Green Bays | Page 8

with McVittie
That night when he trod on your train?At the Bachelor's Ball. ''Twas a pity,'
You said, but I knew 'twas Champagne.?And your gown was enough to compel me
To fall down and worship its hem--?(Are 'hems' wearing? If not, you shall tell me
What is, when you come to Commem.)
Have you thought, since that night, of the Grotto?
Of the words whispered under the palms,?While the minutes flew by and forgot to
Remind us of Aunt and her qualms??Of the stains of the old Journalisten?
Of the rose that I begged from your hair??When you turned, and I saw something glisten--
Dear Kitty, don't frown; it was there!?But that idiot Delane in the middle
Bounced in with 'Our dance, I--ahem!'?And--the rose you may find in my Liddell
And Scott when you come to Commem.
Then, Kitty, let 'yes' be the answer.
We'll dance at the 'Varsity Ball,?And the morning shall find you a dancer
In Christ Church or Trinity hall.?And perhaps, when the elders are yawning
And rafters grow pale overhead?With the day, there shall come with its dawning
Some thought of that sentence unsaid.?Be it this, be it that--'I forget,' or
'Was joking'--whatever the fem-?-inine fib, you'll have made me your debtor
And come,--you will come? to Commem.
OCCASIONAL VERSES.
ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS.
Designed to show that the practice of lying is not confined to children.
By the late W. W. (of H.M. Inland Revenue Service).
And is it so? Can Folly stalk?And aim her unrespecting darts?In shades where grave Professors walk
And Bachelors of Arts?
I have a boy, not six years old,?A sprite of birth and lineage high:?His birth I did myself behold,
His caste is in his eye.
And oh! his limbs are full of grace,?His boyish beauty past compare:?His mother's joy to wash his face,
And mine to brush his hair!
One morn we strolled on our short walk,?With four goloshes on our shoes,?And held the customary talk
That parents love to use.
(And oft I turn it into verse,?And write it down upon a page,?Which, being sold, supplies my purse
And ministers to age.)
So as we paced the curving High,?To view the sights of Oxford town?We raised our feet (like Nelly Bly),
And then we put them down.
'Now, little Edward, answer me'--?I said, and clutched him by the gown--?'At Cambridge would you rather be,
Or here in Oxford town?'
My boy replied with tiny frown?(He'd been a year at Cavendish),?'I'd rather dwell in Oxford town,
If I could have my wish.'
'Now, little Edward, say why so;?My little Edward, tell me why.'?'Well, really, Pa, I hardly know.'
'Remarkable!' said I:
'For Cambridge has her "King's Parade,"?And much the more becoming gown;?Why should you slight her so,' I said,?'Compared with Oxford town?'
At this my boy hung down his head,?While sterner grew the parent's eye;?And six-and-thirty times I said,?'Come, Edward, tell me why?'
For I loved Cambridge (where they deal--?How strange!--in butter by the yard);?And so, with every third appeal,
I hit him rather hard.
Twelve times I struck, as may be seen?(For three times twelve is thirty-six),?When in a shop the Magazine
His tearful sight did fix.
He saw it plain, it made him smile,?And thus to me he made reply:--?'At Oxford there's a Crocodile;[1]
And that's the reason why.'
Oh, Mr. Editor! my heart?For deeper lore would seldom yearn,?Could I believe the hundredth part
Of what from you I learn.
[1] Certain obscure paragraphs relating to a crocodile, kept at the Museum, had been perplexing the readers of the Oxford Magazine for some time past, and had been distorted into an allegory of portentous meaning.
UNITY PUT QUARTERLY[1].
By A. C. S.
The Centuries kiss and commingle,?Cling, clasp, and are knit in a chain;?No cycle but scorns to be single,?No two but demur to be twain,?'Till the land of the lute and the love-tale?Be bride of the boreal breast,?And the dawn with the darkness shall dovetail,?The East with the West.
The desire of the grey for the dun nights?Is that of the dun for the grey;?The tales of the Thousand and One Nights?Touch lips with 'The Times' of to-day.--?Come, chasten the cheap with the classic;?Choose, Churton, thy chair and thy class,?Mix, melt in the must that is Massic
The beer that is Bass!
Omnipotent age of the Aorist!?Infinitely freely exact!--?As the fragrance of fiction is fairest?If frayed in the furnace of fact--?Though nine be the Muses in number?There is hope if the handbook be one,--?Dispelling the planets that cumber
The path of the sun.
Though crimson thy hands and thy hood be?With the blood of a brother betrayed,?O Would-be-Professor of Would-be,?We call thee to bless and to aid.?Transmuted would travel with Er, see?The Land of the Rolling of Logs,?Charmed, chained to thy side, as to Circe
The Ithacan hogs.
O bourne of the black and the godly!?O land where the good niggers go.?With the books that are borrowed of Bodley,?Old moons and our castaway clo'!?There, there, till the roses be ripened?Rebuke us, revile, and review,?Then take thee thine annual stipend
So long over-due.
[1] Suggested by an Article in the Quarterly Review, enforcing the unity of literature ancient and modern, and