Green Bays. Verses and Parodies Part 3

--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 gla.s.s 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 m.u.f.fin.

To the Parks Drags the slow Ladies' School, consuming time In pa.s.sing 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 s.h.i.+lling.-- Draw the curtains close While I resume the night-cap dear to all Familiar with my ill.u.s.trated 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 b.u.t.terfly 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 cl.u.s.ter, cl.u.s.ter, cl.u.s.ter 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 b.u.mpit 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 (G.o.d 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 wis we maun be b.u.mpit sair By boaties two and three: Sing stretchers of yew for our Toggere, Sith we maun b.u.mpit be!

THE DOOM OF THE ESQUIRE BEDELL.

Adown the torturing mile of street I mark him come and go, Thread in and out with tireless feet The crossings to and fro; A soul that treads without retreat A labyrinth of woe.

Palsied with awe of such despair, All living things give room, They flit before his sightless glare As horrid shapes, that loom And shriek the curse that bids him bear The symbol of his doom.

The very stones are coals that bake And scorch his fevered skin; A fire no hissing hail may slake Consumes his heart within.

Still must he hasten on to rake The furnace of his sin.

Still forward! forward! For he feels Fierce claws that pluck his breast, And blindly beckon as he reels Upon his awful quest: For there is that behind his heels Knows neither ruth nor rest.

The fiends in h.e.l.l have flung the dice; The destinies depend On feet that run for fearful price, And fangs that gape to rend; And still the footsteps of his Vice Pursue him to the end:-- The feet of his incarnate Vice Shall dog him to the end.

'BEHOLD! I AM NOT ONE THAT GOES TO LECTURES.'