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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/16821-h.zip b/16821-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3625e04 --- /dev/null +++ b/16821-h.zip diff --git a/16821-h/16821-h.htm b/16821-h/16821-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eb7d2c6 --- /dev/null +++ b/16821-h/16821-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2194 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Scarlet Gown</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Scarlet Gown, by R. F. Murray</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Scarlet Gown, by R. F. Murray + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Scarlet Gown + being verses by a St. Andrews Man + + +Author: R. F. Murray + + + +Release Date: October 8, 2005 [eBook #16821] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SCARLET GOWN*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1891 Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton & Co. edition +by David Price, ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/titlepage.jpg"> +<img alt="Title page" src="images/titlepage.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>THE SCARLET GOWN:<br /> +BEING VERSES BY A ST. ANDREWS MAN</h1> +<p>ST. ANDREWS, N.B.: A. M. HOLDEN<br /> +LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON & CO.<br /> +1891</p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page i--><span class="pagenum">p. i</span>‘ +. . . the little town,<br /> +The drifting surf, the wintry year,<br /> +The college of the scarlet gown,<br /> +St. Andrews by the Northern Sea,<br /> +That is a haunted town to me.’</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew Lang</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<h2><!-- page ii--><span class="pagenum">p. ii</span>PREFACE</h2> +<p>St. Andrews, but for its Town Council and its School Board, is a +quiet place; and the University, except during the progress of a Rectorial +Election, is peaceable and well-conducted. I hope these verses +may so far reflect St. Andrews life as to be found pleasant, if not +over exciting.</p> +<p>I am able to reprint the verses on ‘The City of Golf’ +by the special courtesy of the Editor of the <i>Saturday Review</i>.</p> +<p>A few explanatory notes are given at the end of the book.</p> +<p>R. F. MURRAY.</p> +<h2><!-- page 1--><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>THE VOICE THAT SINGS</h2> +<p>The voice that sings across the night<br /> + Of long forgotten days and things,<br /> +Is there an ear to hear aright<br /> + The voice that sings?</p> +<p>It is as when a curfew rings<br /> + Melodious in the dying light,<br /> +A sound that flies on pulsing wings.</p> +<p>And faded eyes that once were bright<br /> + Brim over, as to life it brings<br /> +The echo of a dead delight,<br /> + The voice that sings.</p> +<h2><!-- page 2--><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>THE BEST PIPE</h2> +<p>In vain you fervently extol,<br /> + In vain you puff, your cutty clay.<br /> +A twelvemonth smoked and black as coal,<br /> + ’Tis redolent of rank decay<br /> +And bones of monks long passed away—<br /> + A fragrance I do not admire;<br /> +And so I hold my nose and say,<br /> + Give me a finely seasoned briar.</p> +<p>Macleod, whose judgment on the whole<br /> + Is faultless, has been led astray<br /> +To nurse a high-born meerschaum bowl,<br /> + For which he sweetly had to pay.<br /> +Ah, let him nurse it as he may,<br /> + Before the colour mounts much higher,<br /> +The grate shall be its fate one day.<br /> + Give me a finely seasoned briar.</p> +<p><!-- page 3--><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>The heathen Turk of +Istamboul,<br /> + In oriental turban gay,<br /> +Delights his unbelieving soul<br /> + With hookahs, bubbling in a way<br /> +To fill a Christian with dismay<br /> + And wake the old Crusading fire.<br /> +May no such pipe be mine, I pray;<br /> + Give me a finely seasoned briar.</p> +<p>Clay, meerschaum, hookah, what are they<br /> + That I should view them with desire?<br /> +Both now, and when my hair is grey,<br /> + Give me a finely seasoned briar.</p> +<h2><!-- page 4--><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>HYMN OF HIPPOLYTUS +TO ARTEMIS</h2> +<p>Artemis! thou fairest<br /> +Of the maids that be<br /> +In divine Olympus,<br /> +Hail! Hail to thee!<br /> +To thee I bring this woven weed<br /> +Culled for thee from a virgin mead,<br /> +Where neither shepherd claims his flocks to feed<br /> +Nor ever yet the mower’s scythe hath come.<br /> +There in the Spring the wild bee hath his home,<br /> +Lightly passing to and fro<br /> +Where the virgin flowers grow;<br /> +And there the watchful Purity doth go<br /> +Moistening with dew-drops all the ground below,<br /> +Drawn from a river untaintedly flowing,<br /> +<!-- page 5--><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span> They who have gained +by a kind fate’s bestowing<br /> +Pure hearts, untaught by philosophy’s care,<br /> +May gather the flowers in the mead that are blowing,<br /> +But the tainted in spirit may never be there.</p> +<p>Now, O Divinest, eternally fair,<br /> +Take thou this garland to gather thy hair,<br /> +Brought by a hand that is pure as the air.<br /> +For I alone of all the sons of men<br /> +Hear thy pure accents, answering thee again.<br /> +And may I reach the goal of life as I began the race,<br /> +Blest by the music of thy voice, though darkness ever veil thy face!</p> +<h2><!-- page 6--><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>ON A CRUSHED HAT</h2> +<p>Brown was my friend, and faithful—but so fat!<br /> + He came to see me in the twilight dim;<br /> + I rose politely and invited him<br /> +To take a seat—how heavily he sat!</p> +<p>He sat upon the sofa, where my hat,<br /> + My wanton Zephyr, rested on its rim;<br /> + Its build, unlike my friend’s, was rather slim,<br /> +And when he rose, I saw it, crushed and flat.</p> +<p>O Hat, that wast the apple of my eye,<br /> + Thy brim is bent, six cracks are in thy crown,<br /> + And I shall never wear thee any more;<br /> +Upon a shelf thy loved remains shall lie,<br /> + And with the years the dust will settle down<br /> + On thee, the neatest hat I ever wore!</p> +<h2><!-- page 7--><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>A SWINBURNIAN INTERLUDE</h2> +<p>Short space shall be hereafter<br /> + Ere April brings the hour<br /> +Of weeping and of laughter,<br /> + Of sunshine and of shower,<br /> +Of groaning and of gladness,<br /> +Of singing and of sadness,<br /> +Of melody and madness,<br /> + Of all sweet things and sour.</p> +<p>Sweet to the blithe bucolic<br /> + Who knows nor cribs nor crams,<br /> +Who sees the frisky frolic<br /> + Of lanky little lambs;<br /> +<!-- page 8--><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span> But sour beyond expression<br /> +To one in deep depression<br /> +Who sees the closing session<br /> + And imminent exams.</p> +<p>He cannot hear the singing<br /> + Of birds upon the bents,<br /> +Nor watch the wildflowers springing,<br /> + Nor smell the April scents.<br /> +He gathers grief with grinding,<br /> +Foul food of sorrow finding<br /> +In books of dreary binding<br /> + And drearier contents.</p> +<p>One hope alone sustains him,<br /> + And no more hopes beside,<br /> +One trust alone restrains him<br /> + From shocking suicide;<br /> +<!-- page 9--><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span> He will not play nor +palter<br /> +With hemlock or with halter,<br /> +He will not fear nor falter,<br /> + Whatever chance betide.</p> +<p>He knows examinations<br /> + Like all things else have ends,<br /> +And then come vast vacations<br /> + And visits to his friends,<br /> +And youth with pleasure yoking,<br /> +And joyfulness and joking,<br /> +And smilingness and smoking,<br /> + For grief to make amends.</p> +<h2><!-- page 10--><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>SWEETHEART</h2> +<p>Sweetheart, that thou art fair I know,<br /> + More fair to me<br /> +Than flowers that make the loveliest show<br /> + To tempt the bee.</p> +<p>When other girls, whose faces are,<br /> + Beside thy face,<br /> +As rushlights to the evening star,<br /> + Deny thy grace,</p> +<p>I silent sit and let them speak,<br /> + As men of strength<br /> +Allow the impotent and weak<br /> + To rail at length.</p> +<p><!-- page 11--><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>If they should tell +me Love is blind,<br /> + And so doth miss<br /> +The faults which they are quick to find,<br /> + I’d answer this:</p> +<p>Envy is blind; not Love, whose eyes<br /> + Are purged and clear<br /> +Through gazing on the perfect skies<br /> + Of thine, my dear.</p> +<h2><!-- page 12--><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>MUSIC FOR THE DYING</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">from the french of sully prudhomme</span></p> +<p>Ye who will help me in my dying pain,<br /> + Speak not a word: let all your voices cease.<br /> +Let me but hear some soft harmonious strain,<br /> + And I shall die at peace.</p> +<p>Music entrances, soothes, and grants relief<br /> + From all below by which we are opprest;<br /> +I pray you, speak no word unto my grief,<br /> + But lull it into rest.</p> +<p>Tired am I of all words, and tired of aught<br /> + That may some falsehood from the ear conceal,<br /> +Desiring rather sounds which ask no thought,<br /> + Which I need only feel:</p> +<p><!-- page 13--><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>A melody in whose +delicious streams<br /> + The soul may sink, and pass without a breath<br /> +From fevered fancies into quiet dreams,<br /> + From dreaming into death.</p> +<h2><!-- page 14--><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>FAREWELL TO A SINGER</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">on her marriage</span></p> +<p>As those who hear a sweet bird sing,<br /> + And love each song it sings the best,<br /> +Grieve when they see it taking wing<br /> + And flying to another nest:</p> +<p>We, who have heard your voice so oft,<br /> + And loved it more than we can tell,<br /> +Our hearts grow sad, our voices soft,<br /> + Our eyes grow dim, to say farewell.</p> +<p>It is not kind to leave us thus;<br /> + Yet we forgive you and combine,<br /> +Although you now bring grief to us,<br /> + To wish you joy, for auld lang syne.</p> +<h2><!-- page 15--><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>THE CITY OF GOLF</h2> +<p>Would you like to see a city given over,<br /> + Soul and body, to a tyrannising game?<br /> +If you would, there’s little need to be a rover,<br /> + For St. Andrews is the abject city’s name.</p> +<p>It is surely quite superfluous to mention,<br /> + To a person who has been here half an hour,<br /> +That Golf is what engrosses the attention<br /> + Of the people, with an all-absorbing power.</p> +<p>Rich and poor alike are smitten with the fever;<br /> + Their business and religion is to play;<br /> +And a man is scarcely deemed a true believer,<br /> + Unless he goes at least a round a day.</p> +<p><!-- page 16--><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>The city boasts +an old and learned college,<br /> + Where you’d think the leading industry was Greek;<br /> +Even there the favoured instruments of knowledge<br /> + Are a driver and a putter and a cleek.</p> +<p>All the natives and the residents are patrons<br /> + Of this royal, ancient, irritating sport;<br /> +All the old men, all the young men, maids and matrons—<br /> + The universal populace, in short.</p> +<p>In the morning, when the feeble light grows stronger,<br /> + You may see the players going out in shoals;<br /> +And when night forbids their playing any longer,<br /> + They tell you how they did the different holes</p> +<p>Golf, golf, golf—is all the story!<br /> + In despair my overburdened spirit sinks,<br /> +Till I wish that every golfer was in glory,<br /> + And I pray the sea may overflow the links.</p> +<p><!-- page 17--><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>One slender, struggling +ray of consolation<br /> + Sustains me, very feeble though it be:<br /> +There are two who still escape infatuation,<br /> + My friend M’Foozle’s one, the other’s +me.</p> +<p>As I write the words, M’Foozle enters blushing,<br /> + With a brassy and an iron in his hand . . .<br /> +This blow, so unexpected and so crushing,<br /> + Is more than I am able to withstand.</p> +<p>So now it but remains for me to die, sir.<br /> + Stay! There <i>is</i> another course I may pursue—<br /> +And perhaps upon the whole it would be wiser—<br /> + I will yield to fate and be a golfer too!</p> +<h2><!-- page 18--><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>THE SWALLOWS</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">from jean pierre claris florian</span></p> +<p>I love to see the swallows come<br /> + At my window twittering,<br /> +Bringing from their southern home<br /> + News of the approaching spring.<br /> +‘Last year’s nest,’ they softly say,<br /> + ‘Last year’s love again shall see;<br /> +Only faithful lovers may<br /> + Tell you of the coming glee.’</p> +<p>When the first fell touch of frost<br /> + Strips the wood of faded leaves,<br /> +Calling all their wingèd host,<br /> + The swallows meet above the eaves<br /> +<!-- page 19--><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span> ‘Come away, +away,’ they cry,<br /> + ‘Winter’s snow is hastening;<br /> +True hearts winter comes not nigh,<br /> + They are ever in the spring.’</p> +<p>If by some unhappy fate,<br /> + Victim of a cruel mind,<br /> +One is parted from her mate<br /> + And within a cage confined,<br /> +Swiftly will the swallow die,<br /> + Pining for her lover’s bower,<br /> +And her lover watching nigh<br /> + Dies beside her in an hour.</p> +<h2><!-- page 20--><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>AFTER MANY DAYS</h2> +<p>The mist hangs round the College tower,<br /> + The ghostly street<br /> +Is silent at this midnight hour,<br /> + Save for my feet.</p> +<p>With none to see, with none to hear,<br /> + Downward I go<br /> +To where, beside the rugged pier,<br /> + The sea sings low.</p> +<p>It sings a tune well loved and known<br /> + In days gone by,<br /> +When often here, and not alone,<br /> + I watched the sky.</p> +<p><!-- page 21--><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>That was a barren +time at best,<br /> + Its fruits were few;<br /> +But fruits and flowers had keener zest<br /> + And fresher hue.</p> +<p>Life has not since been wholly vain,<br /> + And now I bear<br /> +Of wisdom plucked from joy and pain<br /> + Some slender share.</p> +<p>But, howsoever rich the store,<br /> + I’d lay it down,<br /> +To feel upon my back once more<br /> + The old red gown.</p> +<h2><!-- page 22--><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>HORACE’S +PHILOSOPHY</h2> +<p>What the end the gods have destined unto thee and unto me,<br /> +Ask not: ’tis forbidden knowledge. Be content, Leuconoe.<br /> +Let alone the fortune-tellers. How much better to endure<br /> +Whatsoever shall betide us—even though we be not sure<br /> +Whether Jove grants other winters, whether this our last shall be<br /> +That upon the rocks opposing dashes now the Tuscan sea.<br /> +Be thou wise, and strain thy wines, and mindful of life’s brevity<br /> +Stint thy hopes. The envious moments, even while we speak, have +flown;<br /> +Trusting nothing to the future, seize the day that is our own.</p> +<h2><!-- page 23--><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>ADVENTURE OF A +POET</h2> +<p>As I was walking down the street<br /> + A week ago,<br /> +Near Henderson’s I chanced to meet<br /> + A man I know.</p> +<p>His name is Alexander Bell,<br /> + His home, Dundee;<br /> +I do not know him quite so well<br /> + As he knows me.</p> +<p>He gave my hand a hearty shake,<br /> + Discussed the weather,<br /> +And then proposed that we should take<br /> + A stroll together.</p> +<p><!-- page 24--><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>Down College Street +we took our way,<br /> + And there we met<br /> +The beautiful Miss Mary Gray,<br /> + That arch coquette,<br /> +Who stole last spring my heart away<br /> + And has it yet.</p> +<p>That smile with which my bow she greets,<br /> + Would it were fonder!<br /> +Or else less fond—since she its sweets<br /> + On all must squander.<br /> +Thus, when I meet her in the streets,<br /> + I sadly ponder,<br /> +And after her, as she retreats,<br /> + My thoughts will wander.</p> +<p>And so I listened with an air<br /> + Of inattention,<br /> +While Bell described a folding-chair<br /> + Of his invention.</p> +<p><!-- page 25--><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>And when we reached +the Swilcan Burn,<br /> + ‘It looks like rain,’<br /> +Said I, ‘and we had better turn.’<br /> + ’Twas all in vain,</p> +<p>For Bell was weather-wise, and knew<br /> + The signs aerial;<br /> +He bade me note the strip of blue<br /> + Above the Imperial,</p> +<p>Also another patch of sky,<br /> + South-west by south,<br /> +Which meant that we might journey dry<br /> + To Eden’s mouth.</p> +<p>He was a man with information<br /> + On many topics:<br /> +He talked about the exploration<br /> + Of Poles and Tropics,</p> +<p><!-- page 26--><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>The scene in Parliament +last night,<br /> + Sir William’s letter;<br /> +‘And do you like the electric light,<br /> + Or gas-lamps better?’</p> +<p>The strike among the dust-heap pickers<br /> + He said was over;<br /> +And had I read about the liquors<br /> + Just seized at Dover?</p> +<p>Or the unhappy printer lad<br /> + At Rothesay drowned?<br /> +Or the Italian ironclad<br /> + That ran aground?</p> +<p>He told me stories (lately come)<br /> + Of good society,<br /> +Some slightly tinged with truth, and some<br /> + With impropriety.</p> +<p><!-- page 27--><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>He spoke of duelling +in France,<br /> + Then lightly glanced at<br /> +Mrs. Mackenzie’s monster dance,<br /> + Which he had danced at.</p> +<p>So he ran on, till by-and-by<br /> + A silence came,<br /> +For which I greatly fear that I<br /> + Was most to blame.</p> +<p>Then neither of us spoke a word<br /> + For quite a minute,<br /> +When presently a thought occurred<br /> + With promise in it.</p> +<p>‘How did you like the Shakespeare play<br /> + The students read?’<br /> +By this, the Eden like a bay<br /> + Before us spread.</p> +<p><!-- page 28--><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>Near Eden many softer +plots<br /> + Of sand there be;<br /> +Our feet, like Pharaoh’s chariots,<br /> + Drave heavily.</p> +<p>And ere an answer I could frame,<br /> + He said that Irving<br /> +Of his extraordinary fame<br /> + Was undeserving,</p> +<p>And for his part he thought more highly<br /> + Of Ellen Terry;<br /> +Although he knew a girl named Riley<br /> + At Broughty Ferry,</p> +<p>Who might be, if she only chose,<br /> + As great a star.<br /> +She had a part in the tableaux<br /> + At the bazaar.</p> +<p><!-- page 29--><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>If I had said but +little yet,<br /> + I now said less,<br /> +And smoked a home-made cigarette<br /> + In mute distress.</p> +<p>The smoke into his face was blown<br /> + By the wind’s action,<br /> +And this afforded me, I own,<br /> + Some satisfaction;</p> +<p>But still his tongue received no check<br /> + Till, coming home,<br /> +We stood beside the ancient wreck<br /> + And watched the foam</p> +<p>Wash in among the timbers, now<br /> + Sunk deep in sand,<br /> +Though I can well remember how<br /> + I used to stand</p> +<p><!-- page 30--><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>On windy days and +hold my hat,<br /> + And idly turn<br /> +To read ‘Lovise, Frederikstad’<br /> + Upon her stern.</p> +<p>Her stern long since was buried quite,<br /> + And soon no trace<br /> +The absorbing sand will leave in sight<br /> + To mark her place.</p> +<p>This reverie was not permitted<br /> + To last too long.<br /> +Bell’s mind had left the stage, and flitted<br /> + To fields of song.</p> +<p>And now he spoke of <i>Marmion</i><br /> + And Lewis Morris;<br /> +The former he at school had done,<br /> + Along with Horace.</p> +<p><!-- page 31--><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>His maiden aunts, +no longer young,<br /> + But learned ladies,<br /> +Had lately sent him <i>Songs Unsung</i>,<br /> + <i>Epic of Hades</i>,</p> +<p><i>Gycia</i>, and <i>Gwen</i>. He thought them fine;<br /> + Not like that Browning,<br /> +Of whom he would not read a line,<br /> + He told me, frowning.</p> +<p>Talking of Horace—very clever,<br /> + Beyond a doubt,<br /> +But what the Satires meant, he never<br /> + Yet could make out.</p> +<p>I said I relished Satire Nine<br /> + Of the First Book;<br /> +But he had skipped to the divine<br /> + Eliza Cook.</p> +<p><!-- page 32--><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>He took occasion +to declare,<br /> + In tones devoted,<br /> +How much he loved her old Arm-chair,<br /> + Which now he quoted.</p> +<p>And other poets he reviewed,<br /> + Some two or three,<br /> +Till, having touched on Thomas Hood,<br /> + He turned to me.</p> +<p>‘Have <i>you</i> been stringing any rhymes<br /> + Of late?’ he said.<br /> +I could not lie, but several times<br /> + I shook my head.</p> +<p>The last straw to the earth will bow<br /> + The o’erloaded camel,<br /> +And surely I resembled now<br /> + That ill-used mammal.</p> +<p><!-- page 33--><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>See how a thankless +world regards<br /> + The gifted choir<br /> +Of minstrels, singers, poets, bards,<br /> + Who sweep the lyre.</p> +<p>This is the recompense we meet<br /> + In our vocation.<br /> +We bear the burden and the heat<br /> + Of inspiration;</p> +<p>The beauties of the earth we sing<br /> + In glowing numbers,<br /> +And to the ‘reading public’ bring<br /> + Post-prandial slumbers;</p> +<p>We save from Mammon’s gross dominion<br /> + These sordid times . . .<br /> +And all this, in the world’s opinion,<br /> + Is ‘stringing rhymes.’</p> +<p><!-- page 34--><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>It is as if a man +should say,<br /> + In accents mild,<br /> +‘Have you been stringing beads to-day,<br /> + My gentle child?’</p> +<p>(Yet even children fond of singing<br /> + Will pay off scores,<br /> +And I to-day at least am stringing<br /> + Not beads but bores.)</p> +<p>And now the sands were left behind,<br /> + The Club-house past.<br /> +I wondered, Can I hope to find<br /> + Escape at last,</p> +<p>Or must I take him home to tea,<br /> + And bear his chatter<br /> +Until the last train to Dundee<br /> + Shall solve the matter?</p> +<p><!-- page 35--><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>But while I shuddered +at the thought<br /> + And planned resistance,<br /> +My conquering Alexander caught<br /> + Sight in the distance</p> +<p>Of two young ladies, one of whom<br /> + Is his ambition;<br /> +And so, with somewhat heightened bloom,<br /> + He asked permission</p> +<p>To say good-bye to me and follow.<br /> + I freely gave it,<br /> +And wished him all success. <i>Apollo</i><br /> + <i>Sic me servavit</i>.</p> +<h2><!-- page 36--><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>A BUNCH OF TRIOLETS</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">to ---</span></p> +<p>You like the trifling triolet:<br /> + Well, here are three or four.<br /> +Unless your likings I forget,<br /> +You like the trifling triolet.<br /> +Against my conscience I abet<br /> + A taste which I deplore;<br /> +You like the trifling triolet:<br /> + Well, here are three or four.</p> +<p><!-- page 37--><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>Have you ever met +with a pretty girl<br /> + Walking along the street,<br /> +With a nice new dress and her hair in curl?<br /> +Have you ever met with a pretty girl,<br /> +When her hat blew off and the wind with a whirl<br /> + Wafted it right to your feet?<br /> +Have you ever met with a pretty girl<br /> + Walking along the street?</p> +<p>I ran into a lady’s arms,<br /> + Turning a corner yesterday.<br /> +To my confusion, her alarms,<br /> +I ran into a lady’s arms.<br /> +So close a vision of her charms<br /> + Left me without a word to say.<br /> +I ran into a lady’s arms,<br /> + Turning a corner yesterday.</p> +<p><!-- page 38--><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>How many maids you +love,<br /> + How many maids love you!<br /> +Your conscious blushes prove<br /> +How many maids you love.<br /> +Each trusts you like a dove,<br /> + But would she, if she knew<br /> +How many maids you love,<br /> + How many maids love you?</p> +<h2><!-- page 39--><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>A BALLAD OF REFRESHMENT</h2> +<p>The lady stood at the station bar,<br /> + (Three currants in a bun)<br /> +And oh she was proud, as ladies are.<br /> + (And the bun was baked a week ago.)</p> +<p>For a weekly wage she was standing there,<br /> + (Three currants in a bun)<br /> +With a prominent bust and light gold hair.<br /> + (And the bun was baked a week ago.)</p> +<p>The express came in at half-past two,<br /> + (Three currants in a bun)<br /> +And there lighted a man in the navy blue.<br /> + (And the bun was baked a week ago.)</p> +<p><!-- page 40--><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>A stout sea-captain +he was, I ween.<br /> + (Three currants in a bun)<br /> +Much travel had made him very keen.<br /> + (And the bun was baked a week ago.)</p> +<p>A sober man and steady was he.<br /> + (Three currants in a bun)<br /> +He called not for brandy, but called for tea.<br /> + (And the bun was baked a week ago.)</p> +<p>‘Now something to eat, for the train is late.’<br /> + (Three currants in a bun)<br /> +She brought him a bun on a greasy plate.<br /> + (And the bun was baked a week ago.)</p> +<p>He left the bun, and he left the tea,<br /> + (Three currants in a bun)<br /> +She charged him a shilling and let him be,<br /> +And the train went on at a quarter to three.<br /> + (And the bun is old and weary.)</p> +<h2><!-- page 41--><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>A DECEMBER DAY</h2> +<p>Blue, blue is the sea to-day,<br /> + Warmly the light<br /> +Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay—<br /> + Blue, fringed with white.</p> +<p>That’s no December sky!<br /> + Surely ’tis June<br /> +Holds now her state on high,<br /> + Queen of the noon.</p> +<p>Only the tree-tops bare<br /> + Crowning the hill,<br /> +Clear-cut in perfect air,<br /> + Warn us that still</p> +<p><!-- page 42--><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>Winter, the aged +chief,<br /> + Mighty in power,<br /> +Exiles the tender leaf,<br /> + Exiles the flower.</p> +<p>Is there a heart to-day,<br /> + A heart that grieves<br /> +For flowers that fade away,<br /> + For fallen leaves?</p> +<p>Oh, not in leaves or flowers<br /> + Endures the charm<br /> +That clothes those naked towers<br /> + With love-light warm.</p> +<p>O dear St. Andrews Bay,<br /> + Winter or Spring<br /> +Gives not nor takes away<br /> + Memories that cling</p> +<p><!-- page 43--><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>All round thy girdling +reefs,<br /> + That walk thy shore,<br /> +Memories of joys and griefs<br /> + Ours evermore.</p> +<h2><!-- page 44--><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>A COLLEGE CAREER</h2> +<p>I</p> +<p>When one is young and eager,<br /> + A bejant and a boy,<br /> +Though his moustache be meagre,<br /> + That cannot mar his joy<br /> +When at the Competition<br /> +He takes a fair position,<br /> +And feels he has a mission,<br /> + A talent to employ.</p> +<p>With pride he goes each morning<br /> + Clad in a scarlet gown,<br /> +A cap his head adorning<br /> + (Both bought of Mr. Brown);<br /> +<!-- page 45--><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span> He hears the harsh +bell jangle,<br /> +And enters the quadrangle,<br /> +The classic tongues to mangle<br /> + And make the ancients frown.</p> +<p>He goes not forth at even,<br /> + He burns the midnight oil,<br /> +He feels that all his heaven<br /> + Depends on ceaseless toil;<br /> +Across his exercises<br /> +A dream of many prizes<br /> +Before his spirit rises,<br /> + And makes his raw blood boil.</p> +<p>II</p> +<p>Though he be green as grass is,<br /> + And fresh as new-mown hay<br /> +Before the first year passes<br /> + His verdure fades away.<br /> +<!-- page 46--><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span> His hopes now faintly +glimmer,<br /> +Grow dim and ever dimmer,<br /> +And with a parting shimmer<br /> + Melt into ‘common day.’</p> +<p>He cares no more for Liddell<br /> + Or Scott; and Smith, and White,<br /> +And Lewis, Short, and Riddle<br /> + Are ‘emptied of delight.’<br /> +Todhunter and Colenso<br /> +(Alas, that friendships end so!)<br /> +He curses <i>in extenso</i><br /> + Through morning, noon, and night.</p> +<p>No more with patient labour<br /> + The midnight oil he burns,<br /> +But unto some near neighbour<br /> + His fair young face he turns,<br /> +<!-- page 47--><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span> To share the harmless +tattle<br /> +Which bejants love to prattle,<br /> +As wise as infant’s rattle<br /> + Or talk of coots and herns.</p> +<p>At midnight round the city<br /> + He carols wild and free<br /> +Some sweet unmeaning ditty<br /> + In many a changing key;<br /> +And each succeeding verse is<br /> +Commingled with the curses<br /> +Of those whose sleep disperses<br /> + Like sal volatile.</p> +<p>He shaves and takes his toddy<br /> + Like any fourth year man,<br /> +And clothes his growing body<br /> + After another plan<br /> +<!-- page 48--><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span> Than that which once +delighted<br /> +When, in the days benighted,<br /> +Like some wild thing excited<br /> + About the fields he ran.</p> +<p>III</p> +<p>A sweet life and an idle<br /> + He lives from year to year,<br /> +Unknowing bit or bridle<br /> + (There are no proctors here),<br /> +Free as the flying swallow<br /> +Which Ida’s Prince would follow<br /> +If but his bones were hollow,<br /> + Until the end draws near.</p> +<p>Then comes a Dies Irae,<br /> + When full of misery<br /> +And torments worse than fiery<br /> + He crams for his degree;<br /> +<!-- page 49--><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span> And hitherto unvexed +books,<br /> +Dry lectures, abstracts, text-books,<br /> +Perplexing and perplexed books,<br /> + Make life seem vanity.</p> +<p>IV</p> +<p>Before admiring sister<br /> + And mother, see, he stands,<br /> +Made Artium Magister<br /> + With laying on of hands.<br /> +He gives his books to others<br /> +(Perchance his younger brothers),<br /> +And free from all such bothers<br /> + Goes out into all lands.</p> +<h2><!-- page 50--><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>THE WASTER’S +PRESENTIMENT</h2> +<p>I shall be spun. There is a voice within<br /> + Which tells me plainly I am all undone;<br /> +For though I toil not, neither do I spin,<br /> + I shall be spun.</p> +<p>April approaches. I have not begun<br /> + Schwegler or Mackintosh, nor will begin<br /> +Those lucid works till April 21.</p> +<p>So my degree I do not hope to win,<br /> + For not by ways like mine degrees are won;<br /> +And though, to please my uncle, I go in,<br /> + I shall be spun.</p> +<h2><!-- page 51--><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>THE CLOSE OF THE +SESSION</h2> +<p>The Session’s over. We must say farewell<br /> + To these east winds and to this eastern sea,<br /> + For summer comes, with swallow and with bee,<br /> +With many a flower and many a golfing swell.</p> +<p>No more the horribly discordant bell<br /> + Shall startle slumber; and all men agree<br /> + That whatsoever other things may be<br /> +A cause of sorrow, this at least is well.</p> +<p>The class-room shall not open wide its doors,<br /> + Or if it does, such opening will be vain;<br /> + The gown shall hang unused upon a nail;<br /> +South Street shall know us not; we’ll wipe the Scores<br /> + From our remembrance; as for Mutto’s Lane,<br /> + Yea, even the memory of this shall fail.</p> +<h2><!-- page 52--><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>A BALLAD OF THE +TOWN WATER</h2> +<p>It is the Police Commissioners,<br /> + All on a winter’s day;<br /> +And they to prove the town water<br /> + Have set themselves away.</p> +<p>They went to the north, they went to the south,<br /> + And into the west went they,<br /> +Till they found a civil, civil engineer,<br /> + And unto him did say:</p> +<p>‘Now tell to us, thou civil engineer,<br /> + If this be fit to drink.’<br /> +And they showed him a cup of the town water,<br /> + Which was as black as ink.</p> +<p><!-- page 53--><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>He took three sips +of the town water,<br /> + And black in the face was he;<br /> +And they turned them back and fled away,<br /> + Amazed that this should be.</p> +<p>And he has written a broad letter<br /> + And sealed it with a ring,<br /> +And the letter saith that the town water<br /> + Is not a goodly thing.</p> +<p>And they have met, and the Bailies all,<br /> + And eke the Councillors,<br /> +And they have ta’en the broad letter<br /> + And read it within the doors.</p> +<p>And there has fallen a great quarrel,<br /> + And a striving within the doors,<br /> +And quarrelsome words have the Bailies said,<br /> + And eke the Councillors.</p> +<p><!-- page 54--><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>And one saith, ‘We +will have other water,’<br /> + And another saith, ‘But nay;’<br /> +And none may tell what the end shall be,<br /> + Alack and well-a-day!</p> +<h2><!-- page 55--><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>ΒΡΕΚΕΚΕΚΕΞ +ΚΟΑΞ ΚΟΑΞ</h2> +<p>I love the inoffensive frog,<br /> + ‘A little child, a limber elf,’<br /> +With health and spirits all agog,<br /> +He does the long jump in a bog<br /> +Or teaches men to swim and dive.<br /> +If he should be cut up alive,<br /> + Should I not be cut up myself?</p> +<p>So I intend to be straightway<br /> + An Anti-Vivisectionist;<br /> +I’ll read Miss Cobbe five hours a day<br /> +And watch the little frogs at play,<br /> +With no desire to see their hearts<br /> +At work, or other inward parts,<br /> + If other inward parts exist.</p> +<h2><!-- page 56--><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>TO NUMBER 27X.</h2> +<p>Beloved Peeler! friend and guide<br /> + And guard of many a midnight reeler,<br /> +None worthier, though the world is wide,<br /> + Beloved Peeler.</p> +<p>Thou from before the swift four-wheeler<br /> + Didst pluck me, and didst thrust aside<br /> +A strongly built provision-dealer</p> +<p>Who menaced me with blows, and cried<br /> + ‘Come on! Come on!’ O Paian, Healer,<br /> +Then but for thee I must have died,<br /> + Beloved Peeler!</p> +<h2><!-- page 57--><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>A STREET CORNER</h2> +<p>Here, where the thoroughfares meet at an angle<br /> + Of ninety degrees (this angle is right),<br /> +You may hear the loafers that jest and wrangle<br /> + Through the sun-lit day and the lamp-lit night;<br /> +Though day be dreary and night be wet,<br /> +You will find a ceaseless concourse met;<br /> +Their laughter resounds and their Fife tongues jangle,<br /> + And now and again their Fife fists fight.</p> +<p>Often here the voice of the crier<br /> + Heralds a sale in the City Hall,<br /> +And slowly but surely drawing nigher<br /> + Is heard the baker’s bugle call.<br /> +The baker halts where the two ways meet,<br /> +And the blast, though loud, is far from sweet<br /> +That with breath of bellows and heart of fire<br /> + He blows, till the echoes leap from the wall.</p> +<p><!-- page 58--><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>And on Saturday +night just after eleven,<br /> + When the taverns have closed a moment ago,<br /> +The vocal efforts of six or seven<br /> + Make the corner a place of woe.<br /> +For the time is fitful, the notes are queer,<br /> +And it sounds to him who dwelleth near<br /> +Like the wailing for cats in a feline heaven<br /> + By orphan cats who are left below.</p> +<p>Wherefore, O Bejant, Son of the Morning,<br /> + Fresh as a daisy dipt in the dew,<br /> +Hearken to me and receive my warning:<br /> + Though rents be heavy, and bunks be few<br /> +And most of them troubled with rat or mouse,<br /> +Never take rooms in a corner house;<br /> +Or sackcloth and ashes and sad self-scorning<br /> + Shall be for a portion unto you.</p> +<h2><!-- page 59--><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>THE POET’S +HAT</h2> +<p>The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,<br /> + He passed through the doorway into the street,<br /> +A strong wind lifted his hat from his head,<br /> + And he uttered some words that were far from sweet.<br /> +And then he started to follow the chase,<br /> + And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet,<br /> +It made the people pause in a crowd,<br /> + And lay odds as to which would beat.</p> +<p>The street cad scoffed as he hunted the hat,<br /> + The errand-boy shouted hooray!<br /> +The scavenger stood with his broom in his hand,<br /> + And smiled in a very rude way;<br /> +And the clergyman thought, ‘I have heard many words,<br /> + But never, until to-day,<br /> +Did I hear any words that were quite so bad<br /> + As I heard that young man say.’</p> +<h2><!-- page 60--><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>A SONG OF GREEK +PROSE</h2> +<p> Thrice happy are those<br /> + Who ne’er heard of Greek Prose—<br /> +Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes;<br /> + For Liddell and Scott<br /> + Shall cumber them not,<br /> +Nor Sargent nor Sidgwick shall break their repose.</p> +<p> But I, late at night,<br /> + By the very bad light<br /> +Of very bad gas, must painfully write<br /> + Some stuff that a Greek<br /> + With his delicate cheek<br /> +Would smile at as ‘barbarous’—faith, he well might.</p> +<p> <!-- page 61--><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>For +when it <i>is</i> done,<br /> + I doubt if, for one,<br /> +I myself could explain how the meaning might run;<br /> + And as for the style—<br /> + Well, it’s hardly worth while<br /> +To talk about style, where style there is none.</p> +<p> It was all very fine<br /> + For a poet divine<br /> +Like Byron, to rave of Greek women and wine;<br /> + But the Prose that I sing<br /> + Is a different thing,<br /> +And I frankly acknowledge it’s not in my line.</p> +<p> So away with Greek Prose,<br /> + The source of my woes!<br /> +(This metre’s too tough, I must draw to a close.)<br /> + May Sargent be drowned<br /> + In the ocean profound,<br /> +And Sidgwick be food for the carrion crows!</p> +<h2><!-- page 62--><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>AN ORATOR’S +COMPLAINT</h2> +<p>How many the troubles that wait<br /> + On mortals!—especially those<br /> + Who endeavour in eloquent prose<br /> +To expound their views, and orate.</p> +<p>Did you ever attempt to speak<br /> + When you hadn’t a word to say?<br /> + Did you find that it wouldn’t pay,<br /> +And subside, feeling dreadfully weak?</p> +<p>Did you ever, when going ahead<br /> + In a fervid defence of the Stage,<br /> + Get checked in your noble rage<br /> +By somehow losing your thread?</p> +<p><!-- page 63--><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>Did you ever rise +to reply<br /> + To a toast (say ‘The Volunteers’),<br /> + And evoke loud laughter and cheers,<br /> +When you didn’t exactly know why?</p> +<p>Did you ever wax witty, and when<br /> + You had smashed an opponent quite small,<br /> + Did he seem not to mind it at all,<br /> +But get up and smash you again?</p> +<p>If any or all of these things<br /> + Have happened to you (as to me),<br /> + I think you’ll be found to agree<br /> +With yours truly, when sadly he sings:</p> +<p>‘How many the troubles that wait<br /> + On mortals!—especially those<br /> + Who endeavour in eloquent prose<br /> +To expound their views, and orate.’</p> +<h2><!-- page 64--><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>MILTON</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">with apologies to lord tennyson</span></p> +<p>O swallow-tailed purveyor of college sprees,<br /> +O skilled to please the student fraternity,<br /> + Most honoured publican of Scotland,<br /> + Milton, a name to adorn the Cross Keys;<br /> +Whose chosen waiters, Samuel, Archibald,<br /> +Helped by the boots and marker at billiards,<br /> + Wait, as the smoke-filled, crowded chamber<br /> + Rings to the roar of a Gaelic chorus—<br /> +Me rather all those temperance hostelries,<br /> +The soda siphon fizzily murmuring,<br /> + And lime fruit juice and seltzer water<br /> + Charm, as a wanderer out in South Street,<br /> +Where some recruiting, eager Blue-Ribbonites<br /> +Spied me afar and caught by the Post Office,<br /> + And crimson-nosed the latest convert<br /> + Fastened the odious badge upon me.</p> +<h2><!-- page 65--><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>MAGNI NOMINIS UMBRA</h2> +<p>St. Andrews! not for ever thine shall be<br /> + Merely the shadow of a mighty name,<br /> + The remnant only of an ancient fame<br /> +Which time has crumbled, as thy rocks the sea.</p> +<p>For thou, to whom was given the earliest key<br /> + Of knowledge in this land (and all men came<br /> + To learn of thee), shalt once more rise and claim<br /> +The glory that of right belongs to thee.</p> +<p>Grey in thine age, there yet in thee abides<br /> + The force of youth, to make thyself anew<br /> + A name of honour and a place of power.<br /> +Arise, then! shake the dust from off thy sides;<br /> + Thou shalt have many where thou now hast few;<br /> + Again thou shalt be great. Quick +come the hour!</p> +<h2><!-- page 66--><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>SONG FROM ‘THE +PRINCESS’</h2> +<p>As through the street at eve we went<br /> + (It might be half-past ten),<br /> +We fell out, my friend and I,<br /> +About the cube of <i>x+y</i>,<br /> + And made it up again.<br /> +And blessings on the falling out<br /> + Between two learned men,<br /> +Who fight on points which neither knows,<br /> + And make it up again!<br /> +For when we came where stands an inn<br /> + We visit now and then,<br /> +There above a pint of beer,<br /> +Oh there above a pint of beer,<br /> + We made it up again.</p> +<h2><!-- page 67--><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>ANDREW M’CRIE</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">from the unpublished remains of edgar allan poe</span></p> +<p>It was many and many a year ago,<br /> + In a city by the sea,<br /> +That a man there lived whom I happened to know<br /> + By the name of Andrew M’Crie;<br /> +And this man he slept in another room,<br /> + But ground and had meals with me.</p> +<p>I was an ass and he was an ass,<br /> + In this city by the sea;<br /> +But we ground in a way which was more than a grind,<br /> + I and Andrew M’Crie;<br /> +In a way that the idle semis next door<br /> + Declared was shameful to see.</p> +<p><!-- page 68--><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>And this was the +reason that, one dark night,<br /> + In this city by the sea,<br /> +A stone flew in at the window, hitting<br /> + The milk-jug and Andrew M’Crie.<br /> +And once some low-bred tertians came,<br /> + And bore him away from me,<br /> +And shoved him into a private house<br /> + Where the people were having tea.</p> +<p>Professors, not half so well up in their work,<br /> + Went envying him and me—<br /> +Yes!—that was the reason, I always thought<br /> + (And Andrew agreed with me),<br /> +Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year,<br /> + Chilling and killing poor Andrew M’Crie.</p> +<p>But his ghost is more terrible far than the ghosts<br /> + Of many more famous than he—<br /> + Of many more gory than he—<br /> +And neither visits to foreign coasts,<br /> + <!-- page 69--><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>Nor tonics, +can ever set free<br /> +Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith<br /> + Of the injured Andrew M’Crie.</p> +<p>For at night, as they dream, they frequently scream,<br /> + ‘Have mercy, Mr. M’Crie!’<br /> +And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes,<br /> + And the very first thing they will see,<br /> +When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls,<br /> +Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals,<br /> + With a volume of notes on its knee,<br /> + Is the spectre of Andrew M’Crie.</p> +<h2><!-- page 70--><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>AN INTERVIEW</h2> +<p>I met him down upon the pier;<br /> + His eyes were wild and sad,<br /> +And something in them made me fear<br /> + That he was going mad.</p> +<p>So, being of a prudent sort,<br /> + I stood some distance off,<br /> +And before speaking gave a short<br /> + Conciliatory cough.</p> +<p>I then observed, ‘What makes you look<br /> + So singularly glum?’<br /> +No notice of my words he took.<br /> + I said, ‘Pray, are you dumb?’</p> +<p><!-- page 71--><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>‘Oh no!’ +he said, ‘I do not think<br /> + My power of speech is lost,<br /> +But when one’s hopes are black as ink,<br /> + Why, talking is a frost.</p> +<p>‘You see, I’m in for Math. again,<br /> + And certain to be ploughed.<br /> +Please tell me where I could obtain<br /> + An inexpensive shroud.’</p> +<p>I told him where such things are had,<br /> + Well made, and not too dear;<br /> +And, feeling really very sad,<br /> + I left him on the pier.</p> +<h2><!-- page 72--><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>THE M.A. DEGREE</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">after wordsworth</span></p> +<p>It was a phantom of delight<br /> +When first it gleamed upon my sight,<br /> +A scholarly distinction, sent<br /> +To be a student’s ornament.<br /> +The hood was rich beyond compare,<br /> +The gown was a unique affair.<br /> +By this, by that my mind was drawn<br /> +Then, in my academic dawn;<br /> +A dancing shape, an image gay<br /> +Before me then was my M.A.</p> +<p>I saw it upon nearer view,<br /> +A glory, yet a bother too!<br /> +<!-- page 73--><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span> For I perceived that +I should be<br /> +Involved in much Philosophy<br /> +(A branch in which I could but meet<br /> +Works that were neither light nor sweet);<br /> +In Mathematics, not too good<br /> +For human nature’s daily food;<br /> +And Classics, rendered in the styles<br /> +Of Kelly, Bohn, and Dr. Giles.</p> +<p>And now I own, with some small spleen,<br /> +A most confounded ass I’ve been;<br /> +The glory seems an empty breath,<br /> +And I am nearly bored to death<br /> +With Reason, Consciousness, and Will,<br /> +And other things beyond my skill,<br /> +Discussed in books all darkly planned<br /> +And more in number than the sand.<br /> +Yet that M.A. still haunts my sight,<br /> +With something of its former light.</p> +<h2><!-- page 74--><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>TRIOLET</h2> +<p>After the melting of the snow<br /> + Divines depart and April comes;<br /> +Examinations nearer grow<br /> +After the melting of the snow;<br /> +The grinder wears a face of woe,<br /> + The waster smokes and twirls his thumbs;<br /> +After the melting of the snow<br /> + Divines depart and April comes.</p> +<h2><!-- page 75--><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>VIVIEN’S +SONG</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">at the l.l.a. examination</span></p> +<p>In Algebra, if Algebra be ours,<br /> +<i>x</i> and <i>x<sup>2</sup></i> can ne’er be equal powers,<br /> +Unless <i>x</i>=1, or none at all.</p> +<p>It is the little error in the sum,<br /> +That by and by will make the answer come<br /> +To something queer, or else not come at all.</p> +<p>The little error in the easy sum,<br /> +The little slit across the kettle-drum,<br /> +That makes the instrument not play at all.</p> +<p>It is not worth correcting: let it go:<br /> +But shall I? Answer, Prudence, answer, no.<br /> +And bid me do it right or not at all.</p> +<h2><!-- page 76--><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>THE WASTER SINGING +AT MIDNIGHT</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">AFTER LONGFELLOW</span></p> +<p>Loud he sang the song Ta Phershon<br /> +For his personal diversion,<br /> +Sang the chorus U-pi-dee,<br /> +Sang about the Barley Bree.</p> +<p>In that hour when all is quiet<br /> +Sang he songs of noise and riot,<br /> +In a voice so loud and queer<br /> +That I wakened up to hear.</p> +<p>Songs that distantly resembled<br /> +Those one hears from men assembled<br /> +In the old Cross Keys Hotel,<br /> +Only sung not half so well.</p> +<p><!-- page 77--><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>For the time of +this ecstatic<br /> +Amateur was most erratic,<br /> +And he only hit the key<br /> +Once in every melody.</p> +<p>If ‘he wot prigs wot isn’t his’n<br /> +Ven he’s cotched is sent to prison,’<br /> +He who murders sleep might well<br /> +Adorn a solitary cell.</p> +<p>But, if no obliging peeler<br /> +Will arrest this midnight squealer,<br /> +My own peculiar arm of might<br /> +Must undertake the job to-night.</p> +<h2><!-- page 78--><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>THIRTY YEARS AFTER</h2> +<p>Two old St. Andrews men, after a separation of nearly thirty years, +meet by chance at a wayside inn. They interchange experiences; +and at length one of them, who is an admirer of Mr. Swinburne’s +<i>Poems and Ballads</i>, speaks as follows:</p> +<p>If you were now a bejant,<br /> + And I a first year man,<br /> +We’d grind and grub together<br /> +In every kind of weather,<br /> +When Winter’s snows were regent,<br /> + Or when the Spring began;<br /> +If you were now a bejant,<br /> + And I a first year man.</p> +<p>If you were what you once were,<br /> + And I the same man still,<br /> +You’d be the gainer by it,<br /> +For you—you can’t deny it—<br /> +<!-- page 79--><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span> A most uncommon dunce +were;<br /> + My profit would be nil,<br /> +If you were what you once were,<br /> + And I the same man still.</p> +<p>If you were last in Latin,<br /> + And I were first in Greek,<br /> +I’d write your Latin proses,<br /> +While you indulged in dozes,<br /> +Or carved the bench you sat in,<br /> + So innocent and meek;<br /> +If you were last in Latin,<br /> + And I were first in Greek.</p> +<p>If I had got a prize, Jim,<br /> + And your certif. was bad,<br /> +And you were filled with sorrow<br /> +And brooding on the morrow,<br /> +<!-- page 80--><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span> I’d gently sympathise, +Jim,<br /> + And bid you not be sad,<br /> +If I had got a prize, Jim,<br /> + And your certif. was bad.</p> +<p>If I were through in Moral,<br /> + And you were spun in Math.,<br /> +I’d break it to your parent,<br /> +When you confessed you daren’t,<br /> +And so avert a quarrel<br /> + And smooth away his wrath;<br /> +If I were through in Moral,<br /> + And you were spun in Math.</p> +<p>My prospects rather shone, Jim,<br /> + And yours were rather dark,<br /> +And those who knew us both then<br /> +Would often take their oath then,<br /> +<!-- page 81--><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span> That you would not +get on, Jim,<br /> + While I should make my mark;<br /> +My prospects rather shone, Jim,<br /> + And yours were rather dark.</p> +<p>Yet somehow you’ve made money,<br /> + And I am still obscure;<br /> +Your face is round and red, Jim,<br /> +While I look underfed, Jim;<br /> +The thing’s extremely funny,<br /> + And beats me, I am sure,<br /> +Yet somehow you’ve made money,<br /> + And I am still obscure.</p> +<h2><!-- page 82--><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>THE GOLF-BALL AND +THE LOAN</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">after longfellow</span></p> +<p>I drove a golf-ball into the air,<br /> +It fell to earth, I knew not where;<br /> +For, so swiftly it flew, the sight<br /> +Could not follow it in its flight.</p> +<p>I lent five shillings to some men,<br /> +They spent it all, I know not when,<br /> +For who is quick enough to know<br /> +The time in which a crown may go?</p> +<p>Long, long afterward, in a whin<br /> +I found the golf-ball, black as sin;<br /> +But the five shillings are missing still!<br /> +They haven’t turned up, and I doubt if they will.</p> +<h2><!-- page 83--><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>TO THE READER OF +‘UNIVERSITY NOTES’</h2> +<p>Ah yes, we know what you’re saying,<br /> + As your eye glances over these Notes:<br /> +‘What asses are these that are braying<br /> + With flat and unmusical throats?<br /> +Who writes such unspeakable patter?<br /> + Is it lunatics, idiots—or who?’<br /> +And you think there is ‘something the matter.’<br /> + Well, we think so too.</p> +<p>We have sat, full of sickness and sorrow,<br /> + As the hours dragged heavily on,<br /> +Till the midnight has merged into morrow,<br /> + And the darkness is going or gone.<br /> +We are Editors. Give us the credit<br /> + Of meaning to do what we could;<br /> +<!-- page 84--><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span> But, since there is +nothing to edit,<br /> + It isn’t much good.</p> +<p>Once we shared the delightful delusion<br /> + That to edit was racy and rare,<br /> +But we suffered a sad disillusion,<br /> + And we found that our castles were air;<br /> +We had decked them with carvings and gildings,<br /> + We had filled them with laughter and fun,<br /> +But all of a sudden the buildings<br /> + Came down with a run.</p> +<p>Not a trace was there left of the carving,<br /> + And the gilding had vanished from sight;<br /> +But the ‘column’ for matter was starving,<br /> + And we had not to edit—but write.<br /> +So we set to and wrote. Can you wonder,<br /> + If the writing was feeble or dead?<br /> +We had started as editors—Thunder!<br /> + We were authors instead.</p> +<p><!-- page 85--><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>We’d mistaken +our calling, election,<br /> + Vocation, department, and use;<br /> +We had thought that our task was selection,<br /> + And we found that we had to produce.<br /> +So we sigh for release from our labours,<br /> + We pray for a happy despatch,<br /> +We will take our last leave of our neighbours,<br /> + And then—Colney Hatch.</p> +<p>We are singing this dolorous ditty<br /> + As we part at the foot of the stairs;<br /> +We cannot but think it’s a pity,<br /> + But what matter? there’s nobody cares.<br /> +Our candle burns low in its socket,<br /> + There is nothing left but the wick;<br /> +And these Notes, that went up like a rocket,<br /> + Come down like the stick.</p> +<h2><!-- page 86--><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>ΑΙΕΝ +ΑΡΙΣΤΕΥΕΙΝ</h2> +<p>Ever to be the best. To lead<br /> + In whatsoever things are true;<br /> + Not stand among the halting crew,<br /> +The faint of heart, the feeble-kneed,<br /> +Who tarry for a certain sign<br /> + To make them follow with the rest—<br /> +Oh, let not their reproach be thine!<br /> + But ever be the best.</p> +<p>For want of this aspiring soul,<br /> + Great deeds on earth remain undone,<br /> + But, sharpened by the sight of one,<br /> +Many shall press toward the goal.<br /> +<!-- page 87--><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span> Thou running foremost +of the throng,<br /> + The fire of striving in thy breast,<br /> +Shalt win, although the race be long,<br /> + And ever be the best.</p> +<p>And wilt thou question of the prize?<br /> + ’Tis not of silver or of gold,<br /> + Nor in applauses manifold,<br /> +But hidden in the heart it lies:<br /> +To know that but for thee not one<br /> + Had run the race or sought the quest,<br /> +To know that thou hast ever done<br /> + And ever been the best.</p> +<h2><!-- page 88--><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>CATULLUS AT HIS +BROTHER’S GRAVE</h2> +<p>Through many lands and over many seas<br /> +I come, my Brother, to thine obsequies,<br /> +To pay thee the last honours that remain,<br /> +And call upon thy voiceless dust, in vain.<br /> +Since cruel fate has robbed me even of thee,<br /> +Unhappy Brother, snatched away from me,<br /> +Now none the less the gifts our fathers gave,<br /> +The melancholy honours of the grave,<br /> +Wet with my tears I bring to thee, and say<br /> +Farewell! farewell! for ever and a day.</p> +<h2><!-- page 89--><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>LOST AT SEA</h2> +<p>Lost at sea, with all on board!<br /> +No one saw their sinking sail,<br /> +No one heard their dying wail,<br /> +Heard them calling on the Lord—<br /> +Lost at sea, with all on board.</p> +<p>Till the sea gives up its dead,<br /> +There they lie in quiet sleep,<br /> +And the voices of the deep<br /> +Sound unheeded overhead,<br /> +Till the sea gives up its dead.</p> +<h2><!-- page 90--><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>PLEASANT PROPHECIES</h2> +<p>A day of gladness yet will dawn,<br /> + Though when I cannot say;<br /> +Perhaps it may be Thursday week,<br /> + Perhaps some other day,—</p> +<p>When man, freed from the bond of clothes,<br /> + And needing no more food,<br /> +Shall never pull his neighbour’s nose,<br /> + But be extremely good.</p> +<p>When Love and Nobleness shall live<br /> + Next door to Truth and Right,<br /> +While Reverence shall rent a room,<br /> + Upon the second flight.</p> +<p><!-- page 91--><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>And wishes shall +be horses then,<br /> + And beggars shall be kings;<br /> +And all the people shall admire<br /> + This pleasant state of things.</p> +<p>But if it seems a mystery,<br /> + And you’re inclined to doubt it,<br /> +Just ask your local poet. He<br /> + Will tell you all about it.</p> +<h2><!-- page 92--><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>THE DELIGHTS OF +MATHEMATICS</h2> +<p>It seems a hundred years or more<br /> + Since I, with note-book, ink and pen,<br /> +In cap and gown, first trod the floor<br /> + Which I have often trod since then;<br /> +Yet well do I remember when,<br /> + With fifty other fond fanatics,<br /> +I sought delights beyond my ken,<br /> + The deep delights of Mathematics.</p> +<p>I knew that two and two made four,<br /> + I felt that five times two were ten,<br /> +But, as for all profounder lore,<br /> + The robin redbreast or the wren,<br /> +<!-- page 93--><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span> The sparrow, whether +cock or hen,<br /> + Knew quite as much about Quadratics,<br /> +Was less confused by <i>x</i> and <i>n</i>,<br /> + The deep delights of Mathematics.</p> +<p>The Asses’ Bridge I passed not o’er,<br /> + I floundered in the noisome fen<br /> +Which lies behind it and before;<br /> + I wandered in the gloomy glen<br /> +Where Surds and Factors have their den.<br /> + But when I saw the pit of Statics,<br /> +I said Good-bye, Farewell, Amen!<br /> + The deep delights of Mathematics.</p> +<p>O Bejants! blessed, beardless men,<br /> + Who strive with Euclid in your attics,<br /> +For worlds I would not taste again<br /> + The deep delights of Mathematics.</p> +<h2><!-- page 94--><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>STANZAS FOR MUSIC</h2> +<p>I loved a little maiden<br /> + In the golden years gone by;<br /> +She lived in a mill, as they all do<br /> + (There is doubtless a reason why).<br /> +But she faded in the autumn<br /> + When the leaves began to fade,<br /> +And the night before she faded,<br /> + These words to me she said:<br /> +‘Do not forget me, Henry,<br /> + Be noble and brave and true;<br /> +But I must not bide, for the world is wide,<br /> + And the sky above is blue.’</p> +<p>So I said farewell to my darling,<br /> + And sailed away and came back;<br /> +<!-- page 95--><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span> And the good ship +<i>Jane</i> was in port again,<br /> + And I found that they all loved Jack.<br /> +But Polly and I were sweethearts,<br /> + As all the neighbours know,<br /> +Before I met with the mill-girl<br /> + Twenty years ago.<br /> +So I thought I would go and see her,<br /> + But alas, she had faded too!<br /> +She could not bide, for the world was wide,<br /> + And the sky above was blue.</p> +<p>And now I can only remember<br /> + The maid—the maid of the mill,<br /> +And Polly, and one or two others<br /> + In the churchyard over the hill.<br /> +And I sadly ask the question,<br /> + As I weep in the yew-tree’s shade<br /> +With my elbow on one of their tombstones,<br /> + ‘Ah, why did they all of them fade?’<br /> +<!-- page 96--><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span> And the answer I half +expected<br /> + Comes from the solemn yew,<br /> +‘They could none of them bide, for the world was wide,<br /> + And the sky above was blue.’</p> +<h2><!-- page 97--><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>THE END OF APRIL</h2> +<p>This is the time when larks are singing loud<br /> + And higher still ascending and more high,<br /> +This is the time when many a fleecy cloud<br /> + Runs lamb-like on the pastures of the sky,<br /> +This is the time when most I love to lie<br /> + Stretched on the links, now listening to the sea,<br /> +Now looking at the train that dawdles by;<br /> + But James is going in for his degree.</p> +<p>James is my brother. He has twice been ploughed,<br /> + Yet he intends to have another shy,<br /> +Hoping to pass (as he says) in a crowd.<br /> + Sanguine is James, but not so sanguine I.<br /> +<!-- page 98--><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span> If you demand my reason, +I reply:<br /> + Because he reads no Greek without a key<br /> +And spells Thucydides c-i-d-y;<br /> + Yet James is going in for his degree.</p> +<p>No doubt, if the authorities allowed<br /> + The taking in of Bohns, he might defy<br /> +The stiffest paper that has ever cowed<br /> + A timid candidate and made him fly.<br /> +Without such aids, he all as well may try<br /> + To cultivate the people of Dundee,<br /> +Or lead the camel through the needle’s eye;<br /> + Yet James is going in for his degree.</p> +<p>Vain are the efforts hapless mortals ply<br /> + To climb of knowledge the forbidden tree;<br /> +Yet still about its roots they strive and cry,<br /> + And James is going in for his degree.</p> +<h2><!-- page 99--><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>THE SCIENCE CLUB</h2> +<p>Hurrah for the Science Club!<br /> + Join it, ye fourth year men;<br /> +Join it, thou smooth-cheeked scrub,<br /> + Whose years scarce number ten</p> +<p>Join it, divines most grave;<br /> + Science, as all men know,<br /> +As a friend the Church may save,<br /> + But may damage her as a foe.</p> +<p>(And in any case it is well,<br /> + If attacking insidious doubt,<br /> +Or devoting H--- to H---,<br /> + To know what you’re talking about.)</p> +<p><!-- page 100--><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>Hurrah for the +lang-nebbit word!<br /> + Hurrah for the erudite phrase,<br /> +That in Dura Den shall be heard,<br /> + That shall echo on Kinkell Braes!</p> +<p>Hurrah for the spoils of the links<br /> + (The golf-ball as well as the daisy)!<br /> +Hurrah for explosions and stinks<br /> + To set half the landladies crazy!</p> +<p>Hurrah for the fragments of boulders,<br /> + Surpassing in size and in weight,<br /> +To be carried home on the shoulders<br /> + And laid on the table in state!</p> +<p>Hurrah for the flying-machine<br /> + Long buried from sight in a cupboard,<br /> +With bones that would never have been<br /> + Desired of old Mother Hubbard!</p> +<p><!-- page 101--><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>Hurrah for the +hazardous boat,<br /> + For the crabs (of all kinds) to be caught,<br /> +For the eggs on the surface that float,<br /> + And the lump-sucker curiously wrought!</p> +<p>Hurrah for the filling of tanks<br /> + In the shanty down by the shore,<br /> +For the Royal Society’s thanks,<br /> + With Fellowships flying galore!</p> +<p>Hurrah for discourses on worms,<br /> + Where one listens and comes away<br /> +With a stock of bewildering terms,<br /> + And nothing whatever to pay!</p> +<p>Hurrah for gadding about<br /> + Of a Saturday afternoon,<br /> +In the light of research setting out,<br /> + Coming home in the light of the moon!</p> +<p><!-- page 102--><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>Hurrah for Guardbridge, +and the mill<br /> + Where one learns how paper is made!<br /> +Hurrah for the samples that fill<br /> + One’s drawer with the finest cream-laid!</p> +<p>Hurrah for the Brewery visit<br /> + And beer in liberal doses!<br /> +In the cause of Science, what is it<br /> + But inspecting a technical process?</p> +<p>Hurrah for a trip to Dundee<br /> + To study the spinning of jute!<br /> +Hurrah for a restaurant tea,<br /> + And a sight of the Tay Bridge to boot!</p> +<p>Hurrah, after every excursion,<br /> + To feel one’s improving one’s mind,<br /> +With the smallest amount of exertion,<br /> + And that of the pleasantest kind!</p> +<h2><!-- page 103--><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>IMITATED FROM +WORDSWORTH</h2> +<p>He brought a team from Inversnaid<br /> + To play our Third Fifteen,<br /> +A man whom none of us had played<br /> + And very few had seen.</p> +<p>He weighed not less than eighteen stone,<br /> + And to a practised eye<br /> +He seemed as little fit to run<br /> + As he was fit to fly.</p> +<p>He looked so clumsy and so slow,<br /> + And made so little fuss;<br /> +But he got in behind—and oh,<br /> + The difference to us!</p> +<h2><!-- page 104--><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>REFLECTIONS OF +A MAGISTRAND</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">on returning to st. andrews</span></p> +<p>In the hard familiar horse-box I am sitting once again;<br /> +Creeping back to old St. Andrews comes the slow North British train,</p> +<p>Bearing bejants with their luggage (boxes full of heavy books,<br /> +Which the porter, hot and tipless, eyes with unforgiving looks),</p> +<p>Bearing third year men and second, bearing them and bearing me,<br /> +Who am now a fourth year magnate with two parts of my degree.</p> +<p><!-- page 105--><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>We have started +off from Leuchars, and my thoughts have started too<br /> +Back to times when this sensation was entirely fresh and new.</p> +<p>When I marvelled at the towers beyond the Eden’s wide expanse,<br /> +Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father’s manse</p> +<p>With some money in his pocket, with some down upon his cheek,<br /> +With the elements of Latin, with the rudiments of Greek.</p> +<p>And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then,<br /> +Underneath the towers he looks at, in among the throngs of men,</p> +<p><!-- page 106--><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>Men from Fife +and men from Forfar, from the High School of Dundee,<br /> +Ten or twelve from other counties, and from England two or three.</p> +<p>Oh, the Bursary Competition! oh, the wonder and the rage,<br /> +When I saw my name omitted from the schedule in the cage!</p> +<p>Grief is strong but youth elastic, and I rallied from the blow,<br /> +For I felt that there were few things in the world I did not know.</p> +<p>Then my ready-made opinions upon all things under heaven<br /> +I declaimed with sound and fury, to an audience of eleven</p> +<p><!-- page 107--><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>Gathered in the +Logic class-room, sworn to settle the debate,<br /> +<i>Does the Stage upon the whole demoralise or elevate</i>?</p> +<p>This and other joys I tasted. I became a Volunteer,<br /> +Murmuring <i>Dulce et decorum</i> in the Battery-Sergeant’s ear;</p> +<p>Joined the Golf Club, and with others of an afternoon was seen<br /> +Vainly searching in the whins, or foozling on the putting-green;</p> +<p>Took a minor part in Readings; lifted up my voice and sang<br /> +At the Musical rehearsals, till the class-room rafters rang;</p> +<p><!-- page 108--><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>Wrote long poems +for the Column; entered for the S. R. C,<br /> +And, if I remember rightly, was thrown out by twenty-three;</p> +<p>Ground a little for my classes, till the hour of nine or ten,<br /> +When I read a decent novel or went out to see some men.</p> +<p>So I reaped the large experience which has made me what I am,<br /> +Far removed from bejanthood as is St. Andrews from Siam.</p> +<p>But with age and with experience disenchantment comes to all,<br /> +Even pleasure on the keenest appetite at last will pall.</p> +<p><!-- page 109--><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>Had I now a hundred +pounds, a hundred pounds would I bestow<br /> +To enjoy the loud solatium as I did three years ago,</p> +<p>When the songs were less familiar, less familiar too the pies,<br /> +And I did not mind receiving orange-peel between the eyes.</p> +<p>Yet, in spite of disenchantment, and in spite of finding out<br /> +There are some things in the world that I am hardly sure about,</p> +<p>Still sufficient of illusion and inexplicable grace<br /> +Hangs about the grey old town to make it a delightful place.</p> +<p><!-- page 110--><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>Though solatiums +charm no longer, though a gaudeamus fails<br /> +With its atmosphere unwholesome to expand my spirit’s sails,</p> +<p>Though rectorial elections are if anything a bore,<br /> +And I do not care to carry dripping torches any more,</p> +<p>Though my soul for Moral lectures does not vehemently yearn,<br /> +Though the north-east winds are bitter—I am willing to return.</p> +<p>At this point in my reflections, on the left the Links expand,<br /> +Many a whin bush full of prickles, many a bunker full of sand.</p> +<p><!-- page 111--><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>And I see distinguished +club-men, whom I only know by sight,<br /> +Old, obese, and scarlet-coated, playing golf with all their might;</p> +<p>As they were three years ago, when first I travelled by this train,<br /> +As they will be three years hence, if I should come this way again.</p> +<p>What to them is train or traveller? what to them the flight of time?<br /> +But we draw too near the station to indulge in the sublime.</p> +<p>In a minute at the furthest on the platform I shall stand,<br /> +Waiting till they take my trunk out, with my hat-box in my hand.</p> +<p><!-- page 112--><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>As the railway +train approaches and the train of thought recedes,<br /> +I behold Professor --- in a brand new suit of tweeds.</p> +<h2><!-- page 113--><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>TO C. C. C.</h2> +<p>Oh for the nights when we used to sit<br /> + In the firelight’s glow or flicker,<br /> +With the gas turned low and our pipes all lit,<br /> + And the air fast growing thicker;</p> +<p>When you, enthroned in the big arm-chair,<br /> + Would spin for us yarns unending,<br /> +Your voice and accent and pensive air<br /> + With the narrative subtly blending!</p> +<p>Oh for the bleak and wintry days<br /> + When we set our blood in motion,<br /> +Leaping the rocks below the braes<br /> + And wetting our feet in the ocean,</p> +<p><!-- page 114--><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>Or shying at marks +for moderate sums<br /> + (A penny a hit, you remember),<br /> +With aching fingers and purple thumbs,<br /> + In the merry month of December!</p> +<p>There is little doubt we were very daft,<br /> + And our sports, like the stakes, were trifling;<br /> +While the air of the room where we talked and laughed<br /> + Was often unpleasantly stifling.</p> +<p>Now we are grave and sensible men,<br /> + And wrinkles our brows embellish,<br /> +And I fear we shall never relish again<br /> + The pleasures we used to relish.</p> +<p>And I fear we never again shall go,<br /> + The cold and weariness scorning,<br /> +For a ten mile walk through the frozen snow<br /> + At one o’clock in the morning:</p> +<p><!-- page 115--><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>Out by Cameron, +in by the Grange,<br /> + And to bed as the moon descended . . .<br /> +To you and to me there has come a change,<br /> + And the days of our youth are ended.</p> +<h2><!-- page 116--><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>ON AN EDINBURGH +ADVOCATE</h2> +<p>In youth with diligence he toiled<br /> + A Roman nose to gain,<br /> +But though a decent pug was spoiled,<br /> + A pug it did remain.</p> +<h2><!-- page 117--><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>THE BANISHED +BEJANT</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">from the unpublished remains of edgar allan poe</span></p> +<p>In the oldest of our alleys,<br /> + By good bejants tenanted,<br /> +Once a man whose name was Wallace—<br /> + William Wallace—reared his head.<br /> +Rowdy Bejant in the college<br /> + He was styled:<br /> +Never had these halls of knowledge<br /> + Welcomed waster half so wild!</p> +<p>Tassel blue and long and silken<br /> + From his cap did float and flow<br /> +(This was cast into the Swilcan<br /> + Two months ago);<br /> +<!-- page 118--><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span> And every gentle +air that sported<br /> + With his red gown,<br /> +Displayed a suit of clothes, reported<br /> + The most alarming in the town.</p> +<p>Wanderers in that ancient alley<br /> + Through his luminous window saw<br /> +Spirits come continually<br /> + From a case well packed with straw,<br /> +Just behind the chair where, sitting<br /> + With air serene,<br /> +And in a blazer loosely fitting,<br /> + The owner of the bunk was seen.</p> +<p>And all with cards and counters straying<br /> + Was the place littered o’er,<br /> +With which sat playing, playing, playing,<br /> + And wrangling evermore,<br /> +<!-- page 119--><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span> A group of fellows, +whose chief function<br /> + Was to proclaim,<br /> +In voices of surpassing unction,<br /> + Their luck and losses in the game.</p> +<p>But stately things, in robes of learning,<br /> + Discussed one day the bejant’s fate:<br /> +Ah, let us mourn him unreturning,<br /> + For they resolved to rusticate!<br /> +And now the glory he inherits,<br /> + Thus dished and doomed,<br /> +Is largely founded on the merits<br /> + Of the Old Tom consumed.</p> +<p>And wanderers, now, within that alley<br /> + Through the half-open shutters see,<br /> +Old crones, that talk continually<br /> + In a discordant minor key:<br /> +<!-- page 120--><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span> While, with a kind +of nervous shiver,<br /> + Past the front door,<br /> +His former set go by for ever,<br /> + But knock—or ring—no more.</p> +<h2><!-- page 121--><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>NOTES</h2> +<p>For the information of those who have not the happiness to be members +of the University of St. Andrews, it may be well to explain a few terms. +A <i>bejant</i> is an undergraduate student of the first year. +In his second year he becomes a <i>semi</i>, in his third a <i>tertian</i>, +and in his fourth a <i>magistrand</i>. The last would seem to +be a gerundive form, implying that a man at the end of his fourth year +ought to be made a Master of Arts; but unfortunately this does not always +happen. A <i>divine</i> is a student in Divinity. A <i>waster</i> +is a man of idle and (it may be) profligate habits. A <i>grinder</i>, +on the contrary, is one who ‘grinds’ or reads with an unusual +degree of application. A <i>bunk</i> is the lodging or abode in +St. Andrews of any student. A <i>spree</i> is not necessarily +an entertainment of rowdy character; the most decorous Professorial +dinner-party would be called a spree. A <i>solatium</i> is a Debating +Society spree, held in December or January; a <i>gaudeamus</i> is a +festival of the same kind, only rather more ambitious, celebrated towards +the close of the session. <i>Session</i> would be rendered in +England by <!-- page 122--><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>‘term.’ +The <i>Competition</i> (for <i>Bursaries</i>), or the ‘Comp.,’ +is the examination for entrance scholarships. The <i>cage</i> +is a curious structure of glass, iron, and wood, in which notices and +examination lists are posted. The letters <i>S. R. C</i>. denote +the Students’ Representative Council. An <i>L.L.A</i>. is +a Lady Literate in Arts. <i>Math</i>. (as the discerning reader +will not be slow to perceive) is an abbreviation, endearing or otherwise, +of the word Mathematics. <i>Moral</i> stands for Moral Philosophy. +<i>Prof</i>. is a shortened form of Professor, and <i>certif</i>. of +certificate. <i>Plough, pluck</i>, and <i>spin</i> are used indifferently, +to signify the action of an examiner in rejecting a candidate for the +M.A. or any other degree. It should be mentioned that the degree +of B.A. is not now conferred by the Universities of Scotland.</p> +<p>Page 4. Euripides: <i>Hippolytus</i>, 70-87.</p> +<p>Page 22. <i>Odes</i>, <span class="smcap">i</span>. <span class="smcap">ii</span>.</p> +<p>Page 52. <i>The Town Water</i>. The state of things described +in this ballad, so far as the quality of St. Andrews water is concerned, +has long since been remedied. As to the demeanour of the Bailies +and Councillors, I cannot speak with the same certainty.</p> +<p>Page 64. <i>Milton, a name to adorn the Cross Keys</i>. +Mr. Milton’s name is no longer associated with this time-honoured +tavern, but with a new hotel.</p> +<p><!-- page 123--><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>Page 86. +ΑΙΕΝ ΑΡΙΣΤΕΥΕΙΝ. +The motto in the Upper Library Hall, where the ceremony of Graduation +takes place.</p> +<p>Page 88. Catullus, <span class="smcap">ci</span>.</p> +<p>Page 101. <i>The shanty down by the shore</i>. The St. +Andrews Marine Biological Laboratory.</p> +<p>Page 117. <i>This was cast into the Swilcan</i>. The +Swilcan Burn is a small stream which flows across the golfing links, +and forms one of the hazards of the course.</p> +<p>EDINBURGH<br /> +T. & A. CONSTABLE<br /> +Printers to Her Majesty</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SCARLET GOWN***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 16821-h.htm or 16821-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/8/2/16821 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Scarlet Gown + being verses by a St. Andrews Man + + +Author: R. F. Murray + + + +Release Date: October 8, 2005 [eBook #16821] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SCARLET GOWN*** + + + + + + +Transcribed from the 1891 Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton & Co. edition by +David Price, ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + + +THE SCARLET GOWN: +BEING VERSES BY A ST. ANDREWS MAN + + +ST. ANDREWS, N.B.: A. M. HOLDEN +LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON & CO. +1891 + + ' . . . the little town, + The drifting surf, the wintry year, + The college of the scarlet gown, + St. Andrews by the Northern Sea, + That is a haunted town to me.' + + ANDREW LANG. + + + + + PREFACE + + +St. Andrews, but for its Town Council and its School Board, is a quiet +place; and the University, except during the progress of a Rectorial +Election, is peaceable and well-conducted. I hope these verses may so +far reflect St. Andrews life as to be found pleasant, if not over +exciting. + +I am able to reprint the verses on 'The City of Golf' by the special +courtesy of the Editor of the _Saturday Review_. + +A few explanatory notes are given at the end of the book. + +R. F. MURRAY. + + + + + THE VOICE THAT SINGS + + +The voice that sings across the night + Of long forgotten days and things, +Is there an ear to hear aright + The voice that sings? + +It is as when a curfew rings + Melodious in the dying light, +A sound that flies on pulsing wings. + +And faded eyes that once were bright + Brim over, as to life it brings +The echo of a dead delight, + The voice that sings. + + + + + THE BEST PIPE + + +In vain you fervently extol, + In vain you puff, your cutty clay. +A twelvemonth smoked and black as coal, + 'Tis redolent of rank decay +And bones of monks long passed away-- + A fragrance I do not admire; +And so I hold my nose and say, + Give me a finely seasoned briar. + +Macleod, whose judgment on the whole + Is faultless, has been led astray +To nurse a high-born meerschaum bowl, + For which he sweetly had to pay. +Ah, let him nurse it as he may, + Before the colour mounts much higher, +The grate shall be its fate one day. + Give me a finely seasoned briar. + + The heathen Turk of Istamboul, + In oriental turban gay, +Delights his unbelieving soul + With hookahs, bubbling in a way +To fill a Christian with dismay + And wake the old Crusading fire. +May no such pipe be mine, I pray; + Give me a finely seasoned briar. + +Clay, meerschaum, hookah, what are they + That I should view them with desire? +Both now, and when my hair is grey, + Give me a finely seasoned briar. + + + + + HYMN OF HIPPOLYTUS TO ARTEMIS + + +Artemis! thou fairest +Of the maids that be +In divine Olympus, +Hail! Hail to thee! +To thee I bring this woven weed +Culled for thee from a virgin mead, +Where neither shepherd claims his flocks to feed +Nor ever yet the mower's scythe hath come. +There in the Spring the wild bee hath his home, +Lightly passing to and fro +Where the virgin flowers grow; +And there the watchful Purity doth go +Moistening with dew-drops all the ground below, +Drawn from a river untaintedly flowing, + They who have gained by a kind fate's bestowing +Pure hearts, untaught by philosophy's care, +May gather the flowers in the mead that are blowing, +But the tainted in spirit may never be there. + +Now, O Divinest, eternally fair, +Take thou this garland to gather thy hair, +Brought by a hand that is pure as the air. +For I alone of all the sons of men +Hear thy pure accents, answering thee again. +And may I reach the goal of life as I began the race, +Blest by the music of thy voice, though darkness ever veil thy face! + + + + + ON A CRUSHED HAT + + +Brown was my friend, and faithful--but so fat! + He came to see me in the twilight dim; + I rose politely and invited him +To take a seat--how heavily he sat! + +He sat upon the sofa, where my hat, + My wanton Zephyr, rested on its rim; + Its build, unlike my friend's, was rather slim, +And when he rose, I saw it, crushed and flat. + +O Hat, that wast the apple of my eye, + Thy brim is bent, six cracks are in thy crown, + And I shall never wear thee any more; +Upon a shelf thy loved remains shall lie, + And with the years the dust will settle down + On thee, the neatest hat I ever wore! + + + + + A SWINBURNIAN INTERLUDE + + +Short space shall be hereafter + Ere April brings the hour +Of weeping and of laughter, + Of sunshine and of shower, +Of groaning and of gladness, +Of singing and of sadness, +Of melody and madness, + Of all sweet things and sour. + +Sweet to the blithe bucolic + Who knows nor cribs nor crams, +Who sees the frisky frolic + Of lanky little lambs; + But sour beyond expression +To one in deep depression +Who sees the closing session + And imminent exams. + +He cannot hear the singing + Of birds upon the bents, +Nor watch the wildflowers springing, + Nor smell the April scents. +He gathers grief with grinding, +Foul food of sorrow finding +In books of dreary binding + And drearier contents. + +One hope alone sustains him, + And no more hopes beside, +One trust alone restrains him + From shocking suicide; + He will not play nor palter +With hemlock or with halter, +He will not fear nor falter, + Whatever chance betide. + +He knows examinations + Like all things else have ends, +And then come vast vacations + And visits to his friends, +And youth with pleasure yoking, +And joyfulness and joking, +And smilingness and smoking, + For grief to make amends. + + + + + SWEETHEART + + +Sweetheart, that thou art fair I know, + More fair to me +Than flowers that make the loveliest show + To tempt the bee. + +When other girls, whose faces are, + Beside thy face, +As rushlights to the evening star, + Deny thy grace, + +I silent sit and let them speak, + As men of strength +Allow the impotent and weak + To rail at length. + + If they should tell me Love is blind, + And so doth miss +The faults which they are quick to find, + I'd answer this: + +Envy is blind; not Love, whose eyes + Are purged and clear +Through gazing on the perfect skies + Of thine, my dear. + + + + + MUSIC FOR THE DYING + + +FROM THE FRENCH OF SULLY PRUDHOMME + +Ye who will help me in my dying pain, + Speak not a word: let all your voices cease. +Let me but hear some soft harmonious strain, + And I shall die at peace. + +Music entrances, soothes, and grants relief + From all below by which we are opprest; +I pray you, speak no word unto my grief, + But lull it into rest. + +Tired am I of all words, and tired of aught + That may some falsehood from the ear conceal, +Desiring rather sounds which ask no thought, + Which I need only feel: + + A melody in whose delicious streams + The soul may sink, and pass without a breath +From fevered fancies into quiet dreams, + From dreaming into death. + + + + + FAREWELL TO A SINGER + + +ON HER MARRIAGE + +As those who hear a sweet bird sing, + And love each song it sings the best, +Grieve when they see it taking wing + And flying to another nest: + +We, who have heard your voice so oft, + And loved it more than we can tell, +Our hearts grow sad, our voices soft, + Our eyes grow dim, to say farewell. + +It is not kind to leave us thus; + Yet we forgive you and combine, +Although you now bring grief to us, + To wish you joy, for auld lang syne. + + + + + THE CITY OF GOLF + + +Would you like to see a city given over, + Soul and body, to a tyrannising game? +If you would, there's little need to be a rover, + For St. Andrews is the abject city's name. + +It is surely quite superfluous to mention, + To a person who has been here half an hour, +That Golf is what engrosses the attention + Of the people, with an all-absorbing power. + +Rich and poor alike are smitten with the fever; + Their business and religion is to play; +And a man is scarcely deemed a true believer, + Unless he goes at least a round a day. + + The city boasts an old and learned college, + Where you'd think the leading industry was Greek; +Even there the favoured instruments of knowledge + Are a driver and a putter and a cleek. + +All the natives and the residents are patrons + Of this royal, ancient, irritating sport; +All the old men, all the young men, maids and matrons-- + The universal populace, in short. + +In the morning, when the feeble light grows stronger, + You may see the players going out in shoals; +And when night forbids their playing any longer, + They tell you how they did the different holes + +Golf, golf, golf--is all the story! + In despair my overburdened spirit sinks, +Till I wish that every golfer was in glory, + And I pray the sea may overflow the links. + + One slender, struggling ray of consolation + Sustains me, very feeble though it be: +There are two who still escape infatuation, + My friend M'Foozle's one, the other's me. + +As I write the words, M'Foozle enters blushing, + With a brassy and an iron in his hand . . . +This blow, so unexpected and so crushing, + Is more than I am able to withstand. + +So now it but remains for me to die, sir. + Stay! There _is_ another course I may pursue-- +And perhaps upon the whole it would be wiser-- + I will yield to fate and be a golfer too! + + + + + THE SWALLOWS + + +FROM JEAN PIERRE CLARIS FLORIAN + +I love to see the swallows come + At my window twittering, +Bringing from their southern home + News of the approaching spring. +'Last year's nest,' they softly say, + 'Last year's love again shall see; +Only faithful lovers may + Tell you of the coming glee.' + +When the first fell touch of frost + Strips the wood of faded leaves, +Calling all their winged host, + The swallows meet above the eaves + 'Come away, away,' they cry, + 'Winter's snow is hastening; +True hearts winter comes not nigh, + They are ever in the spring.' + +If by some unhappy fate, + Victim of a cruel mind, +One is parted from her mate + And within a cage confined, +Swiftly will the swallow die, + Pining for her lover's bower, +And her lover watching nigh + Dies beside her in an hour. + + + + + AFTER MANY DAYS + + +The mist hangs round the College tower, + The ghostly street +Is silent at this midnight hour, + Save for my feet. + +With none to see, with none to hear, + Downward I go +To where, beside the rugged pier, + The sea sings low. + +It sings a tune well loved and known + In days gone by, +When often here, and not alone, + I watched the sky. + + That was a barren time at best, + Its fruits were few; +But fruits and flowers had keener zest + And fresher hue. + +Life has not since been wholly vain, + And now I bear +Of wisdom plucked from joy and pain + Some slender share. + +But, howsoever rich the store, + I'd lay it down, +To feel upon my back once more + The old red gown. + + + + + HORACE'S PHILOSOPHY + + +What the end the gods have destined unto thee and unto me, +Ask not: 'tis forbidden knowledge. Be content, Leuconoe. +Let alone the fortune-tellers. How much better to endure +Whatsoever shall betide us--even though we be not sure +Whether Jove grants other winters, whether this our last shall be +That upon the rocks opposing dashes now the Tuscan sea. +Be thou wise, and strain thy wines, and mindful of life's brevity +Stint thy hopes. The envious moments, even while we speak, have flown; +Trusting nothing to the future, seize the day that is our own. + + + + + ADVENTURE OF A POET + + +As I was walking down the street + A week ago, +Near Henderson's I chanced to meet + A man I know. + +His name is Alexander Bell, + His home, Dundee; +I do not know him quite so well + As he knows me. + +He gave my hand a hearty shake, + Discussed the weather, +And then proposed that we should take + A stroll together. + + Down College Street we took our way, + And there we met +The beautiful Miss Mary Gray, + That arch coquette, +Who stole last spring my heart away + And has it yet. + +That smile with which my bow she greets, + Would it were fonder! +Or else less fond--since she its sweets + On all must squander. +Thus, when I meet her in the streets, + I sadly ponder, +And after her, as she retreats, + My thoughts will wander. + +And so I listened with an air + Of inattention, +While Bell described a folding-chair + Of his invention. + + And when we reached the Swilcan Burn, + 'It looks like rain,' +Said I, 'and we had better turn.' + 'Twas all in vain, + +For Bell was weather-wise, and knew + The signs aerial; +He bade me note the strip of blue + Above the Imperial, + +Also another patch of sky, + South-west by south, +Which meant that we might journey dry + To Eden's mouth. + +He was a man with information + On many topics: +He talked about the exploration + Of Poles and Tropics, + + The scene in Parliament last night, + Sir William's letter; +'And do you like the electric light, + Or gas-lamps better?' + +The strike among the dust-heap pickers + He said was over; +And had I read about the liquors + Just seized at Dover? + +Or the unhappy printer lad + At Rothesay drowned? +Or the Italian ironclad + That ran aground? + +He told me stories (lately come) + Of good society, +Some slightly tinged with truth, and some + With impropriety. + + He spoke of duelling in France, + Then lightly glanced at +Mrs. Mackenzie's monster dance, + Which he had danced at. + +So he ran on, till by-and-by + A silence came, +For which I greatly fear that I + Was most to blame. + +Then neither of us spoke a word + For quite a minute, +When presently a thought occurred + With promise in it. + +'How did you like the Shakespeare play + The students read?' +By this, the Eden like a bay + Before us spread. + + Near Eden many softer plots + Of sand there be; +Our feet, like Pharaoh's chariots, + Drave heavily. + +And ere an answer I could frame, + He said that Irving +Of his extraordinary fame + Was undeserving, + +And for his part he thought more highly + Of Ellen Terry; +Although he knew a girl named Riley + At Broughty Ferry, + +Who might be, if she only chose, + As great a star. +She had a part in the tableaux + At the bazaar. + + If I had said but little yet, + I now said less, +And smoked a home-made cigarette + In mute distress. + +The smoke into his face was blown + By the wind's action, +And this afforded me, I own, + Some satisfaction; + +But still his tongue received no check + Till, coming home, +We stood beside the ancient wreck + And watched the foam + +Wash in among the timbers, now + Sunk deep in sand, +Though I can well remember how + I used to stand + + On windy days and hold my hat, + And idly turn +To read 'Lovise, Frederikstad' + Upon her stern. + +Her stern long since was buried quite, + And soon no trace +The absorbing sand will leave in sight + To mark her place. + +This reverie was not permitted + To last too long. +Bell's mind had left the stage, and flitted + To fields of song. + +And now he spoke of _Marmion_ + And Lewis Morris; +The former he at school had done, + Along with Horace. + + His maiden aunts, no longer young, + But learned ladies, +Had lately sent him _Songs Unsung_, + _Epic of Hades_, + +_Gycia_, and _Gwen_. He thought them fine; + Not like that Browning, +Of whom he would not read a line, + He told me, frowning. + +Talking of Horace--very clever, + Beyond a doubt, +But what the Satires meant, he never + Yet could make out. + +I said I relished Satire Nine + Of the First Book; +But he had skipped to the divine + Eliza Cook. + + He took occasion to declare, + In tones devoted, +How much he loved her old Arm-chair, + Which now he quoted. + +And other poets he reviewed, + Some two or three, +Till, having touched on Thomas Hood, + He turned to me. + +'Have _you_ been stringing any rhymes + Of late?' he said. +I could not lie, but several times + I shook my head. + +The last straw to the earth will bow + The o'erloaded camel, +And surely I resembled now + That ill-used mammal. + + See how a thankless world regards + The gifted choir +Of minstrels, singers, poets, bards, + Who sweep the lyre. + +This is the recompense we meet + In our vocation. +We bear the burden and the heat + Of inspiration; + +The beauties of the earth we sing + In glowing numbers, +And to the 'reading public' bring + Post-prandial slumbers; + +We save from Mammon's gross dominion + These sordid times . . . +And all this, in the world's opinion, + Is 'stringing rhymes.' + + It is as if a man should say, + In accents mild, +'Have you been stringing beads to-day, + My gentle child?' + +(Yet even children fond of singing + Will pay off scores, +And I to-day at least am stringing + Not beads but bores.) + +And now the sands were left behind, + The Club-house past. +I wondered, Can I hope to find + Escape at last, + +Or must I take him home to tea, + And bear his chatter +Until the last train to Dundee + Shall solve the matter? + + But while I shuddered at the thought + And planned resistance, +My conquering Alexander caught + Sight in the distance + +Of two young ladies, one of whom + Is his ambition; +And so, with somewhat heightened bloom, + He asked permission + +To say good-bye to me and follow. + I freely gave it, +And wished him all success. _Apollo_ + _Sic me servavit_. + + + + + A BUNCH OF TRIOLETS + + +TO --- + +You like the trifling triolet: + Well, here are three or four. +Unless your likings I forget, +You like the trifling triolet. +Against my conscience I abet + A taste which I deplore; +You like the trifling triolet: + Well, here are three or four. + + Have you ever met with a pretty girl + Walking along the street, +With a nice new dress and her hair in curl? +Have you ever met with a pretty girl, +When her hat blew off and the wind with a whirl + Wafted it right to your feet? +Have you ever met with a pretty girl + Walking along the street? + +I ran into a lady's arms, + Turning a corner yesterday. +To my confusion, her alarms, +I ran into a lady's arms. +So close a vision of her charms + Left me without a word to say. +I ran into a lady's arms, + Turning a corner yesterday. + + How many maids you love, + How many maids love you! +Your conscious blushes prove +How many maids you love. +Each trusts you like a dove, + But would she, if she knew +How many maids you love, + How many maids love you? + + + + + A BALLAD OF REFRESHMENT + + +The lady stood at the station bar, + (Three currants in a bun) +And oh she was proud, as ladies are. + (And the bun was baked a week ago.) + +For a weekly wage she was standing there, + (Three currants in a bun) +With a prominent bust and light gold hair. + (And the bun was baked a week ago.) + +The express came in at half-past two, + (Three currants in a bun) +And there lighted a man in the navy blue. + (And the bun was baked a week ago.) + + A stout sea-captain he was, I ween. + (Three currants in a bun) +Much travel had made him very keen. + (And the bun was baked a week ago.) + +A sober man and steady was he. + (Three currants in a bun) +He called not for brandy, but called for tea. + (And the bun was baked a week ago.) + +'Now something to eat, for the train is late.' + (Three currants in a bun) +She brought him a bun on a greasy plate. + (And the bun was baked a week ago.) + +He left the bun, and he left the tea, + (Three currants in a bun) +She charged him a shilling and let him be, +And the train went on at a quarter to three. + (And the bun is old and weary.) + + + + + A DECEMBER DAY + + +Blue, blue is the sea to-day, + Warmly the light +Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay-- + Blue, fringed with white. + +That's no December sky! + Surely 'tis June +Holds now her state on high, + Queen of the noon. + +Only the tree-tops bare + Crowning the hill, +Clear-cut in perfect air, + Warn us that still + + Winter, the aged chief, + Mighty in power, +Exiles the tender leaf, + Exiles the flower. + +Is there a heart to-day, + A heart that grieves +For flowers that fade away, + For fallen leaves? + +Oh, not in leaves or flowers + Endures the charm +That clothes those naked towers + With love-light warm. + +O dear St. Andrews Bay, + Winter or Spring +Gives not nor takes away + Memories that cling + + All round thy girdling reefs, + That walk thy shore, +Memories of joys and griefs + Ours evermore. + + + + + A COLLEGE CAREER + + +I + +When one is young and eager, + A bejant and a boy, +Though his moustache be meagre, + That cannot mar his joy +When at the Competition +He takes a fair position, +And feels he has a mission, + A talent to employ. + +With pride he goes each morning + Clad in a scarlet gown, +A cap his head adorning + (Both bought of Mr. Brown); + He hears the harsh bell jangle, +And enters the quadrangle, +The classic tongues to mangle + And make the ancients frown. + +He goes not forth at even, + He burns the midnight oil, +He feels that all his heaven + Depends on ceaseless toil; +Across his exercises +A dream of many prizes +Before his spirit rises, + And makes his raw blood boil. + +II + +Though he be green as grass is, + And fresh as new-mown hay +Before the first year passes + His verdure fades away. + His hopes now faintly glimmer, +Grow dim and ever dimmer, +And with a parting shimmer + Melt into 'common day.' + +He cares no more for Liddell + Or Scott; and Smith, and White, +And Lewis, Short, and Riddle + Are 'emptied of delight.' +Todhunter and Colenso +(Alas, that friendships end so!) +He curses _in extenso_ + Through morning, noon, and night. + +No more with patient labour + The midnight oil he burns, +But unto some near neighbour + His fair young face he turns, + To share the harmless tattle +Which bejants love to prattle, +As wise as infant's rattle + Or talk of coots and herns. + +At midnight round the city + He carols wild and free +Some sweet unmeaning ditty + In many a changing key; +And each succeeding verse is +Commingled with the curses +Of those whose sleep disperses + Like sal volatile. + +He shaves and takes his toddy + Like any fourth year man, +And clothes his growing body + After another plan + Than that which once delighted +When, in the days benighted, +Like some wild thing excited + About the fields he ran. + +III + +A sweet life and an idle + He lives from year to year, +Unknowing bit or bridle + (There are no proctors here), +Free as the flying swallow +Which Ida's Prince would follow +If but his bones were hollow, + Until the end draws near. + +Then comes a Dies Irae, + When full of misery +And torments worse than fiery + He crams for his degree; + And hitherto unvexed books, +Dry lectures, abstracts, text-books, +Perplexing and perplexed books, + Make life seem vanity. + +IV + +Before admiring sister + And mother, see, he stands, +Made Artium Magister + With laying on of hands. +He gives his books to others +(Perchance his younger brothers), +And free from all such bothers + Goes out into all lands. + + + + + THE WASTER'S PRESENTIMENT + + +I shall be spun. There is a voice within + Which tells me plainly I am all undone; +For though I toil not, neither do I spin, + I shall be spun. + +April approaches. I have not begun + Schwegler or Mackintosh, nor will begin +Those lucid works till April 21. + +So my degree I do not hope to win, + For not by ways like mine degrees are won; +And though, to please my uncle, I go in, + I shall be spun. + + + + + THE CLOSE OF THE SESSION + + +The Session's over. We must say farewell + To these east winds and to this eastern sea, + For summer comes, with swallow and with bee, +With many a flower and many a golfing swell. + +No more the horribly discordant bell + Shall startle slumber; and all men agree + That whatsoever other things may be +A cause of sorrow, this at least is well. + +The class-room shall not open wide its doors, + Or if it does, such opening will be vain; + The gown shall hang unused upon a nail; +South Street shall know us not; we'll wipe the Scores + From our remembrance; as for Mutto's Lane, + Yea, even the memory of this shall fail. + + + + + A BALLAD OF THE TOWN WATER + + +It is the Police Commissioners, + All on a winter's day; +And they to prove the town water + Have set themselves away. + +They went to the north, they went to the south, + And into the west went they, +Till they found a civil, civil engineer, + And unto him did say: + +'Now tell to us, thou civil engineer, + If this be fit to drink.' +And they showed him a cup of the town water, + Which was as black as ink. + + He took three sips of the town water, + And black in the face was he; +And they turned them back and fled away, + Amazed that this should be. + +And he has written a broad letter + And sealed it with a ring, +And the letter saith that the town water + Is not a goodly thing. + +And they have met, and the Bailies all, + And eke the Councillors, +And they have ta'en the broad letter + And read it within the doors. + +And there has fallen a great quarrel, + And a striving within the doors, +And quarrelsome words have the Bailies said, + And eke the Councillors. + + And one saith, 'We will have other water,' + And another saith, 'But nay;' +And none may tell what the end shall be, + Alack and well-a-day! + + + + + [GREEK TITLE] + + +I love the inoffensive frog, + 'A little child, a limber elf,' +With health and spirits all agog, +He does the long jump in a bog +Or teaches men to swim and dive. +If he should be cut up alive, + Should I not be cut up myself? + +So I intend to be straightway + An Anti-Vivisectionist; +I'll read Miss Cobbe five hours a day +And watch the little frogs at play, +With no desire to see their hearts +At work, or other inward parts, + If other inward parts exist. + + + + + TO NUMBER 27X. + + +Beloved Peeler! friend and guide + And guard of many a midnight reeler, +None worthier, though the world is wide, + Beloved Peeler. + +Thou from before the swift four-wheeler + Didst pluck me, and didst thrust aside +A strongly built provision-dealer + +Who menaced me with blows, and cried + 'Come on! Come on!' O Paian, Healer, +Then but for thee I must have died, + Beloved Peeler! + + + + + A STREET CORNER + + +Here, where the thoroughfares meet at an angle + Of ninety degrees (this angle is right), +You may hear the loafers that jest and wrangle + Through the sun-lit day and the lamp-lit night; +Though day be dreary and night be wet, +You will find a ceaseless concourse met; +Their laughter resounds and their Fife tongues jangle, + And now and again their Fife fists fight. + +Often here the voice of the crier + Heralds a sale in the City Hall, +And slowly but surely drawing nigher + Is heard the baker's bugle call. +The baker halts where the two ways meet, +And the blast, though loud, is far from sweet +That with breath of bellows and heart of fire + He blows, till the echoes leap from the wall. + + And on Saturday night just after eleven, + When the taverns have closed a moment ago, +The vocal efforts of six or seven + Make the corner a place of woe. +For the time is fitful, the notes are queer, +And it sounds to him who dwelleth near +Like the wailing for cats in a feline heaven + By orphan cats who are left below. + +Wherefore, O Bejant, Son of the Morning, + Fresh as a daisy dipt in the dew, +Hearken to me and receive my warning: + Though rents be heavy, and bunks be few +And most of them troubled with rat or mouse, +Never take rooms in a corner house; +Or sackcloth and ashes and sad self-scorning + Shall be for a portion unto you. + + + + + THE POET'S HAT + + +The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, + He passed through the doorway into the street, +A strong wind lifted his hat from his head, + And he uttered some words that were far from sweet. +And then he started to follow the chase, + And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet, +It made the people pause in a crowd, + And lay odds as to which would beat. + +The street cad scoffed as he hunted the hat, + The errand-boy shouted hooray! +The scavenger stood with his broom in his hand, + And smiled in a very rude way; +And the clergyman thought, 'I have heard many words, + But never, until to-day, +Did I hear any words that were quite so bad + As I heard that young man say.' + + + + + A SONG OF GREEK PROSE + + + Thrice happy are those + Who ne'er heard of Greek Prose-- +Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes; + For Liddell and Scott + Shall cumber them not, +Nor Sargent nor Sidgwick shall break their repose. + + But I, late at night, + By the very bad light +Of very bad gas, must painfully write + Some stuff that a Greek + With his delicate cheek +Would smile at as 'barbarous'--faith, he well might. + + For when it _is_ done, + I doubt if, for one, +I myself could explain how the meaning might run; + And as for the style-- + Well, it's hardly worth while +To talk about style, where style there is none. + + It was all very fine + For a poet divine +Like Byron, to rave of Greek women and wine; + But the Prose that I sing + Is a different thing, +And I frankly acknowledge it's not in my line. + + So away with Greek Prose, + The source of my woes! +(This metre's too tough, I must draw to a close.) + May Sargent be drowned + In the ocean profound, +And Sidgwick be food for the carrion crows! + + + + + AN ORATOR'S COMPLAINT + + +How many the troubles that wait + On mortals!--especially those + Who endeavour in eloquent prose +To expound their views, and orate. + +Did you ever attempt to speak + When you hadn't a word to say? + Did you find that it wouldn't pay, +And subside, feeling dreadfully weak? + +Did you ever, when going ahead + In a fervid defence of the Stage, + Get checked in your noble rage +By somehow losing your thread? + + Did you ever rise to reply + To a toast (say 'The Volunteers'), + And evoke loud laughter and cheers, +When you didn't exactly know why? + +Did you ever wax witty, and when + You had smashed an opponent quite small, + Did he seem not to mind it at all, +But get up and smash you again? + +If any or all of these things + Have happened to you (as to me), + I think you'll be found to agree +With yours truly, when sadly he sings: + +'How many the troubles that wait + On mortals!--especially those + Who endeavour in eloquent prose +To expound their views, and orate.' + + + + + MILTON + + +WITH APOLOGIES TO LORD TENNYSON + +O swallow-tailed purveyor of college sprees, +O skilled to please the student fraternity, + Most honoured publican of Scotland, + Milton, a name to adorn the Cross Keys; +Whose chosen waiters, Samuel, Archibald, +Helped by the boots and marker at billiards, + Wait, as the smoke-filled, crowded chamber + Rings to the roar of a Gaelic chorus-- +Me rather all those temperance hostelries, +The soda siphon fizzily murmuring, + And lime fruit juice and seltzer water + Charm, as a wanderer out in South Street, +Where some recruiting, eager Blue-Ribbonites +Spied me afar and caught by the Post Office, + And crimson-nosed the latest convert + Fastened the odious badge upon me. + + + + + MAGNI NOMINIS UMBRA + + +St. Andrews! not for ever thine shall be + Merely the shadow of a mighty name, + The remnant only of an ancient fame +Which time has crumbled, as thy rocks the sea. + +For thou, to whom was given the earliest key + Of knowledge in this land (and all men came + To learn of thee), shalt once more rise and claim +The glory that of right belongs to thee. + +Grey in thine age, there yet in thee abides + The force of youth, to make thyself anew + A name of honour and a place of power. +Arise, then! shake the dust from off thy sides; + Thou shalt have many where thou now hast few; + Again thou shalt be great. Quick come the hour! + + + + + SONG FROM 'THE PRINCESS' + + +As through the street at eve we went + (It might be half-past ten), +We fell out, my friend and I, +About the cube of _x+y_, + And made it up again. +And blessings on the falling out + Between two learned men, +Who fight on points which neither knows, + And make it up again! +For when we came where stands an inn + We visit now and then, +There above a pint of beer, +Oh there above a pint of beer, + We made it up again. + + + + + ANDREW M'CRIE + + +FROM THE UNPUBLISHED REMAINS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE + +It was many and many a year ago, + In a city by the sea, +That a man there lived whom I happened to know + By the name of Andrew M'Crie; +And this man he slept in another room, + But ground and had meals with me. + +I was an ass and he was an ass, + In this city by the sea; +But we ground in a way which was more than a grind, + I and Andrew M'Crie; +In a way that the idle semis next door + Declared was shameful to see. + + And this was the reason that, one dark night, + In this city by the sea, +A stone flew in at the window, hitting + The milk-jug and Andrew M'Crie. +And once some low-bred tertians came, + And bore him away from me, +And shoved him into a private house + Where the people were having tea. + +Professors, not half so well up in their work, + Went envying him and me-- +Yes!--that was the reason, I always thought + (And Andrew agreed with me), +Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year, + Chilling and killing poor Andrew M'Crie. + +But his ghost is more terrible far than the ghosts + Of many more famous than he-- + Of many more gory than he-- +And neither visits to foreign coasts, + Nor tonics, can ever set free +Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith + Of the injured Andrew M'Crie. + +For at night, as they dream, they frequently scream, + 'Have mercy, Mr. M'Crie!' +And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes, + And the very first thing they will see, +When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls, +Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals, + With a volume of notes on its knee, + Is the spectre of Andrew M'Crie. + + + + + AN INTERVIEW + + +I met him down upon the pier; + His eyes were wild and sad, +And something in them made me fear + That he was going mad. + +So, being of a prudent sort, + I stood some distance off, +And before speaking gave a short + Conciliatory cough. + +I then observed, 'What makes you look + So singularly glum?' +No notice of my words he took. + I said, 'Pray, are you dumb?' + + 'Oh no!' he said, 'I do not think + My power of speech is lost, +But when one's hopes are black as ink, + Why, talking is a frost. + +'You see, I'm in for Math. again, + And certain to be ploughed. +Please tell me where I could obtain + An inexpensive shroud.' + +I told him where such things are had, + Well made, and not too dear; +And, feeling really very sad, + I left him on the pier. + + + + + THE M.A. DEGREE + + +AFTER WORDSWORTH + +It was a phantom of delight +When first it gleamed upon my sight, +A scholarly distinction, sent +To be a student's ornament. +The hood was rich beyond compare, +The gown was a unique affair. +By this, by that my mind was drawn +Then, in my academic dawn; +A dancing shape, an image gay +Before me then was my M.A. + +I saw it upon nearer view, +A glory, yet a bother too! + For I perceived that I should be +Involved in much Philosophy +(A branch in which I could but meet +Works that were neither light nor sweet); +In Mathematics, not too good +For human nature's daily food; +And Classics, rendered in the styles +Of Kelly, Bohn, and Dr. Giles. + +And now I own, with some small spleen, +A most confounded ass I've been; +The glory seems an empty breath, +And I am nearly bored to death +With Reason, Consciousness, and Will, +And other things beyond my skill, +Discussed in books all darkly planned +And more in number than the sand. +Yet that M.A. still haunts my sight, +With something of its former light. + + + + + TRIOLET + + +After the melting of the snow + Divines depart and April comes; +Examinations nearer grow +After the melting of the snow; +The grinder wears a face of woe, + The waster smokes and twirls his thumbs; +After the melting of the snow + Divines depart and April comes. + + + + + VIVIEN'S SONG + + +AT THE L.L.A. EXAMINATION + +In Algebra, if Algebra be ours, +_x_ and _x^2_ can ne'er be equal powers, +Unless _x_=1, or none at all. + +It is the little error in the sum, +That by and by will make the answer come +To something queer, or else not come at all. + +The little error in the easy sum, +The little slit across the kettle-drum, +That makes the instrument not play at all. + +It is not worth correcting: let it go: +But shall I? Answer, Prudence, answer, no. +And bid me do it right or not at all. + + + + + THE WASTER SINGING AT MIDNIGHT + + +AFTER LONGFELLOW + +Loud he sang the song Ta Phershon +For his personal diversion, +Sang the chorus U-pi-dee, +Sang about the Barley Bree. + +In that hour when all is quiet +Sang he songs of noise and riot, +In a voice so loud and queer +That I wakened up to hear. + +Songs that distantly resembled +Those one hears from men assembled +In the old Cross Keys Hotel, +Only sung not half so well. + + For the time of this ecstatic +Amateur was most erratic, +And he only hit the key +Once in every melody. + +If 'he wot prigs wot isn't his'n +Ven he's cotched is sent to prison,' +He who murders sleep might well +Adorn a solitary cell. + +But, if no obliging peeler +Will arrest this midnight squealer, +My own peculiar arm of might +Must undertake the job to-night. + + + + + THIRTY YEARS AFTER + + +Two old St. Andrews men, after a separation of nearly thirty years, meet +by chance at a wayside inn. They interchange experiences; and at length +one of them, who is an admirer of Mr. Swinburne's _Poems and Ballads_, +speaks as follows: + +If you were now a bejant, + And I a first year man, +We'd grind and grub together +In every kind of weather, +When Winter's snows were regent, + Or when the Spring began; +If you were now a bejant, + And I a first year man. + +If you were what you once were, + And I the same man still, +You'd be the gainer by it, +For you--you can't deny it-- + A most uncommon dunce were; + My profit would be nil, +If you were what you once were, + And I the same man still. + +If you were last in Latin, + And I were first in Greek, +I'd write your Latin proses, +While you indulged in dozes, +Or carved the bench you sat in, + So innocent and meek; +If you were last in Latin, + And I were first in Greek. + +If I had got a prize, Jim, + And your certif. was bad, +And you were filled with sorrow +And brooding on the morrow, + I'd gently sympathise, Jim, + And bid you not be sad, +If I had got a prize, Jim, + And your certif. was bad. + +If I were through in Moral, + And you were spun in Math., +I'd break it to your parent, +When you confessed you daren't, +And so avert a quarrel + And smooth away his wrath; +If I were through in Moral, + And you were spun in Math. + +My prospects rather shone, Jim, + And yours were rather dark, +And those who knew us both then +Would often take their oath then, + That you would not get on, Jim, + While I should make my mark; +My prospects rather shone, Jim, + And yours were rather dark. + +Yet somehow you've made money, + And I am still obscure; +Your face is round and red, Jim, +While I look underfed, Jim; +The thing's extremely funny, + And beats me, I am sure, +Yet somehow you've made money, + And I am still obscure. + + + + + THE GOLF-BALL AND THE LOAN + + +AFTER LONGFELLOW + +I drove a golf-ball into the air, +It fell to earth, I knew not where; +For, so swiftly it flew, the sight +Could not follow it in its flight. + +I lent five shillings to some men, +They spent it all, I know not when, +For who is quick enough to know +The time in which a crown may go? + +Long, long afterward, in a whin +I found the golf-ball, black as sin; +But the five shillings are missing still! +They haven't turned up, and I doubt if they will. + + + + + TO THE READER OF 'UNIVERSITY NOTES' + + +Ah yes, we know what you're saying, + As your eye glances over these Notes: +'What asses are these that are braying + With flat and unmusical throats? +Who writes such unspeakable patter? + Is it lunatics, idiots--or who?' +And you think there is 'something the matter.' + Well, we think so too. + +We have sat, full of sickness and sorrow, + As the hours dragged heavily on, +Till the midnight has merged into morrow, + And the darkness is going or gone. +We are Editors. Give us the credit + Of meaning to do what we could; + But, since there is nothing to edit, + It isn't much good. + +Once we shared the delightful delusion + That to edit was racy and rare, +But we suffered a sad disillusion, + And we found that our castles were air; +We had decked them with carvings and gildings, + We had filled them with laughter and fun, +But all of a sudden the buildings + Came down with a run. + +Not a trace was there left of the carving, + And the gilding had vanished from sight; +But the 'column' for matter was starving, + And we had not to edit--but write. +So we set to and wrote. Can you wonder, + If the writing was feeble or dead? +We had started as editors--Thunder! + We were authors instead. + + We'd mistaken our calling, election, + Vocation, department, and use; +We had thought that our task was selection, + And we found that we had to produce. +So we sigh for release from our labours, + We pray for a happy despatch, +We will take our last leave of our neighbours, + And then--Colney Hatch. + +We are singing this dolorous ditty + As we part at the foot of the stairs; +We cannot but think it's a pity, + But what matter? there's nobody cares. +Our candle burns low in its socket, + There is nothing left but the wick; +And these Notes, that went up like a rocket, + Come down like the stick. + + + + + [GREEK TITLE] + + +Ever to be the best. To lead + In whatsoever things are true; + Not stand among the halting crew, +The faint of heart, the feeble-kneed, +Who tarry for a certain sign + To make them follow with the rest-- +Oh, let not their reproach be thine! + But ever be the best. + +For want of this aspiring soul, + Great deeds on earth remain undone, + But, sharpened by the sight of one, +Many shall press toward the goal. + Thou running foremost of the throng, + The fire of striving in thy breast, +Shalt win, although the race be long, + And ever be the best. + +And wilt thou question of the prize? + 'Tis not of silver or of gold, + Nor in applauses manifold, +But hidden in the heart it lies: +To know that but for thee not one + Had run the race or sought the quest, +To know that thou hast ever done + And ever been the best. + + + + + CATULLUS AT HIS BROTHER'S GRAVE + + +Through many lands and over many seas +I come, my Brother, to thine obsequies, +To pay thee the last honours that remain, +And call upon thy voiceless dust, in vain. +Since cruel fate has robbed me even of thee, +Unhappy Brother, snatched away from me, +Now none the less the gifts our fathers gave, +The melancholy honours of the grave, +Wet with my tears I bring to thee, and say +Farewell! farewell! for ever and a day. + + + + + LOST AT SEA + + +Lost at sea, with all on board! +No one saw their sinking sail, +No one heard their dying wail, +Heard them calling on the Lord-- +Lost at sea, with all on board. + +Till the sea gives up its dead, +There they lie in quiet sleep, +And the voices of the deep +Sound unheeded overhead, +Till the sea gives up its dead. + + + + + PLEASANT PROPHECIES + + +A day of gladness yet will dawn, + Though when I cannot say; +Perhaps it may be Thursday week, + Perhaps some other day,-- + +When man, freed from the bond of clothes, + And needing no more food, +Shall never pull his neighbour's nose, + But be extremely good. + +When Love and Nobleness shall live + Next door to Truth and Right, +While Reverence shall rent a room, + Upon the second flight. + + And wishes shall be horses then, + And beggars shall be kings; +And all the people shall admire + This pleasant state of things. + +But if it seems a mystery, + And you're inclined to doubt it, +Just ask your local poet. He + Will tell you all about it. + + + + + THE DELIGHTS OF MATHEMATICS + + +It seems a hundred years or more + Since I, with note-book, ink and pen, +In cap and gown, first trod the floor + Which I have often trod since then; +Yet well do I remember when, + With fifty other fond fanatics, +I sought delights beyond my ken, + The deep delights of Mathematics. + +I knew that two and two made four, + I felt that five times two were ten, +But, as for all profounder lore, + The robin redbreast or the wren, + The sparrow, whether cock or hen, + Knew quite as much about Quadratics, +Was less confused by _x_ and _n_, + The deep delights of Mathematics. + +The Asses' Bridge I passed not o'er, + I floundered in the noisome fen +Which lies behind it and before; + I wandered in the gloomy glen +Where Surds and Factors have their den. + But when I saw the pit of Statics, +I said Good-bye, Farewell, Amen! + The deep delights of Mathematics. + +O Bejants! blessed, beardless men, + Who strive with Euclid in your attics, +For worlds I would not taste again + The deep delights of Mathematics. + + + + + STANZAS FOR MUSIC + + +I loved a little maiden + In the golden years gone by; +She lived in a mill, as they all do + (There is doubtless a reason why). +But she faded in the autumn + When the leaves began to fade, +And the night before she faded, + These words to me she said: +'Do not forget me, Henry, + Be noble and brave and true; +But I must not bide, for the world is wide, + And the sky above is blue.' + +So I said farewell to my darling, + And sailed away and came back; + And the good ship _Jane_ was in port again, + And I found that they all loved Jack. +But Polly and I were sweethearts, + As all the neighbours know, +Before I met with the mill-girl + Twenty years ago. +So I thought I would go and see her, + But alas, she had faded too! +She could not bide, for the world was wide, + And the sky above was blue. + +And now I can only remember + The maid--the maid of the mill, +And Polly, and one or two others + In the churchyard over the hill. +And I sadly ask the question, + As I weep in the yew-tree's shade +With my elbow on one of their tombstones, + 'Ah, why did they all of them fade?' + And the answer I half expected + Comes from the solemn yew, +'They could none of them bide, for the world was wide, + And the sky above was blue.' + + + + + THE END OF APRIL + + +This is the time when larks are singing loud + And higher still ascending and more high, +This is the time when many a fleecy cloud + Runs lamb-like on the pastures of the sky, +This is the time when most I love to lie + Stretched on the links, now listening to the sea, +Now looking at the train that dawdles by; + But James is going in for his degree. + +James is my brother. He has twice been ploughed, + Yet he intends to have another shy, +Hoping to pass (as he says) in a crowd. + Sanguine is James, but not so sanguine I. + If you demand my reason, I reply: + Because he reads no Greek without a key +And spells Thucydides c-i-d-y; + Yet James is going in for his degree. + +No doubt, if the authorities allowed + The taking in of Bohns, he might defy +The stiffest paper that has ever cowed + A timid candidate and made him fly. +Without such aids, he all as well may try + To cultivate the people of Dundee, +Or lead the camel through the needle's eye; + Yet James is going in for his degree. + +Vain are the efforts hapless mortals ply + To climb of knowledge the forbidden tree; +Yet still about its roots they strive and cry, + And James is going in for his degree. + + + + + THE SCIENCE CLUB + + +Hurrah for the Science Club! + Join it, ye fourth year men; +Join it, thou smooth-cheeked scrub, + Whose years scarce number ten + +Join it, divines most grave; + Science, as all men know, +As a friend the Church may save, + But may damage her as a foe. + +(And in any case it is well, + If attacking insidious doubt, +Or devoting H--- to H---, + To know what you're talking about.) + + Hurrah for the lang-nebbit word! + Hurrah for the erudite phrase, +That in Dura Den shall be heard, + That shall echo on Kinkell Braes! + +Hurrah for the spoils of the links + (The golf-ball as well as the daisy)! +Hurrah for explosions and stinks + To set half the landladies crazy! + +Hurrah for the fragments of boulders, + Surpassing in size and in weight, +To be carried home on the shoulders + And laid on the table in state! + +Hurrah for the flying-machine + Long buried from sight in a cupboard, +With bones that would never have been + Desired of old Mother Hubbard! + + Hurrah for the hazardous boat, + For the crabs (of all kinds) to be caught, +For the eggs on the surface that float, + And the lump-sucker curiously wrought! + +Hurrah for the filling of tanks + In the shanty down by the shore, +For the Royal Society's thanks, + With Fellowships flying galore! + +Hurrah for discourses on worms, + Where one listens and comes away +With a stock of bewildering terms, + And nothing whatever to pay! + +Hurrah for gadding about + Of a Saturday afternoon, +In the light of research setting out, + Coming home in the light of the moon! + + Hurrah for Guardbridge, and the mill + Where one learns how paper is made! +Hurrah for the samples that fill + One's drawer with the finest cream-laid! + +Hurrah for the Brewery visit + And beer in liberal doses! +In the cause of Science, what is it + But inspecting a technical process? + +Hurrah for a trip to Dundee + To study the spinning of jute! +Hurrah for a restaurant tea, + And a sight of the Tay Bridge to boot! + +Hurrah, after every excursion, + To feel one's improving one's mind, +With the smallest amount of exertion, + And that of the pleasantest kind! + + + + + IMITATED FROM WORDSWORTH + + +He brought a team from Inversnaid + To play our Third Fifteen, +A man whom none of us had played + And very few had seen. + +He weighed not less than eighteen stone, + And to a practised eye +He seemed as little fit to run + As he was fit to fly. + +He looked so clumsy and so slow, + And made so little fuss; +But he got in behind--and oh, + The difference to us! + + + + + REFLECTIONS OF A MAGISTRAND + + +ON RETURNING TO ST. ANDREWS + +In the hard familiar horse-box I am sitting once again; +Creeping back to old St. Andrews comes the slow North British train, + +Bearing bejants with their luggage (boxes full of heavy books, +Which the porter, hot and tipless, eyes with unforgiving looks), + +Bearing third year men and second, bearing them and bearing me, +Who am now a fourth year magnate with two parts of my degree. + + We have started off from Leuchars, and my thoughts have started too +Back to times when this sensation was entirely fresh and new. + +When I marvelled at the towers beyond the Eden's wide expanse, +Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's manse + +With some money in his pocket, with some down upon his cheek, +With the elements of Latin, with the rudiments of Greek. + +And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, +Underneath the towers he looks at, in among the throngs of men, + + Men from Fife and men from Forfar, from the High School of Dundee, +Ten or twelve from other counties, and from England two or three. + +Oh, the Bursary Competition! oh, the wonder and the rage, +When I saw my name omitted from the schedule in the cage! + +Grief is strong but youth elastic, and I rallied from the blow, +For I felt that there were few things in the world I did not know. + +Then my ready-made opinions upon all things under heaven +I declaimed with sound and fury, to an audience of eleven + + Gathered in the Logic class-room, sworn to settle the debate, +_Does the Stage upon the whole demoralise or elevate_? + +This and other joys I tasted. I became a Volunteer, +Murmuring _Dulce et decorum_ in the Battery-Sergeant's ear; + +Joined the Golf Club, and with others of an afternoon was seen +Vainly searching in the whins, or foozling on the putting-green; + +Took a minor part in Readings; lifted up my voice and sang +At the Musical rehearsals, till the class-room rafters rang; + + Wrote long poems for the Column; entered for the S. R. C, +And, if I remember rightly, was thrown out by twenty-three; + +Ground a little for my classes, till the hour of nine or ten, +When I read a decent novel or went out to see some men. + +So I reaped the large experience which has made me what I am, +Far removed from bejanthood as is St. Andrews from Siam. + +But with age and with experience disenchantment comes to all, +Even pleasure on the keenest appetite at last will pall. + + Had I now a hundred pounds, a hundred pounds would I bestow +To enjoy the loud solatium as I did three years ago, + +When the songs were less familiar, less familiar too the pies, +And I did not mind receiving orange-peel between the eyes. + +Yet, in spite of disenchantment, and in spite of finding out +There are some things in the world that I am hardly sure about, + +Still sufficient of illusion and inexplicable grace +Hangs about the grey old town to make it a delightful place. + + Though solatiums charm no longer, though a gaudeamus fails +With its atmosphere unwholesome to expand my spirit's sails, + +Though rectorial elections are if anything a bore, +And I do not care to carry dripping torches any more, + +Though my soul for Moral lectures does not vehemently yearn, +Though the north-east winds are bitter--I am willing to return. + +At this point in my reflections, on the left the Links expand, +Many a whin bush full of prickles, many a bunker full of sand. + + And I see distinguished club-men, whom I only know by sight, +Old, obese, and scarlet-coated, playing golf with all their might; + +As they were three years ago, when first I travelled by this train, +As they will be three years hence, if I should come this way again. + +What to them is train or traveller? what to them the flight of time? +But we draw too near the station to indulge in the sublime. + +In a minute at the furthest on the platform I shall stand, +Waiting till they take my trunk out, with my hat-box in my hand. + + As the railway train approaches and the train of thought recedes, +I behold Professor --- in a brand new suit of tweeds. + + + + + TO C. C. C. + + +Oh for the nights when we used to sit + In the firelight's glow or flicker, +With the gas turned low and our pipes all lit, + And the air fast growing thicker; + +When you, enthroned in the big arm-chair, + Would spin for us yarns unending, +Your voice and accent and pensive air + With the narrative subtly blending! + +Oh for the bleak and wintry days + When we set our blood in motion, +Leaping the rocks below the braes + And wetting our feet in the ocean, + + Or shying at marks for moderate sums + (A penny a hit, you remember), +With aching fingers and purple thumbs, + In the merry month of December! + +There is little doubt we were very daft, + And our sports, like the stakes, were trifling; +While the air of the room where we talked and laughed + Was often unpleasantly stifling. + +Now we are grave and sensible men, + And wrinkles our brows embellish, +And I fear we shall never relish again + The pleasures we used to relish. + +And I fear we never again shall go, + The cold and weariness scorning, +For a ten mile walk through the frozen snow + At one o'clock in the morning: + + Out by Cameron, in by the Grange, + And to bed as the moon descended . . . +To you and to me there has come a change, + And the days of our youth are ended. + + + + + ON AN EDINBURGH ADVOCATE + + +In youth with diligence he toiled + A Roman nose to gain, +But though a decent pug was spoiled, + A pug it did remain. + + + + + THE BANISHED BEJANT + + +FROM THE UNPUBLISHED REMAINS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE + +In the oldest of our alleys, + By good bejants tenanted, +Once a man whose name was Wallace-- + William Wallace--reared his head. +Rowdy Bejant in the college + He was styled: +Never had these halls of knowledge + Welcomed waster half so wild! + +Tassel blue and long and silken + From his cap did float and flow +(This was cast into the Swilcan + Two months ago); + And every gentle air that sported + With his red gown, +Displayed a suit of clothes, reported + The most alarming in the town. + +Wanderers in that ancient alley + Through his luminous window saw +Spirits come continually + From a case well packed with straw, +Just behind the chair where, sitting + With air serene, +And in a blazer loosely fitting, + The owner of the bunk was seen. + +And all with cards and counters straying + Was the place littered o'er, +With which sat playing, playing, playing, + And wrangling evermore, + A group of fellows, whose chief function + Was to proclaim, +In voices of surpassing unction, + Their luck and losses in the game. + +But stately things, in robes of learning, + Discussed one day the bejant's fate: +Ah, let us mourn him unreturning, + For they resolved to rusticate! +And now the glory he inherits, + Thus dished and doomed, +Is largely founded on the merits + Of the Old Tom consumed. + +And wanderers, now, within that alley + Through the half-open shutters see, +Old crones, that talk continually + In a discordant minor key: + While, with a kind of nervous shiver, + Past the front door, +His former set go by for ever, + But knock--or ring--no more. + + + + + NOTES + + +For the information of those who have not the happiness to be members of +the University of St. Andrews, it may be well to explain a few terms. A +_bejant_ is an undergraduate student of the first year. In his second +year he becomes a _semi_, in his third a _tertian_, and in his fourth a +_magistrand_. The last would seem to be a gerundive form, implying that +a man at the end of his fourth year ought to be made a Master of Arts; +but unfortunately this does not always happen. A _divine_ is a student +in Divinity. A _waster_ is a man of idle and (it may be) profligate +habits. A _grinder_, on the contrary, is one who 'grinds' or reads with +an unusual degree of application. A _bunk_ is the lodging or abode in +St. Andrews of any student. A _spree_ is not necessarily an +entertainment of rowdy character; the most decorous Professorial dinner- +party would be called a spree. A _solatium_ is a Debating Society spree, +held in December or January; a _gaudeamus_ is a festival of the same +kind, only rather more ambitious, celebrated towards the close of the +session. _Session_ would be rendered in England by 'term.' The +_Competition_ (for _Bursaries_), or the 'Comp.,' is the examination for +entrance scholarships. The _cage_ is a curious structure of glass, iron, +and wood, in which notices and examination lists are posted. The letters +_S. R. C_. denote the Students' Representative Council. An _L.L.A_. is a +Lady Literate in Arts. _Math_. (as the discerning reader will not be +slow to perceive) is an abbreviation, endearing or otherwise, of the word +Mathematics. _Moral_ stands for Moral Philosophy. _Prof_. is a +shortened form of Professor, and _certif_. of certificate. _Plough, +pluck_, and _spin_ are used indifferently, to signify the action of an +examiner in rejecting a candidate for the M.A. or any other degree. It +should be mentioned that the degree of B.A. is not now conferred by the +Universities of Scotland. + +Page 4. Euripides: _Hippolytus_, 70-87. + +Page 22. _Odes_, I. II. + +Page 52. _The Town Water_. The state of things described in this +ballad, so far as the quality of St. Andrews water is concerned, has long +since been remedied. As to the demeanour of the Bailies and Councillors, +I cannot speak with the same certainty. + +Page 64. _Milton, a name to adorn the Cross Keys_. Mr. Milton's name is +no longer associated with this time-honoured tavern, but with a new +hotel. + + Page 86. [GREEK TITLE]. The motto in the Upper Library Hall, where the +ceremony of Graduation takes place. + +Page 88. Catullus, CI. + +Page 101. _The shanty down by the shore_. The St. Andrews Marine +Biological Laboratory. + +Page 117. _This was cast into the Swilcan_. The Swilcan Burn is a small +stream which flows across the golfing links, and forms one of the hazards +of the course. + +EDINBURGH +T. & A. 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