IN that old spring when I was young, At Oxford, many a song was sung, And undergraduate friends were willing To buy then printed for a shilling. Our songs were all of Oxfords bliss, Her spires, her streams, her mysteries Of Love, and Death, and Change, and Far As known to the Undegraduate. Since then fuIl twenty years are sped, And most are married, some are dead Some sit as ministers of state, And some as priests beg at their gate. In all, the puIses fainter beat And will not move in metric feet Despatches, sermons,-whatso goes Into their brain comes out as prose. Yet still their ink will flush to flame If chance permits it Oxfods name Still have they won the meed of wit, If Oxford reads what they have writ. But should the Undergraduate red, C heart, then fame is fame indecd Thoerlasked, ingeillous brow to smoothe 0nce more, is to renew ones youth. Then pardon, sirs, if I am hold To offcr, when the blood is cold, Tame spirts of a parergic pen To you, who taste both books and men.
