The Scarlet Gown | Page 8

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