Green Bays | Page 6

dumb.
--And yet sometimes I
think you played it hard
Upon a rather hopeful minor bard.
NUGAE OXONIENSES.
TWILIGHT.
By W--ll--m C--wp--r.
'Tis evening. See with its resorting throng
Rude Carfax teems, and
waistcoats, visited
With too-familiar elbow, swell the curse

Vortiginous. The boating man returns,
His rawness growing with

experience--
Strange union! and directs the optic glass
Not
unresponsive to Jemima's charms,
Who wheels obdurate, in his
mimic chaise
Perambulant, the child. The gouty cit,
Asthmatical,
with elevated cane
Pursues the unregarding tram, as one
Who,
having heard a hurdy-gurdy, girds
His loins and hunts the
hurdy-gurdy-man,
Blaspheming. Now the clangorous bell proclaims

The Times or Chronicle, and Rauca screams
The latest horrid
murder in the ear
Of nervous dons expectant of the urn
And mild
domestic muffin.
To the Parks
Drags the slow Ladies' School, consuming time
In
passing given points. Here glow the lamps,
And tea-spoons clatter to
the cosy hum
Of scientific circles. Here resounds
The football-field
with its discordant train,
The crowd that cheers but not discriminates,

As ever into touch the ball returns
And shrieks the whistle, while
the game proceeds
With fine irregularity well worth
The paltry
shilling.--
Draw the curtains close
While I resume the night-cap dear to all

Familiar with my illustrated works.
WILLALOO.
By E. A. P.
In the sad and sodden street,
To and fro,
Flit the fever-stricken feet
Of the freshers as they meet,
Come and go,
Ever buying, buying, buying
Where the shopmen
stand supplying,
Vying, vying
All they know,
While the Autumn lies a-dying
Sad and low
As the price of summer suitings when the winter breezes
blow, Of the summer, summer suitings that are standing in a row

On the way to Jericho.
See the freshers as they row
To and fro,
Up and down the Lower River for an afternoon or so--

(For the deft manipulation
Of the never-resting oar,
Though it lead
to approbation,
Will induce excoriation)--
They are infinitely sore,

Keeping time, time, time
In a sort of Runic rhyme
Up and down
the way to Iffley in an afternoon or so;
(Which is slow).
Do they
blow?
'Tis the wind and nothing more,
'Tis the wind that in
Vacation has a tendency to go: But the coach's objurgation and his
tendency to 'score' Will be sated--nevermore.
See the freshers in the street,
The elite!
Their apparel how unquestionably neat!
How delighted at
a distance,
Inexpensively attired,
I have wondered with persistence
At their
butterfly existence!
How admired!
And the payment--O, the payment!
It is tardy for the
raiment:
Yet the haberdasher gloats as he sells,
And he tells,
'This is best
To be dress'd
Rather better than the rest,

To be noticeably drest,
To be swells,
To be swells, swells, swells, swells,
Swells, swells,
swells,
To be simply and indisputably swells.'
See the freshers one or two,
Just a few,
Now on view,
Who are sensibly and innocently new;

How they cluster, cluster, cluster
Round the rugged walls of
Worcester!

See them stand,
Book in hand,
In the garden ground of John's!

How they dote upon their Dons!
See in every man a Blue!
It is true
They are lamentably few;
But I spied
Yesternight upon the staircase just a pair of boots outside
Upon the floor,
Just a little pair of boots upon the stairs where I
reside,
Lying there and nothing more;
And I swore
While these dainty
twins continued sentry by the chamber door That the hope their
presence planted should be with me evermore,
Should desert me--nevermore.
THE SAIR STROKE.
_O waly, waly, my bonnie crew
Gin ye maun bumpit be!
And waly, waly, my Stroke sae true,
Ye leuk unpleasauntlie!_
_O hae ye suppit the sad sherrie
That gars the wind gae soon;
Or hae ye pud o' the braw bird's-e'e,
Ye be sae stricken doun?_
I hae na suppit the sad sherrie,
For a' my heart is sair;
For Keiller's still i' the bonnie Dundee,
And his is halesome fare.
But I hae slain our gude Captain,

That c'uld baith shout and sweer,
And ither twain put out o' pain--
The Scribe and Treasurere.
There's ane lies stark by the meadow-gate,
And twa by the black, black brig:
And waefu', waefu', was the fate
That gar'd them there to lig!
They waked us soon, they warked us lang,
Wearily did we greet;
'Should he abrade' was a' our sang,
Our food but butcher's-meat.
We hadna train'd but ower a week,
A week, but barely twa,
Three sonsie steeds they fared to seek,
That mightna gar them fa'.
They 've ta'en us ower the lang, lang coorse,
And wow! but it was wark;
And ilka coach he sware him hoorse,
That ilka man s'uld hark.
Then upped and spake our pawkie bow,
--O, but he wasna late!
'Now who shall gar them cry Enow,
That gang this fearsome gate?'
Syne he has ta'en his boatin' cap,
And cast the keevils in,
And wha but me to gae (God hap!)
And stay our Captain's din?

I stayed his din by the meadow-gate,
His feres' by Nuneham brig,
And waefu', waefu', was the fate
That gar'd them there to lig!
O, waly to the welkin's top!
And waly round the braes!
And waly all about the shop
(To use a
Southron phrase).
Rede ither crews be debonair,
But we 've a weird to dree,
I