Where the embryonic Goschens 
 Make their speeches and their motions, 
 Just to keep Creation's notions 
 Up to date. 
 
 For, as dashing politicians. 
 With Conservative ambitions — 
 
 Or, it may be, of the Socialistic sort — 
 They will put it to the nation. 
 After much deliberation. 
 
 If " the Government is worthy of support. " 
 It's probable their motions overwhelm 
 The inefficient statesman at the helm. 
 Yet their moving elocution 
 Never works a dissolution 
 In the ruling institution 
 Of the realm. 
 
They discuss a host of matters, 
 And may tear them into tatters — 
 
 But they never on religion rattle swords ; 
 Though their verdict's never quoted, 
 Yet they frequently have voted 
 
 That there's not the slightest reason for the Lords. 
 They have often spent their rhetoric and their rage 
 On the fashions and the foibles of the age ; 
 Yet the country pays no heeding 
 To the doctrines they are pleading ; 
 Which displays a lack of breeding 
 In the sage. 
 
 Now, our academic forum 
 Isn't troubled by decorum 
 
 Any further than the Tipperary sect : 
 When it wishes some composure, 
 It can move a form of closure 
 
 By a method that is rapid and direct ; 
 For the members simply hammer with their feet. 
 Or cane an unobjectionable seat ; 
 While a common form of hliss is 
 To indulge in angry hisses — 
 And it very rarely misses 
 Its effect. 
 
O TEMPORA/ 
 
 It is ane Chapelle fay re to see 
 
 Wyth Amho oaken, 
 Wyth screens of wondrous tracerie, 
 And holie tokyn. 
 
 Our godlie Bischops tombe 
 Rests in sepulchral gloome. 
 
 And ivyth the larkes glad niomyng songe 
 
 There peals ane matine. 
 The treble-throated student thronge 
 Doe chant in Latine. 
 
 In holie iveedes, 
 They tell their beades. 
 
 Perchance it is ane solemne Masse, 
 
 Perchance ane Vesper, 
 Whyle through the viullion'd wyndows passe 
 The beams of Helper. 
 
 They watch the Pyx 
 And Crucifix. 
 
 A.D. MDCCCXCIV. 
 
 The Chapel glories in its oak — 
 
 In part demolished — 
 Which Covenanting vandals broke, 
 
 Then praised and polished ; 
 
 They hew and hack, 
 And then hark back. 
 
For many years the student went 
 
 In meagre numbers. 
 His Sunday morn was gladly spent 
 In happy slumbers. 
 
 He did not hear 
 The pulpiteer. 
 
 They scroll the wall with blazoned creeds. 
 
 A "box of whistles '' 
 Peals forth ; a sort of curate reads 
 The great Epistles. 
 
 O, Master ICnox, 
 These be your flocks ! 
 
IN CHAPEL 
 
 Silent, grand, majestic Chapel, 
 
 Where I'm always sleepy 
 When Divines with dogmas grapple — 
 Sometimes waxing weepy — 
 Let me hammer out a ditty 
 On my stithy, 
 
 Chatty-chitty, 
 Pert and pithy. 
 Welded witty — 
 Pithy, witty, waly O ! 
 
 Solemn Chapel, famed in story, 
 
 On your carven settles 
 I have heard some sermons hoary, 
 All the while on nettles. 
 
 Oh, those dissertations dreary — 
 Seldom airy. 
 
 Rather eerie ! 
 One is wary 
 To get weary — 
 Wary, weary, waly O ! 
 
 Some there be that eye the ceiling, 
 
 Some the stalls, dark oaken, 
 Occupied by maidens, stealing 
 Glances (words unspoken). 
 
 I have seen the raw and skinny 
 Buttery Willie 
 
 Watching Winnie — 
 She's a silly 
 Little ninny — 
 Silly ninny, waly O ! 
 
Yet the student, too sarcastic, 
 
 Thinks himself no debtor 
 To this boon ecclesiastic 
 For his living better. 
 
 Are you ever in your flurry 
 Glad, my sonny. 
 Doctor Murray 
 Left his money 
 For your worry ? — 
 Money, worry, waly O ! 
 
 36 
 
oriUM CUM DIGNirATE 
 
 Tall, with the wonderful grace of the Greek, 
 
 Solemn as Consul at Rome ; 
 Bearing the mystical mein of a sheik 
 
 Far from his people and home — 
 Can his identity, vague though the scribe. 
 
 Any disciple perplex ? 
 This is the worshipful chief of our tribe. 
 
 This is the Ultimus Rex. 
 
 Sparse are his locks, and as white as the snow 
 
 Beard of Vandykean cut — 
 One may imagine a classical beau 
 
 Out of his century's rut. 
 Notice the hint of a scholarly stoop 
 
 Rounding the dignified form, 
 Just as the oak at its taper might droop 
 
 After the blast of the storm. 
 
 Who that has listened can ever forget 
 
 His eloquent periods roll, 
 How he would handle some classical pet, 
 
 Parallels dear to his soul ? 
 One can remember a trans, or address. 
 
 Couched in rhetorical style — 
 Somehow he always appeared to caress 
 
 Speech with an exquisite^smile. 
 
Ah, how he spake, and let fall from his lips 
 
 Phrases and words in a shower, 
 Culling all tongues, like the bee as it sips 
 
 Honey from many a flower ! 
 Sometimes the subject was painfully trite, 
 
 Yet it was cast in a mould 
 Worthy alone of our Principal-Knight, 
 
 Chafed by a world that is cold. 
 
 Linked to the story and aim of the Crown, 
 
 Bound by unbreakable tie, 
 Living his life in the slumberous town. 
 
 Far from the hue and the cry. 
 He lingers apart in the mists of the past. 
 
 Friend of the poet and seer. 
 Sure that Creation is spinning too fast 
 
 On to an age of veneer. 
 
 38 
 
JOHN 
 
 (A Portrait d la Austin Dobson.) 
 
 He lived — the canvas tells us so — 
 
 In simpler days of long ago, 
 
 Ere Sacrist flashed as liveried beau, 
 
 Before the " Fusion ; " 
 His reign began in 'Forty-Three, 
 The year Old Zion ceased to be 
 A solid Church — a part grew " Free," 
 
 A part ' ' Intrusion. " 
 
 The portrait shows a sturdy face ; 
 The figure, grave official grace ; 
 He wields the ancient silver Mace, 
 
 The Sacrist's symbol ; 
 His robe of royal purple hue 
 Is, like the wearer, far from new — 
 With more than seventy winters, few 
 
 Are very nimble. 
 
 Perhaps, in some far distant year, 
 The subject will be thought a peer, 
 Perhaps a prelate, or a seer — 
 
 The Mace an omen ; 
 But we who knew him need not con 
 The superscription placed upon 
 The gilded frame — 'tis simply " John," 
 
 With no cognomen. 
 
He ruled nigh two score years and ten ; 
 The boys he knew grew solemn men : 
 Yet no one passed beyond his ken, 
 
 Was e'er mistaken. 
 Professors came, Professors went ; 
 Like sentinel from battlement, 
 He watched, and saw nigh every tent 
 
 At last forsaken. 
 
 He came to stand, like Crown and Tower, 
 
 A symbol of the happy hour 
 
 Of student days and college power — • 
 
 Aught academic ; 
 And, having ruled so long supreme, 
 He was at last, 'twould almost seem. 
 The only academic theme 
 
 Quite non-polemic. 
 
 The canvas tells its story well — 
 
 And yet can canvas ever tell 
 
 The changing mood, the subtle spell, 
 
 The varied vista ? 
 But we who knew him can't omit 
 To pencil in the pawky wit, 
 The merry twinkling smile that lit 
 
 Our sage Sacrista. 
 
EAST AND WES1 
 
 If not from Greenland's mountains, 
 
 " From India's coral strand, 
 Where Afric's sunny fountains 
 
 Roll down their golden sand," 
 Come youths of marked calibre, 
 
 Whose fathers, one suspects. 
 The godly Bishop Heber 
 
 Maligned for rhyme-effects. 
 
 " What though the spicy breeies 
 
 Blow soft on Ceylon's isle," 
 (The accent scarcely pleases : 
 
 In all but verse it's vile), 
 If one is forced to wander 
 
 From cinnamons and palms, 
 One's precious youth to squander 
 
 On bones and Bohns and psalms. 
 
 Have we, habituated 
 
 To atmospheric freak, 
 Completely contemplated 
 
 How lamentably bleak 
 Our Scotch climatic bungle 
 
 Must be to those who've grown 
 Amid the waving jungle, 
 
 In roasting torrid zone ? 
 
 How they must miss the turban, 
 
 The kopje and karoo, 
 The glaring white of Durban, 
 
 Colombo's restful blue ! 
 They leave a cool hill-station, 
 
 Low bungalows or kraals^- 
 To swell the Angus Nation, 
 
 Where white men make them " pals 1" 
 
BOTANY BAYS 
 
 When summer sheds its glorious glow 
 
 On corn, and cairn, and corrie, 
 It's then that we a-hunting go 
 For scientific quarry. 
 
 Equipt with case, 
 We join the chase. 
 Though not for deer or foxes, 
 But merely bent 
 To find the scent 
 Of foxgloves or of phloxes. 
 
 Some youths resemble Peter Bell, 
 
 The poet's prosy potter ; 
 While others, under Nature's spell. 
 Will tramp until they totter. 
 And, mile by mile. 
 In Indian file. 
 They straggle on together, 
 By dowie den, 
 And grassy glen, 
 By stream and stretch of heather. 
 
 When wearied wending through the whins. 
 
 By rough and dusty byeways. 
 Some stop at sundry little inns 
 That dot the country highways. 
 They never mind, 
 If left behind 
 By others bent on treasure ; 
 They love to moon 
 All afternoon, 
 Returning home at leisure. 
 
1HE POCKET GRAY 
 
 What Bohn is to the neophyte in Arts, 
 
 What keys are to the mathematic dolt, 
 What spurs are to the trainer when he starts 
 
 The breaking of a dilatory colt, 
 This book is to the medical who smarts 
 When grappling with anatomy's array : 
 Need I tell you that the title 
 Of this vade mecum vital 
 Is the famous and familiar Pocket Gray ? 
 
 I could rub along without my watch and chain— 
 
 Experience corroborates the boast ; 
 And walk without a silver-headed cane ; 
 
 Subsist on plainer dinners than a roast ; 
 
 I could learn to speak the language minus Bain, 
 
 And even give up going to the play ; 
 
 I could part with many treasures, 
 
 And some captivating pleasures — 
 
 But I couldn't do without my Pocket Gray. 
 
 I could sacrifice the silly cigarette, 
 
 And manage to exist without a pipe ; 
 I could do without the fellows of my set — 
 
 They're sometimes of an aggravating type ; 
 I think I could forego without regret 
 Discussions on the value of the spray : 
 But I might as well surrender 
 My allowance — though it's slender — 
 As attempt to do without my Pocket Gray. 
 
Long after we have managed to get through. 
 
 And started on professional careers, 
 We'll think upon this prompter and his cue. 
 
 That helped us in the comedy for years. 
 Forgetful though we be of much we knew, 
 We'll recollect this friendlyjlittle fay, 
 For it lightened life and labour, 
 This accommodating neighbour : 
 It were treason to forget the Pocket Gray. 
 
A MODERN HAMLET 
 
 " A human skull — I bought it passing cheap." — 
 I quote the words of Mr, Frederick Locker, 
 
 Who, like Prince Hamlet, let his fancy weep 
 In speculating over Death the Mocker. 
 
 He meditates upon the owner's chin. 
 
 And, wondering whether it was sharp or tender, 
 He halts between Lord Byron and Nell Gwynne, 
 
 Because unable to decide its gender. 
 
 But gender is a point that won't perplex 
 
 The man of anatomic education ; 
 And yet, though one with ease may spot the sex, 
 
 A host of things is left for speculation. 
 
 For, was the tenant of this skull a bat, 
 On did he scoff at sport, and sport a psalter ? 
 
 He must have worn the largest size of hat, 
 Though hardly such a one as capped Sir Walter. 
 
 The fellow may have used his bulky brain 
 
 To write a psalm, perchance a shilling shocker, 
 
 But one could hardly tell his social strain — 
 He may have been a duke, perchance a docker. 
 
 He may have been a prelate or a knight. 
 The scion of a house that is historic ; 
 
 Peihaps some over-zealous Jacobite, 
 Or only some poor, weary, strolling Yorick. 
 
But, after all, they are but worthless chaff, 
 
 These guesses at his name, and fame, and station ; 
 
 Yet, though I never heard him talk or laugh, 
 I know his most minute articulation. 
 
 I never knew the owner, yet I owe 
 
 A tribute to the skull in my possession, 
 
 For Quain and Gray were not so hard to know ; 
 And thus it eased the burdens of the session. 
 
 And now I'll put the death's head in its box — 
 I keep it in a box beneath my table — 
 
 As Titmarsh did, in manner orthodox. 
 When penning Finis to his social fable. 
 
 46 
 
ORALS 
 
 One faces the billows of written exams. , 
 
 Buoyed bravely by shams, 
 With Bohn on the brain and elaborate crams, 
 
 And other flim-flams. 
 But Orals put one to a terrible test. 
 At least if we judge from the faces distressed, 
 
 It's often a system that slams 
 The lambs. 
 
 The poor little innocent lambs. 
 
 No torture of body or mind can compare 
 
 With such an affair ; 
 You vacantly stare at the Prof, in his chair. 
 
 With imbecile air. 
 You gaze as if fully expecting to wrench 
 A hint from the roof, a reply from your bench, 
 
 But never a screen from the scare 
 Is there, 
 
 No hope of a refuge is there. 
 
 The warier ones have recourse to a trick 
 
 Whenever they stick — 
 They signal the man at their side with a quick 
 
 Little vigorous kick. 
 And then, till the kindly, provisional fag 
 Is able to whisper an answer, they gag. 
 
 They thus get their knowledge on " tick " 
 From Dick, 
 
 From Tommy and Harry, and Dick. 
 
I've heard that the state of Utopian bliss 
 
 At College is this — 
 The right, and the subsequent power to dismiss 
 
 The Oral to Dis. 
 And when it appears from millennial gloom 
 The chronic will blossom, the weed he will bloom, 
 
 And few there wilKthen he to hiss, 
 I wis. 
 
 Yes, few the objectors, I wis. 
 
rHE SURGICAL DUMMY 
 
 There's many a venturous Knight of the Knife 
 
 The world has adjudged as a hero, 
 Though many declare that he juggles with life. 
 
 And call him a latterday Nero. 
 And yet there's a figure in Surgery's sphere , 
 
 With whom you're familiar and chummy, 
 But nobody ever takes trouble to cheer 
 
 With praises the Surgical Dummy. 
 
 He always is ready to bend at your beck, 
 
 This strangely benevolent model, 
 lie doesn't demur when you double his neck 
 
 Or force him to stand on his noddle. 
 At times he is posed as a classical god , 
 
 At limes in a grovel Yum- Yummy ; 
 And yet he is never aware that he's odd, 
 
 That most of his gestures are rummy. 
 
 His face is a blank, and no shade of a smile 
 
 Can pucker his featureless features. 
 Although he is twisted about in a style 
 
 Provoking to everyday creatures. 
 But, nevertheless, he is able to claim 
 
 A kinship with some of his masters — 
 The chronic, the man who is mentally maim 
 
 In dealing with powders and plasters. 
 
 You've noticed the fellow — I'm bound to confess 
 
 He merits the jibe of the cynic — 
 Who after a solemn Professor's address 
 
 Has nothing to say at a clinic. 
 He looks from the bed to the roof with a stare 
 
 As vacant as that of a mummy ; 
 It isn't a breach of the truth to declare 
 
 That youth is a Surgical Dummy. 
 
MEDITATIONS ON THE MED. 
 
 Chickens are crammed, 
 
 Topers are drammed, 
 Yet their misfortune is trifling — 
 
 Think of the Med. 
 
 Stuffing his head, 
 Breathing an atmosphere stifling. 
 
 Gorges of Quain 
 
 Damage the brain, 
 Rammed, as it were, to the muzzle. 
 
 How they contrive 
 
 Ever to thrive 
 Stands an insoluble puzzle. 
 
 Ignorant boys 
 
 Talk of the joys 
 Found in the sawbone's existence. 
 
 Little they know 
 
 What he must stow, 
 Else would they keep at a distance. 
 
 Youth, on the brink. 
 
 Ponder and think. 
 Know there are thorns on the brambles, 
 
 Think of the cram, 
 
 Innocent lamb, 
 Pause ere you enter the shambles ! 
 
fTHITHER f 
 
 They lounge about in the bare Quadrangle, 
 
 And sun themselves in the noonday glare, 
 For life appears to their eyes a spangle, 
 
 Fretted by never a sorrow or care. 
 
 Some as the tortoise, and some as the bare, 
 Sooner or later will tumble through, 
 
 And then you ask with a wondering air — 
 ' ' What will become of the careless crew ? " 
 
 Some may grow rich by puffing a fangle — 
 
 A soap that will make the complexion fair — 
 Others will cleverly manage to angle 
 
 A richly endowed University chair. 
 
 And they in the orthodox fashion declare 
 The outlook for many a pupil is blue, 
 
 They query their class, with a look of despair, 
 " What will become of the careless crew?" 
 
 Others may muddle life's curious tangle, 
 
 Missing a great notoriety's glare ; 
 Easy as ever, they carelessly dangle 
 
 Life in a village, that's painfully bare ; 
 
 Jogging along on a lazy old mare. 
 Physicking many for never a sou, 
 
 Thinking, perchance, with a vacuous stare — 
 " What has become of the careless crew ? " 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Pedagogues, Pessimists, wherefore the scare ? 
 
 Why should you make such a mighty ado ? 
 Most of us float, though you're never aware 
 
 What will become of the careless crew. 
 
REMEMBER MARCH/ 
 
 Remember March ! Remember ye the Ides, 
 The dreary month and all that it betides — 
 The doleful days, the long and weary nights, 
 The midnight oil, the aching head that blights 
 The knowledge garnered after tedious strides. 
 
 Month of regrets ! the laggard vainly chides 
 That hours were frittered over folly's flights ; 
 Too late the warning that the phrase recites — 
 " Remember March ! " 
 
 A dreary month ; but Time forever glides — 
 To-morrow's sun the passing storm derides ; 
 And after all our tiresome climbs and fights 
 We reach the summit, if we keep our plights. 
 To all who dally, let these be the guides — 
 " Remember March ! " 
 
CHECKMATE 
 
 Luckless fate that makes me grovel 
 In the mire of noxious cram ; 
 
 When I want to read a novel, 
 I must read for some exam. 
 
 Can you blame the careless stripling. 
 
 If he plunges into Kipling, 
 
 If, for maths, he reads the rippling 
 Prose of Mr. Charles Lamb ? 
 
 Who can say he likes to devil 
 At those everlasting props. , 
 
 If at times he cannot revel 
 Over Ouida's lollipops ? 
 
 If he may but seldom tarry 
 
 Over Hardy, Payn, or Barrie, 
 
 If his studies always harry. 
 If his grinding never stops ? 
 
 There are times when Greek is dreary. 
 
 And when Latin is a fag. 
 When a fellow would be cheery 
 
 With his briar-root and shag, 
 Longing to be roused or staggered 
 By a Wilkie Collins' blackguard. 
 Some romance by Rider Haggard, 
 
 Or the latest London wag. 
 
 Life is not all beer and skittles. 
 That is what the Wise Ones say ; 
 
 Vinegar must season victuals, 
 Good old Duty must have sway. 
 
 Thus it is that Latin diction 
 
 Takes the place of recent fiction ; 
 
 After all, the dire restriction 
 Has its evanescent day. 
 
THE STUDENT AND HIS BOW-WOW 
 
 When some fellows leave a mother 
 
 And a mother's apron string, 
 They have scarce the grace to smother 
 
 Their resolve to have a fling. 
 For they hold the old tradition 
 That a youth must be a romp 
 When he joins that competition 
 
 Which we always call "The Comp." 
 They say they're not complete 
 
 Without a bow-wow ; 
 At their patent-leathered feet 
 
 Runs a bow-wow. 
 They think an ugly bull 
 Is a start to play the fool ; 
 And they'll set it at a meou-wow, wow-wow. 
 
 You might think the Quad, a kennel 
 
 If you saw it now and then, 
 When the academic Phenyl 
 
 Strolls to College — after ten ; 
 At his heels a sable collie, 
 
 While a bull is on the chain : 
 For the owner thinks it's jolly 
 To be doggy on the brain. 
 
 If you want to cut a dash, 
 
 Get a bow-wow — 
 Though you possibly may smash, 
 
 I'll allow-wow ; 
 And you may be packed away 
 To New Zealand or Cathay 
 To a shovel or a plow-wow, wow-wow. 
 
BLAsk 
 
 I cannot sit at home and grind 
 My lectures as I used to do : 
 Although I hope some day to find 
 
 I'm through. 
 I cannot suffer solid books — 
 
 The books I used to linger o'er — 
 For all except a novel looks 
 A bore. 
 
 I cannot sit upon a chair, 
 
 My feet wi// seek the mantle-shelf ; 
 My restless moments often scare 
 
 Myself. 
 I sometimes think this mental strife, 
 
 These melancholy whirligigs. 
 The outcome of a lonely life 
 In digs. 
 
 Whene'er the clock begins to thrust 
 
 Its hand to six or thereabout, 
 A craving tells me that I must 
 
 Go out. 
 For no one tells me that I shan't, 
 
 And going out is not a sin : 
 The only bother is, I can't 
 Come in. 
 
I've got to know a wildish set, 
 
 With every study out of touch ; 
 I puff the saucy cigarette 
 
 Too much ; 
 And then I trundle back to bed 
 
 Too oft beneath the setting moon, 
 To waken with an aching head 
 At noon. 
 
 With scarce an aim in view, 'tis clear 
 That life has reached a pretty pass ; 
 For days on end I don't go near 
 
 A class ; 
 And when, to vary hours that pall, 
 
 I sit a dreary lecture out, 
 I've not a notion what it's all 
 About. 
 
THE SECOND-HAND BOOKSELLER 
 
 In spite of the tone 
 
 Which often obtains, 
 That fogeys alone 
 
 Are bibliomanes, 
 
 I venture to hazard the prop. — 
 
 That, once in a while. 
 
 It doesn't require 
 A bibliophile 
 
 To love and admire 
 The second-hand bookseller's shop. 
 
 The stripling at Arts 
 
 Or Medicine frequents 
 The bookselling marts — 
 
 Though little contents 
 The plain undergraduate's taste. 
 He's not on the hunt 
 
 For Horace in calf; 
 He's probably blunt, 
 
 But he only would laugh 
 At Quain in morocco encased. 
 
 He buys, and he sells — 
 
 Realising his stock ; 
 Fate often compels 
 
 Him to part with his Locke ; 
 His microscope goes like a shot ; 
 And poverty's dole 
 
 Can never unman 
 His optimist soul, 
 
 So long as he can 
 Fall back on his Liddell and Scott. 
 
The second-hand book 
 Can commonly trace 
 A course like the brook ; 
 For race after race 
 Of readers have studied its page . 
 Now here in the dust 
 
 Of the bookseller's shelf, 
 Now there in the trust 
 Of the Bajan himself ; 
 It's tattered and blackened with age. 
 
MADE IN GERMANY 
 
 I bought a set of views of " King's" — 
 
 The Chapel, the Tower, and Crown — 
 Those photo-lithographic things 
 Of a curious dirty brown. 
 Said I to myself, 
 
 As I stuck them up 
 On my mantleshelf 
 With its Dresden cup — 
 ' ' They're souvenirs dear to me. 
 It's good to promote 
 
 All local art : " 
 On further note 
 I saw with a start 
 They were "made in Germanee." 
 
 In the good old days we're wont to praise, 
 
 Our Profs, were a home-grown lot ; 
 With homely ways and a Doric phrase, 
 For each was a sturdy Scot, 
 They came from the shafts 
 
 Of the honest plough. 
 From lowly crafts 
 
 And a country " knowe," 
 Content with a home degree. 
 But that has gone ; 
 
 And we humbly doff 
 To an English don. 
 At times to a Prof. 
 Who was made in Germanee. 
 
Our grads. , in simpler days of yore, 
 
 Believed that they altaost knew 
 The limits of Creation's lore 
 
 The day that they scrambled through. 
 Then "King's" expressed 
 All the germs of truth ; 
 Marischal was best 
 For the doctor youth : 
 But now they must cross the sea ; 
 In the Fatherland 
 
 They must learn their trade — 
 So you'll understand, 
 If they are not made, 
 They're finished in Germanee. 
 
 60 
 
THE "HOIFL" 
 
 The Concert — it is often called the " howl " — 
 
 Is quite the student function of the year, 
 Although the high and mighty few may growl 
 
 That people come for show and not to hear. 
 Yet Patti wouldn't draw a bigger house, 
 
 And Paderewski wouldn't get the crowd ; 
 I question whether Mendelssohn or Strauss 
 
 Before a fairer audience ever bowed. 
 As his vocal vigour raises 
 Scarcely anything but praises, 
 
 The undergrad. is naturally proud. 
 
 They storm the door an hour before the time, 
 
 Monopolise the city's stock of cabs, 
 Old dowagers and maidens in their prime. 
 
 In satin, silk, aesthetic browns and drabs. 
 There are acres of the snowy, studded shirts 
 
 Of masculine relations and papas ; 
 There are scores of most accomplished little flirts, 
 
 And bevies of one's sisters and mammas. 
 It's a sight to see the faces 
 Of the ladies in their laces, 
 
 And a joy to hear their feminine huzzas. 
 
 When the grand old Gaudeamus booms its praise, 
 
 The passage that inevitably draws 
 Is the gallant " omnes vivant Virgines," 
 
 Which starts a round of titter and applause. 
 The maiden does a pretty little blush, 
 
 And gazes on her programme or her fan ; 
 The rough and tumble schoolboy thinks it "gush"- 
 
 He little knows the sentiment of man : 
 For this simple bit of Latin 
 Has aroused a pit-a-pat in 
 
 Many bosoms since society began. 
 
Then the man who is selected for a song 
 
 Is certainly a memorable sight ; 
 He isn't of the ordinary throng — 
 
 In fact he is the hero of the night. 
 Advancing to the footlights with a bow, 
 
 He gives a little flourish of a cough, 
 Runs his fingers through the hair upon his brow, 
 
 And patronises Principal and Prof. 
 Of course the people cheer him 
 For his sentiments endear him : 
 
 Though critics may unmercifully scoff. 
 
STAGE-STRUCK 
 
 Of course you know the undergrad., 
 The victim of the acting fad, 
 
 Who sighs for sock and buskin ; 
 He reads the Era and the Stage, 
 In place of Plato's placid page, 
 
 Euripides or Ruskin. 
 
 He longs to face the footlights' glare, 
 Like Henry Irving or like Hare ; 
 
 He worships Ellen Terry. 
 He often thinks he'd like to be 
 As great a man as Beerbohm Tree, 
 
 Or Toole, who's always merry. 
 
 The aspirations of the " pro." 
 Compel the youth to run a " show " 
 
 With amateur play-actors ; 
 His hopes are bright, but then at last 
 The ladies will not join his cast. 
 
 Though necessary factors. 
 
 He thinks the project must present 
 Itself as quite a compliment 
 
 To any lovely lady. 
 But every merry maiden shrinks. 
 For she (or else her mother) thinks 
 
 The mummer's craft is shady. 
 
 63 
 
The youth at first is wildly stirred 
 By hopes of playing Richard III., 
 
 Or Melnotte at his easel, 
 Perhaps it is the part of Snake : 
 Yet in the end he has lo take 
 
 The role of Lady Teazle. 
 
 Again, a tenor thinks he can 
 Pourtray Don Csesar de Bazan — 
 
 \Artiose mens was scarcely sana ; 
 Alas ! the luckless histrion 
 Discovers that he has to don 
 
 The skirts of Maritana. 
 
A STUDENT NIGHT 
 
 There's an admirable saying, 
 
 That, if Jack is never playing, 
 He greatly runs the risk of losing grit ; 
 
 So the student, as a tonic, 
 
 Takes to matters histrionic, 
 And spends a jolly evening in the pit. 
 
 He barricades its portals, 
 
 With the shilling-paying mortals, 
 To revel in the latest London hit. 
 
 All his mathematic troubles, 
 
 Like the airiest of bubbles. 
 Are certain to float off and disappear ; 
 
 He forgets examinations 
 
 In the wonderful sensations 
 Provided for his eye and for his ear. 
 
 For that single shiny shillin'. 
 
 He's allowed to hiss the villain. 
 And the heroine is greeted with a cheer. 
 
 When the act-drop has descended. 
 
 Yet the show is far from ended ; 
 If the actors leave the footlights, what's the odds]? 
 
 For the youths " in front,'' sonorous, 
 
 Sing an academic chorus, 
 To the Circle's sympathetic little nods. 
 
 And the embryonic Jenner, 
 
 Be he baritone or tenor. 
 Is certain of the plaudits of the gods. 
 
Then you catch a glimpse of satin, 
 
 When the fellows sing in Latin, 
 And the mummers stand on tip-toe at the wings ; 
 
 While the ladies of the ballet 
 
 From their dressing-rooms will sally. 
 To listen while the comic fellow sings. 
 
 It's a pity that the trippers 
 
 Who are "jolly little nippers," 
 Don't matriculate at Marischal or at King's. 
 
BY TORCHLIGHT 
 
 In marking the choice of a Rector, 
 The student's most ancient protector, 
 
 We revel by night. 
 
 With flambeaux alight, 
 Both Bajan and doughty dissector. 
 
 Peculiarly clad. 
 
 We file from the Quad., 
 And, passing the 'Varsity porches, 
 
 The Glorious Gown 
 
 Illumines the Town 
 With the glare of a myriad torches. 
 
 In jackets reversed, or in tatters. 
 In billycocks shunted by hatters, 
 
 A motlier lot 
 
 Could hardly be got. 
 As over the causeway it clatters. 
 
 The ribbon of flame — 
 
 Our flambeau of fame — 
 Meanders by highways and alleys ; 
 
 Our ragged disguise 
 
 And banter give rbe 
 To cynical citizen sallies. 
 
 It's true you are tempted to mutter 
 
 A carse when your torch, with a splutter. 
 
 Deposits a drop 
 
 Of tar on your top : 
 You're tempted to show it the gutter. 
 
 Of course there's a risk 
 
 In trying to frisk 
 With pitch that is seething and dripping ; 
 
 But who with an eye 
 
 For " larks" can deny 
 That a torchlight procession is " ripping?" 
 
 67 
 
rUE " SHINE . 
 
 Who hasn't got a Prof.'s invite 
 
 To come and dine ? — 
 A somewhat disconcerting rite, 
 
 The honoured " shine ! " 
 At least, from youths who can't essay 
 To figure forth in dress array. 
 The gilt Rifoiidez s'il vous plait 
 
 Draws a decline. 
 
 Perhaps it doesn't suit their taste 
 
 To bill and coo ; 
 Perhaps it is their way in haste 
 
 To dine at two : 
 So, when they have to make reply, 
 Though stifled conscience cry, " O fie ! " 
 They sometimes tell the social lie — 
 
 Oh yes, they do ! 
 
 Who hasn't noticed such as these 
 
 Stand all alone, 
 Like Sancho Panza, ill at ease 
 
 Upon his throne ? — 
 The lads who hail from glens of broom, 
 Uncouth, if clever, boys, to whom 
 The mysteries of a drawing-room 
 
 Are quite unknown. 
 
 He meets at such a feast as this — 
 
 She's all the rage — 
 The Higher-Educated miss 
 
 Of doubtful age. 
 In short, one cannot truly doubt 
 That, for the academic sprout. 
 The ordinance of dining out 
 
 Is far from bliss. 
 
 58 
 
AT THE FESrWE BOARD 
 
 Can anyone ever forget 
 
 His first University supper? 
 The toasts and the sentiment set 
 In commonplace worthy of Tupper ? 
 You dressed with a critical eye, 
 And tied an immaculate tie ; 
 With infinite care 
 You parted the hair 
 That covered your tenement upper. 
 
 When the chairman demanded your toast, 
 You rose from your seat with a shiver; 
 Your face was the face of a ghost ; 
 Your body was all of a quiver. 
 
 And then you made many a pause, 
 
 In spite of your hearers' applause ; 
 
 Your brain was a blank ; 
 
 You trembled and shrank 
 
 From the words you had meant to deliver. 
 
 Yet, 'twas something to sit ne.\t a Prof. , 
 Who joined in the evening's libations, 
 And wasn't the slightest stand-off^ 
 As oft in his daily relations. 
 
 Though speaker on speaker arose, 
 The night glided swift to its close ; 
 And everything passed 
 Incredibly fast — 
 The music, the toasts, and orations. 
 
 69 
 
Then homewards you trundled to bed — 
 
 Perhaps when the daylight was breaking ; 
 Perchance to awake with a head 
 
 That swam, and a tongue that was baking ; 
 Vou vowed, as you swigged your potass, 
 You ne'er dine again with your class ; 
 Declaring that wine, 
 Though doubtless divine. 
 Is bad for unlimited slaking. 
 
 Ah, these the divinest of days. 
 
 When toasts never seemed idiotic. 
 In spite of their meaningless praise 
 And grammar, distinctly chaotic ! 
 Then life was a thing to provoke 
 But laughter and singing and joke, 
 And suppers galore 
 Were never a bore, 
 Conventional, tiresome, despotic. 
 
A FAMOUS HOSTEL 
 
 An antique, quaint, and narrow little lane, 
 
 On which the haughty cit. has learned to frown, 
 Although they say it was, in someone's reign, 
 
 The fashionable quarter of the town. 
 The mansion of an ancient family rears 
 
 Its turrets over poverty and grime. 
 Its dwellers now no longer barts. or peers — 
 
 So shift the puppets of our pantomime. 
 
 'TWas here, in such and such a year of grace, 
 
 A certain antiquated hostel rose — 
 An unpretentious, decent-looking place, 
 
 And yet it had to face a host of foes. 
 A snugger inn it had been hard to find, 
 
 A paragon of hospitable rests. 
 And soothly so, when one recalls to mind 
 
 It stood within the ancient Row of Guests. 
 
 I would not pipe a bacchanalian chant, 
 
 A panegyric over lager beer. 
 But it were surely nothing short of cant 
 
 If I should dare deny that it was here 
 Whole academic generations spent 
 
 Their nights in song o'er foaming mug and glass — 
 Perchance some reader may deplore the bent. 
 
 And haply heave a woe-begone " Alas ! " 
 
 Old memories of the hostel fill the air — 
 
 The low-roofed cosy parlours, warm and snug, 
 The narrow, brass-bound, rambling little stair. 
 
 The tiny bar, with many a shining mug. 
 Then, who responded to the tinkling bell ? 
 
 No smirking, changefiil race of giddy dames ; 
 It was — but is there any need to tell ? — 
 
 The silent, indefatigable James. 
 
Familiar pictures flash again in sight, 
 
 And visions of the merry, heedless romp ; 
 Who can forget a noisy Bursary night, 
 
 A gathering of the victors at the " Comp ? " 
 The fate of many an embryonic bard 
 
 Was settled once a week in one small room ; 
 Poor bantling litterateurs were hacked and scarred, 
 
 Their manuscripts consigned to fiery doom. 
 
 Here, on the evenings after dire exams.. 
 
 The don would drink in hopes of due success ; 
 The dullard, conscious of the work that damns. 
 
 Would drink to drown his pitiful distress. 
 But now, no merry student laugh is known. 
 
 The academic light has ceased to burn ; 
 The " dosser " claims the hostel for his own — 
 
 To what base uses may we not return ! 
 
OUR LADY OF DIGS. 
 
 I sing of her, if but to show 
 
 I'm not misogynistic, 
 Although I never was a beau, 
 Nor yet a mooning mystic. 
 The Dichter decks 
 The gentler sex 
 With rhyme (that seldom terse is), 
 And yet my text 
 Is never vext 
 With eulogistic verses. 
 
 The heroine of whom I pipe 
 
 Is quite a foster mother ; 
 Among her sex she forms a type 
 Distinct from any other. 
 One can't describe 
 This sombre tribe 
 In such a trifling ditty ; 
 Suffice to say, 
 She's seldom gay. 
 And rarely young or pretty. 
 
 How often one would gladly wish, 
 
 In spite of cravings inner. 
 To chuck away some half-cooked dish, 
 Which courtesy calls dinner ! 
 Or then, if she 
 May chance to be 
 On such a point a jewel, 
 She'll have a trick 
 Of laying thick 
 The charge for "gas and fuel." 
 
Perhaps the dear old Dame of Digs.- 
 
 " Apartments" more poHtely — 
 Objects to razzle-dazzle sprigs 
 Who make her rooms unsightly. 
 Her fuming ways 
 Are apt to raise 
 Against her ribald railings ; 
 She has, 'tis true — 
 And so have you — 
 Her foibles and her failings. 
 
ON A MANTELSHELF 
 
 They watch me in their smiling rows, 
 
 My little gallery of the fair — 
 Some with a Quakerish kind of pose, 
 
 And others with coquettish air. 
 
 Perhaps you sneer because my share 
 Of Art is such imperfect pelf : 
 
 Yet, undismayed, I would not spare 
 The Maidens of my Mantelshelf. 
 
 A maid, with much display of hose. 
 
 And such a wealth of golden hair ; 
 A damsel with a piquant nose. 
 
 Who played the part of Lady Clare ; 
 
 And then, between the precious pair, 
 A Princess of the House of Guelph — 
 
 Some would pronounce them all a snare. 
 The Maidens of my Mantelshelf. 
 
 I sometimes waken from a doze, 
 
 A-weary of the cube and square. 
 To see a dancer on her toes 
 
 Regard me with triumphant stare. 
 
 I rise to greet her from my chair — 
 It's just a picture of the elf ! 
 
 But for the nonce they banish care. 
 The Maidens of my Mantelshelf. 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Dread Moralists, I'm well aware 
 That youth is apt to fool itself — 
 
 Perhaps I'll one day take and tear 
 The Maidens of my Mantelshelf. 
 
A LAND AND ITS PEOPLE 
 
 There is a certain goodly land, 
 
 With Alma Mater Queen ; 
 The world at large supplies her grand 
 
 Demesne. 
 'Tis peopled by a motley folk, 
 Yet fellow-subjects in one yoke, 
 Whose Order is the Scarlet Cloak 
 
 Serene. 
 
 Beneath our Alma Mater's rule 
 
 Are sons of every stage — 
 The merry stripling fresh from school. 
 
 Her page ; 
 Then some are grave and sober men. 
 And some are nigh four score and ten. 
 But none can pass beyond her ken 
 From age. 
 
 Some sons who "digged" in College Bounds 
 
 With scarce a sou to cheer, 
 Are passing rich on ^80 
 
 A year : 
 And some, who did not scorn to trade. 
 Have found in soap or marmalade 
 A fortune that would scarce degrade 
 A peer. 
 
 And yet, although her subjects wend 
 
 O'er every land and sea, 
 And though to earthly kings they bend 
 
 The knee, 
 They can't forget their early guide, 
 Whose fame is sounded far and wide. 
 The calm old Minster Town beside 
 The sea. 
 
 76 
 
THE RETURN OF THE NATirE 
 
 Perchance amid the weary years 
 
 Of all-absorbing care, 
 We pause at times, and there appears 
 
 A vision wondrous fair — 
 A calm and changeless Minster Town, 
 
 An ever-changing sea, 
 The outline of a stately Crown, 
 
 The sweep of Don and Dee. 
 
 We see the life of years ago 
 
 As only yesterday — ■ 
 An animated puppet-show, 
 
 A re-enacted play ; 
 And, prompted by the vision's light, 
 
 We turn to Crown and Mace, 
 To see if Fancy paints aright 
 
 The old familiar place. 
 
 We come — to waken from a dream, 
 
 To see the vision fade ; 
 The old familiar places seem 
 
 But shadows of a shade : 
 We look to find, but all in vain. 
 
 The old entrancing spell — 
 'Tis only dreams that can retain 
 
 The world we knew so well. 
 
 The stately leaders once we knew. 
 
 Who shaped our after ways. 
 Perchance have passed away from view, 
 
 Their very names a phrase. 
 We find our sleepy world a whirl. 
 
 It seems to spin too fast — 
 The very Bajan is a girl ; 
 
 The med. too young to last. 
 
And, standing aliens at the gates, 
 
 'Mid faces cold and strange, 
 Perchance we fancy ruin waits 
 
 This unexpected change. 
 'Tis ever thus ; for comes the night 
 
 With days that are no more ; 
 The stars to-day are scarce so bright 
 
 As once in days of yore. 
 
SOME EXPLANATIONS 
 
 Gulielmus Elpkinstone (page n), Bishop of Aberdeen, founded 
 King's College in 1494 ; and naturally would have objected 
 to have the classes there transferred to Marischal College, as 
 has been proposed under the extension scheme. 
 
 The Cage (page 14) is the University post office and "market 
 cross." 
 
 Greit for Greek ('page 19) was written Apropos of the optionalising 
 ofGreek under the Universities Act (1889). 
 
 Tke Magisirand (page 23) is the only type of Arts student who 
 carries a cane to college every day. 
 
 Tke Library Pound (p&g& 24). The student, by depositing twenty 
 shillings in the library, has the privilege of using it. Mr. 
 J. M. Barrie has said that it " has never had its poet. You can 
 withdraw your pound when you please. There are far-seeing 
 men who work out the whole thing by mathematics. . . . That 
 library pound. You had forgotten that you had a banker." 
 
 The Rhyme of the Eostrutn (page 31) refers to the University 
 Debating Society, founded in 1848. 
 
 O Teynpora (page 33). King's College Chapel was begun in 1500. 
 In 1640 the General Assembly declared that the organ was a 
 " thinge very intoUerable in the churche of the College ; " and 
 in the end of last century the nave was turned into a library. 
 In 1891-2, the chapel was restored " in a manner worthy of its 
 history and associations," and a magnificent organ was erected. 
 The Divinity Professors preach in the Chapel every Sunday 
 during the session, a sum of money, diverted for that purpose, 
 having been left by the Rev. Dr. Murray of Philadelphia. 
 
 OtUint cum Dignitate (page 37) is the most fitting phrase to de- 
 scribe Sir William Geddes, Professor ofGreek in the University 
 (1860-1886), and since that date Principal. 
 
 East and West (page 41). The Angus Nation referred to in the 
 last verse is a curious relic of the mediaeval Universities of Paris 
 and Bologna on which Aberdeen University was modelled. 
 For the election of a Lord Rector, all matriculated students are 
 divided into four classes, or Nations, according to where they 
 were born. These Nations are Mar, Buchan, Moray, and 
 Angus. The first three roughly cover the whole of Scotland 
 north of the river Dee. Angus includes all the rest of the world ! 
 
 John (page 49). Mr. John Colvin was sacrist in the University 
 from 184^ to 1891. His portrait, painted by Mr. Archibald 
 Reid, A.R.S.A., and presented to the University by subscribers, 
 was unveiled in 1892. 
 
 The Meditations of the Med, (page 50) was suggested by the 
 statement of a writer in the Scottish Review that a minimum of 
 10,000 octavo pages of close print must be read and digested by 
 every student who goes through Medicine. 
 
 A Famous Hostei (p&g& 71). This was Duffus's Hotel in the Guest- 
 row. It was long a "howif " for students, and in later years 
 the Editors of the University Magazine held their conclaves 
 there. It is now a common lodging-house. 
 
 79