Ban and Arriere Ban | Page 9

daughters, young Romance, did dwell,?Here Sara flirted with whoever list,?Belinda loved not wisely but too well,?And Mr. Ford played the Philologist!?Haunted the house is, and the balcony?Where that fond Matron knew her Lover near,?And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh,?While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere,?And all our hearts go forth into the cry,?Would that the teller of the tale were here!
LINES
[Written on the window pane of a railway carriage after reading an advertisement of sunlight soap, and Poems, by William Wordsworth.]
I passed upon the wings of Steam?Along Tay's valley fair,?The book I read had such a theme?As bids the Soul despair.
A tale of miserable men?Of hearts with doubt distraught,?Wherein a melancholy pen?With helpless problems fought.
Where many a life was brought to dust,?And many a heart laid low,?And many a love was smirched with lust -?I raised mine eyes, and, oh! -
I marked upon a common wall,?These simple words of hope,?That mute appeal to one and all,?Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap!
Our moral energies have range?Beyond their seeming scope,?How tonic were the words, how strange,?Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap!
'Behold,' I cried, 'the inner touch?That lifts the Soul through cares!?I loved that Soap-boiler so much?I blessed him unawares!
Perchance he is some vulgar man,?Engrossed in pounds s. d.?But, ah! through Nature's holy plan?He whispered hope to me!
ODE TO GOLF
'Delusive Nymph, farewell!'?How oft we've said or sung,?When balls evasive fell,?Or in the jaws of 'Hell,'?Or salt sea-weeds among,?'Mid shingle and sea-shell!
How oft beside the Burn,?We play the sad 'two more';?How often at the turn,?The heather must we spurn;?How oft we've 'topped and swore,'?In bent and whin and fern!
Yes, when the broken head?Bounds further than the ball,?The heart has inly bled.?Ah! and the lips have said?Words we would fain recall -?Wild words, of passion bred!
In bunkers all unknown,?Far beyond 'Walkinshaw,?Where never ball had flown -?Reached by ourselves alone -?Caddies have heard with awe?The music of our moan!
Yet, Nymph, if once alone,?The ball hath featly fled -?Not smitten from the bone -?That drive doth still atone;?And one long shot laid dead?Our grief to the winds hath blown!
So, still beside the tee,?We meet in storm or calm,?Lady, and worship thee;?While the loud lark sings free,?Piping his matin psalm?Above the grey sad sea!
FRESHMAN'S TERM
Return again, thou Freshman's year,?When bloom was on the rye,?When breakfast came with bottled beer,?When Pleasure walked the High;?When Torpid Bumps were more by far?To every opening mind?Than Trade, or Shares, or Peace, or War,?To senior humankind;?When ribbons of outrageous hues?Were worn with honest pride,?When much was talked of boats and crews,?When Proctors were defied:?When Tick was in its early bloom,?When Schools were far away,?As vaguely distant as the tomb,?Nor more regarded--they!?When arm was freely linked with arm?Beneath the College limes,?When Sunday grinds possessed a charm?Denied to College Rhymes:?When ices were in much request?Beside the April fire,?When men were very strangely dressed?By Standen or by Prior.?Return, ye Freshman's Terms! They DO?Return, and much the same,?To boys, who, just like me and you,?Play the absurd old game!
A TOAST
[Kate Kennedy is the Patron Saint of St. Leonard's and St.?Salvator. Her history is quite unknown.]
The learned are all 'in a swither,'?(They don't very often agree,)?They know not her 'whence' nor her 'whither,'?The Maiden we drink to together,?The College's Kate Kennedie!
Did she shine in days early or later??Did she ever achieve a degree??Was she pretty or plain? Did she mate, or?Live lonely? And who was the pater?Of mystical Kate Kennedie?
The learned may scorn her and scout her,?But true to her colours are WE,?The learned may mock her and flout her,?But surely we'll rally about her,?In the College that stands by the Sea!
So here's to her memory! here to?The mystical Maiden drink we,?We pledge her, and we'll persevere too,?Though the reason is not very clear to?The critical mind, nor to ME.?Here's to Kate! she's our own, and she's dear to?The College that stands by the Sea.
DEATH IN JUNE--FOR CRICKETERS ONLY
[June is the month of Suicides]
Why do we slay ourselves in June,?When life, if ever, seems so sweet??When "Moon," and "tune," and "afternoon,"?And other happy rhymes we meet,?When strawberries are coming soon??Why do we do it?' you repeat!
Ah, careless butterfly, to thee?The strawberry seems passing good;?And sweet, on Music's wings, to flee?Amid the waltzing multitude,?And revel late--perchance till three -?For Love is monarch of thy mood!
Alas! to US no solace shows?For sorrows we endure--at Lord's,?When Oxford's bowling ALWAYS goes?For 'fours,' for ever to the cords -?Or more, perhaps, with 'overthrows'; -?These things can pierce the heart like swords!
And thus it is though woods are green,?Though mayflies down the Test are rolling,?Though sweet, the silver showers between,?The finches sing in strains consoling,?We cut our throats for very spleen,?And very shame of Oxford's bowling!
TO CORRESPONDENTS
My Postman, though I fear thy tread,?And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,?'Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread,?MY mortal foe is much severer,