Chapter IV

Before admiring sister And mother, see, he stands, Made Artium Magister With laying on of hands. He gives his books to others (Perchance his younger brothers), And free from all such bothers Goes out into all lands.

THE WASTER'S PRESENTIMENT

I shall be spun. There is a voice within
Which tells me plainly I am all undone;
For though I toil not, neither do I spin,
I shall be spun.

April approaches. I have not begun Schwegler or Mackintosh, nor will begin Those lucid works till April 21.

So my degree I do not hope to win,
For not by ways like mine degrees are won;
And though, to please my uncle, I go in,
I shall be spun.

THE CLOSE OF THE SESSION

The Session's over. We must say farewell
To these east winds and to this eastern sea,
For summer comes, with swallow and with bee,
With many a flower and many a golfing swell.

No more the horribly discordant bell
Shall startle slumber; and all men agree
That whatsoever other things may be
A cause of sorrow, this at least is well.

The class-room shall not open wide its doors,
Or if it does, such opening will be vain;
The gown shall hang unused upon a nail;
South Street shall know us not; we'll wipe the Scores
From our remembrance; as for Mutto's Lane,
Yea, even the memory of this shall fail.

A BALLAD OF THE TOWN WATER

It is the Police Commissioners,
All on a winter's day;
And they to prove the town water
Have set themselves away.

They went to the north, they went to the south,
And into the west went they,
Till they found a civil, civil engineer,
And unto him did say:

'Now tell to us, thou civil engineer,
If this be fit to drink.'
And they showed him a cup of the town water,
Which was as black as ink.

He took three sips of the town water,
And black in the face was he;
And they turned them back and fled away,
Amazed that this should be.

And he has written a broad letter
And sealed it with a ring,
And the letter saith that the town water
Is not a goodly thing.

And they have met, and the Bailies all,
And eke the Councillors,
And they have ta'en the broad letter
And read it within the doors.

And there has fallen a great quarrel,
And a striving within the doors,
And quarrelsome words have the Bailies said,
And eke the Councillors.

And one saith, 'We will have other water,'
And another saith, 'But nay;'
And none may tell what the end shall be,
Alack and well-a-day!

[GREEK TITLE]

I love the inoffensive frog, 'A little child, a limber elf,' With health and spirits all agog, He does the long jump in a bog Or teaches men to swim and dive. If he should be cut up alive, Should I not be cut up myself?

So I intend to be straightway An Anti-Vivisectionist; I'll read Miss Cobbe five hours a day And watch the little frogs at play, With no desire to see their hearts At work, or other inward parts, If other inward parts exist.

TO NUMBER 27X.

Beloved Peeler! friend and guide
And guard of many a midnight reeler,
None worthier, though the world is wide,
Beloved Peeler.

Thou from before the swift four-wheeler Didst pluck me, and didst thrust aside A strongly built provision-dealer

Who menaced me with blows, and cried
'Come on! Come on!' O Paian, Healer,
Then but for thee I must have died,
Beloved Peeler!

A STREET CORNER

Here, where the thoroughfares meet at an angle Of ninety degrees (this angle is right), You may hear the loafers that jest and wrangle Through the sun-lit day and the lamp-lit night; Though day be dreary and night be wet, You will find a ceaseless concourse met; Their laughter resounds and their Fife tongues jangle, And now and again their Fife fists fight.

Often here the voice of the crier Heralds a sale in the City Hall, And slowly but surely drawing nigher Is heard the baker's bugle call. The baker halts where the two ways meet, And the blast, though loud, is far from sweet That with breath of bellows and heart of fire He blows, till the echoes leap from the wall.

And on Saturday night just after eleven, When the taverns have closed a moment ago, The vocal efforts of six or seven Make the corner a place of woe. For the time is fitful, the notes are queer, And it sounds to him who dwelleth near Like the wailing for cats in a feline heaven By orphan cats who are left below.

Wherefore, O Bejant, Son of the Morning, Fresh as a daisy dipt in the dew, Hearken to me and receive my warning: Though rents be heavy, and bunks be few And most of them troubled with rat or mouse, Never take rooms in a corner house; Or sackcloth and ashes and sad self-scorning Shall be for a portion unto you.

THE POET'S HAT

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
He passed through the doorway into the street,
A strong wind lifted his hat from his head,
And he uttered some words that were far from sweet.
And then he started to follow the chase,
And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet,
It made the people pause in a crowd,
And lay odds as to which would beat.

The street cad scoffed as he hunted the hat,
The errand-boy shouted hooray!
The scavenger stood with his broom in his hand,
And smiled in a very rude way;
And the clergyman thought, 'I have heard many words,
But never, until to-day,
Did I hear any words that were quite so bad
As I heard that young man say.'

A SONG OF GREEK PROSE

Thrice happy are those
Who ne'er heard of Greek Prose--
Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes;
For Liddell and Scott
Shall cumber them not,
Nor Sargent nor Sidgwick shall break their repose.

But I, late at night,
By the very bad light
Of very bad gas, must painfully write
Some stuff that a Greek
With his delicate cheek
Would smile at as 'barbarous'--faith, he well might.

For when it _is_ done,
I doubt if, for one,
I myself could explain how the meaning might run;
And as for the style--
Well, it's hardly worth while
To talk about style, where style there is none.

It was all very fine
For a poet divine
Like Byron, to rave of Greek women and wine;
But the Prose that I sing
Is a different thing,
And I frankly acknowledge it's not in my line.

So away with Greek Prose,
The source of my woes!
(This metre's too tough, I must draw to a close.)
May Sargent be drowned
In the ocean profound,
And Sidgwick be food for the carrion crows!

AN ORATOR'S COMPLAINT

How many the troubles that wait
On mortals!--especially those
Who endeavour in eloquent prose
To expound their views, and orate.

Did you ever attempt to speak
When you hadn't a word to say?
Did you find that it wouldn't pay,
And subside, feeling dreadfully weak?

Did you ever, when going ahead
In a fervid defence of the Stage,
Get checked in your noble rage
By somehow losing your thread?

Did you ever rise to reply
To a toast (say 'The Volunteers'),
And evoke loud laughter and cheers,
When you didn't exactly know why?

Did you ever wax witty, and when
You had smashed an opponent quite small,
Did he seem not to mind it at all,
But get up and smash you again?

If any or all of these things
Have happened to you (as to me),
I think you'll be found to agree
With yours truly, when sadly he sings:

'How many the troubles that wait
On mortals!--especially those
Who endeavour in eloquent prose
To expound their views, and orate.'

MILTON

WITH APOLOGIES TO LORD TENNYSON

O swallow-tailed purveyor of college sprees,
O skilled to please the student fraternity,
Most honoured publican of Scotland,
Milton, a name to adorn the Cross Keys;
Whose chosen waiters, Samuel, Archibald,
Helped by the boots and marker at billiards,
Wait, as the smoke-filled, crowded chamber
Rings to the roar of a Gaelic chorus--
Me rather all those temperance hostelries,
The soda siphon fizzily murmuring,
And lime fruit juice and seltzer water
Charm, as a wanderer out in South Street,
Where some recruiting, eager Blue-Ribbonites
Spied me afar and caught by the Post Office,
And crimson-nosed the latest convert
Fastened the odious badge upon me.

MAGNI NOMINIS UMBRA

St. Andrews! not for ever thine shall be
Merely the shadow of a mighty name,
The remnant only of an ancient fame
Which time has crumbled, as thy rocks the sea.

For thou, to whom was given the earliest key
Of knowledge in this land (and all men came
To learn of thee), shalt once more rise and claim
The glory that of right belongs to thee.

Grey in thine age, there yet in thee abides
The force of youth, to make thyself anew
A name of honour and a place of power.
Arise, then! shake the dust from off thy sides;
Thou shalt have many where thou now hast few;
Again thou shalt be great. Quick come the hour!

SONG FROM 'THE PRINCESS'

As through the street at eve we went (It might be half-past ten), We fell out, my friend and I, About the cube of _x+y_, And made it up again. And blessings on the falling out Between two learned men, Who fight on points which neither knows, And make it up again! For when we came where stands an inn We visit now and then, There above a pint of beer, Oh there above a pint of beer, We made it up again.

ANDREW M'CRIE

FROM THE UNPUBLISHED REMAINS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE

It was many and many a year ago,
In a city by the sea,
That a man there lived whom I happened to know
By the name of Andrew M'Crie;
And this man he slept in another room,
But ground and had meals with me.

I was an ass and he was an ass,
In this city by the sea;
But we ground in a way which was more than a grind,
I and Andrew M'Crie;
In a way that the idle semis next door
Declared was shameful to see.

And this was the reason that, one dark night,
In this city by the sea,
A stone flew in at the window, hitting
The milk-jug and Andrew M'Crie.
And once some low-bred tertians came,
And bore him away from me,
And shoved him into a private house
Where the people were having tea.

Professors, not half so well up in their work,
Went envying him and me--
Yes!--that was the reason, I always thought
(And Andrew agreed with me),
Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year,
Chilling and killing poor Andrew M'Crie.

But his ghost is more terrible far than the ghosts
Of many more famous than he--
Of many more gory than he--
And neither visits to foreign coasts,
Nor tonics, can ever set free
Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith
Of the injured Andrew M'Crie.

For at night, as they dream, they frequently scream,
'Have mercy, Mr. M'Crie!'
And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes,
And the very first thing they will see,
When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls,
Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals,
With a volume of notes on its knee,
Is the spectre of Andrew M'Crie.

AN INTERVIEW

I met him down upon the pier;
His eyes were wild and sad,
And something in them made me fear
That he was going mad.

So, being of a prudent sort,
I stood some distance off,
And before speaking gave a short
Conciliatory cough.

I then observed, 'What makes you look
So singularly glum?'
No notice of my words he took.
I said, 'Pray, are you dumb?'

'Oh no!' he said, 'I do not think
My power of speech is lost,
But when one's hopes are black as ink,
Why, talking is a frost.

'You see, I'm in for Math. again,
And certain to be ploughed.
Please tell me 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 its flight.

I lent five shillings to some men, They spent it all, I know not when, For who is quick enough to know The time in which a crown may go?

Long, long afterward, in a whin I found the golf-ball, black as sin; But the five shillings are missing still! They haven't turned up, and I doubt if they will.

TO THE READER OF 'UNIVERSITY NOTES'

Ah yes, we know what you're saying,
As your eye glances over these Notes:
'What asses are these that are braying
With flat and unmusical throats?
Who writes such unspeakable patter?
Is it lunatics, idiots--or who?'
And you think there is 'something the matter.'
Well, we think so too.

We have sat, full of sickness and sorrow,
As the hours dragged heavily on,
Till the midnight has merged into morrow,
And the darkness is going or gone.
We are Editors. Give us the credit
Of meaning to do what we could;
But, since there is nothing to edit,
It isn't much good.

Once we shared the delightful delusion
That to edit was racy and rare,
But we suffered a sad disillusion,
And we found that our castles were air;
We had decked them with carvings and gildings,
We had filled them with laughter and fun,
But all of a sudden the buildings
Came down with a run.

Not a trace was there left of the carving,
And the gilding had vanished from sight;
But the 'column' for matter was starving,
And we had not to edit--but write.
So we set to and wrote. Can you wonder,
If the writing was feeble or dead?
We had started as editors--Thunder!
We were authors instead.

We'd mistaken our calling, election,
Vocation, department, and use;
We had thought that our task was selection,
And we found that we had to produce.
So we sigh for release from our labours,
We pray for a happy despatch,
We will take our last leave of our neighbours,
And then--Colney Hatch.

We are singing this dolorous ditty
As we part at the foot of the stairs;
We cannot but think it's a pity,
But what matter? there's nobody cares.
Our candle burns low in its socket,
There is nothing left but the wick;
And these Notes, that went up like a rocket,
Come down like the stick.

[GREEK TITLE]

Ever to be the best. To lead
In whatsoever things are true;
Not stand among the halting crew,
The faint of heart, the feeble-kneed,
Who tarry for a certain sign
To make them follow with the rest--
Oh, let not their reproach be thine!
But ever be the best.

For want of this aspiring soul,
Great deeds on earth remain undone,
But, sharpened by the sight of one,
Many shall press toward the goal.
Thou running foremost of the throng,
The fire of striving in thy breast,
Shalt win, although the race be long,
And ever be the best.

And wilt thou question of the prize?
'Tis not of silver or of gold,
Nor in applauses manifold,
But hidden in the heart it lies:
To know that but for thee not one
Had run the race or sought the quest,
To know that thou hast ever done
And ever been the best.

CATULLUS AT HIS BROTHER'S GRAVE

Through many lands and over many seas I come, my Brother, to thine obsequies, To pay thee the last honours that remain, And call upon thy voiceless dust, in vain. Since cruel fate has robbed me even of thee, Unhappy Brother, snatched away from me, Now none the less the gifts our fathers gave, The melancholy honours of the grave, Wet with my tears I bring to thee, and say Farewell! farewell! for ever and a day.

LOST AT SEA

Lost at sea, with all on board! No one saw their sinking sail, No one heard their dying wail, Heard them calling on the Lord-- Lost at sea, with all on board.

Till the sea gives up its dead, There they lie in quiet sleep, And the voices of the deep Sound unheeded overhead, Till the sea gives up its dead.

PLEASANT PROPHECIES

A day of gladness yet will dawn,
Though when I cannot say;
Perhaps it may be Thursday week,
Perhaps some other day,--

When man, freed from the bond of clothes,
And needing no more food,
Shall never pull his neighbour's nose,
But be extremely good.

When Love and Nobleness shall live
Next door to Truth and Right,
While Reverence shall rent a room,
Upon the second flight.

And wishes shall be horses then,
And beggars shall be kings;
And all the people shall admire
This pleasant state of things.

But if it seems a mystery,
And you're inclined to doubt it,
Just ask your local poet. He
Will tell you all about it.

THE DELIGHTS OF MATHEMATICS

It seems a hundred years or more
Since I, with note-book, ink and pen,
In cap and gown, first trod the floor
Which I have often trod since then;
Yet well do I remember when,
With fifty other fond fanatics,
I sought delights beyond my ken,
The deep delights of Mathematics.

I knew that two and two made four,
I felt that five times two were ten,
But, as for all profounder lore,
The robin redbreast or the wren,
The sparrow, whether cock or hen,
Knew quite as much about Quadratics,
Was less confused by _x_ and _n_,
The deep delights of Mathematics.

The Asses' Bridge I passed not o'er,
I floundered in the noisome fen
Which lies behind it and before;
I wandered in the gloomy glen
Where Surds and Factors have their den.
But when I saw the pit of Statics,
I said Good-bye, Farewell, Amen!
The deep delights of Mathematics.

O Bejants! blessed, beardless men,
Who strive with Euclid in your attics,
For worlds I would not taste again
The deep delights of Mathematics.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

I loved a little maiden
In the golden years gone by;
She lived in a mill, as they all do
(There is doubtless a reason why).
But she faded in the autumn
When the leaves began to fade,
And the night before she faded,
These words to me she said:
'Do not forget me, Henry,
Be noble and brave and true;
But I must not bide, for the world is wide,
And the sky above is blue.'

So I said farewell to my darling,
And sailed away and came back;
And the good ship _Jane_ was in port again,
And I found that they all loved Jack.
But Polly and I were sweethearts,
As all the neighbours know,
Before I met with the mill-girl
Twenty years ago.
So I thought I would go and see her,
But alas, she had faded too!
She could not bide, for the world was wide,
And the sky above was blue.

And now I can only remember
The maid--the maid of the mill,
And Polly, and one or two others
In the churchyard over the hill.
And I sadly ask the question,
As I weep in the yew-tree's shade
With my elbow on one of their tombstones,
'Ah, why did they all of them fade?'
And the answer I half expected
Comes from the solemn yew,
'They could none of them bide, for the world was wide,
And the sky above was blue.'

THE END OF APRIL

This is the time when larks are singing loud
And higher still ascending and more high,
This is the time when many a fleecy cloud
Runs lamb-like on the pastures of the sky,
This is the time when most I love to lie
Stretched on the links, now listening to the sea,
Now looking at the train that dawdles by;
But James is going in for his degree.

James is my brother. He has twice been ploughed,
Yet he intends to have another shy,
Hoping to pass (as he says) in a crowd.
Sanguine is James, but not so sanguine I.
If you demand my reason, I reply:
Because he reads no Greek without a key
And spells Thucydides c-i-d-y;
Yet James is going in for his degree.

No doubt, if the authorities allowed
The taking in of Bohns, he might defy
The stiffest paper that has ever cowed
A timid candidate and made him fly.
Without such aids, he all as well may try
To cultivate the people of Dundee,
Or lead the camel through the needle's eye;
Yet James is going in for his degree.

Vain are the efforts hapless mortals ply
To climb of knowledge the forbidden tree;
Yet still about its roots they strive and cry,
And James is going in for his degree.

THE SCIENCE CLUB

Hurrah for the Science Club!
Join it, ye fourth year men;
Join it, thou smooth-cheeked scrub,
Whose years scarce number ten

Join it, divines most grave;
Science, as all men know,
As a friend the Church may save,
But may damage her as a foe.

(And in any case it is well,
If attacking insidious doubt,
Or devoting H--- to H---,
To know what you're talking about.)

Hurrah for the lang-nebbit word!
Hurrah for the erudite phrase,
That in Dura Den shall be heard,
That shall echo on Kinkell Braes!

Hurrah for the spoils of the links
(The golf-ball as well as the daisy)!
Hurrah for explosions and stinks
To set half the landladies crazy!

Hurrah for the fragments of boulders,
Surpassing in size and in weight,
To be carried home on the shoulders
And laid on the table in state!

Hurrah for the flying-machine
Long buried from sight in a cupboard,
With bones that would never have been
Desired of old Mother Hubbard!

Hurrah for the hazardous boat,
For the crabs (of all kinds) to be caught,
For the eggs on the surface that float,
And the lump-sucker curiously wrought!

Hurrah for the filling of tanks
In the shanty down by the shore,
For the Royal Society's thanks,
With Fellowships flying galore!

Hurrah for discourses on worms,
Where one listens and comes away
With a stock of bewildering terms,
And nothing whatever to pay!

Hurrah for gadding about
Of a Saturday afternoon,
In the light of research setting out,
Coming home in the light of the moon!

Hurrah for Guardbridge, and the mill
Where one learns how paper is made!
Hurrah for the samples that fill
One's drawer with the finest cream-laid!

Hurrah for the Brewery visit
And beer in liberal doses!
In the cause of Science, what is it
But inspecting a technical process?

Hurrah for a trip to Dundee
To study the spinning of jute!
Hurrah for a restaurant tea,
And a sight of the Tay Bridge to boot!

Hurrah, after every excursion,
To feel one's improving one's mind,
With the smallest amount of exertion,
And that of the pleasantest kind!

IMITATED FROM WORDSWORTH

He brought a team from Inversnaid
To play our Third Fifteen,
A man whom none of us had played
And very few had seen.

He weighed not less than eighteen stone,
And to a practised eye
He seemed as little fit to run
As he was fit to fly.

He looked so clumsy and so slow,
And made so little fuss;
But he got in behind--and oh,
The difference to us!

REFLECTIONS OF A MAGISTRAND

ON RETURNING TO ST. ANDREWS

In the hard familiar horse-box I am sitting once again; Creeping back to old St. Andrews comes the slow North British train,

Bearing bejants with their luggage (boxes full of heavy books, Which the porter, hot and tipless, eyes with unforgiving looks),

Bearing third year men and second, bearing them and bearing me, Who am now a fourth year magnate with two parts of my degree.

We have started off from Leuchars, and my thoughts have started too Back to times when this sensation was entirely fresh and new.

When I marvelled at the towers beyond the Eden's wide expanse, Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's manse

With some money in his pocket, with some down upon his cheek, With the elements of Latin, with the rudiments of Greek.

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, Underneath the towers he looks at, in among the throngs of men,

Men from Fife and men from Forfar, from the High School of Dundee, Ten or twelve from other counties, and from England two or three.

Oh, the Bursary Competition! oh, the wonder and the rage, When I saw my name omitted from the schedule in the cage!

Grief is strong but youth elastic, and I rallied from the blow, For I felt that there were few things in the world I did not know.

Then my ready-made opinions upon all things under heaven I declaimed with sound and fury, to an audience of eleven

Gathered in the Logic class-room, sworn to settle the debate, _Does the Stage upon the whole demoralise or elevate_?

This and other joys I tasted. I became a Volunteer, Murmuring _Dulce et decorum_ in the Battery-Sergeant's ear;

Joined the Golf Club, and with others of an afternoon was seen Vainly searching in the whins, or foozling on the putting-green;

Took a minor part in Readings; lifted up my voice and sang At the Musical rehearsals, till the class-room rafters rang;

Wrote long poems for the Column; entered for the S. R. C, And, if I remember rightly, was thrown out by twenty-three;

Ground a little for my classes, till the hour of nine or ten, When I read a decent novel or went out to see some men.

So I reaped the large experience which has made me what I am, Far removed from bejanthood as is St. Andrews from Siam.

But with age and with experience disenchantment comes to all, Even pleasure on the keenest appetite at last will pall.

Had I now a hundred pounds, a hundred pounds would I bestow To enjoy the loud solatium as I did three years ago,

When the songs were less familiar, less familiar too the pies, And I did not mind receiving orange-peel between the eyes.

Yet, in spite of disenchantment, and in spite of finding out There are some things in the world that I am hardly sure about,

Still sufficient of illusion and inexplicable grace Hangs about the grey old town to make it a delightful place.

Though solatiums charm no longer, though a gaudeamus fails With its atmosphere unwholesome to expand my spirit's sails,

Though rectorial elections are if anything a bore, And I do not care to carry dripping torches any more,

Though my soul for Moral lectures does not vehemently yearn, Though the north-east winds are bitter--I am willing to return.

At this point in my reflections, on the left the Links expand, Many a whin bush full of prickles, many a bunker full of sand.

And I see distinguished club-men, whom I only know by sight, Old, obese, and scarlet-coated, playing golf with all their might;

As they were three years ago, when first I travelled by this train, As they will be three years hence, if I should come this way again.

What to them is train or traveller? what to them the flight of time? But we draw too near the station to indulge in the sublime.

In a minute at the furthest on the platform I shall stand, Waiting till they take my trunk out, with my hat-box in my hand.

As the railway train approaches and the train of thought recedes, I behold Professor --- in a brand new suit of tweeds.

TO C. C. C.

Oh for the nights when we used to sit
In the firelight's glow or flicker,
With the gas turned low and our pipes all lit,
And the air fast growing thicker;

When you, enthroned in the big arm-chair,
Would spin for us yarns unending,
Your voice and accent and pensive air
With the narrative subtly blending!

Oh for the bleak and wintry days
When we set our blood in motion,
Leaping the rocks below the braes
And wetting our feet in the ocean,

Or shying at marks for moderate sums
(A penny a hit, you remember),
With aching fingers and purple thumbs,
In the merry month of December!

There is little doubt we were very daft,
And our sports, like the stakes, were trifling;
While the air of the room where we talked and laughed
Was often unpleasantly stifling.

Now we are grave and sensible men,
And wrinkles our brows embellish,
And I fear we shall never relish again
The pleasures we used to relish.

And I fear we never again shall go,
The cold and weariness scorning,
For a ten mile walk through the frozen snow
At one o'clock in the morning:

Out by Cameron, in by the Grange,
And to bed as the moon descended . . .
To you and to me there has come a change,
And the days of our youth are ended.

ON AN EDINBURGH ADVOCATE

In youth with diligence he toiled
A Roman nose to gain,
But though a decent pug was spoiled,
A pug it did remain.

THE BANISHED BEJANT

FROM THE UNPUBLISHED REMAINS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE

In the oldest of our alleys,
By good bejants tenanted,
Once a man whose name was Wallace--
William Wallace--reared his head.
Rowdy Bejant in the college
He was styled:
Never had these halls of knowledge
Welcomed waster half so wild!

Tassel blue and long and silken
From his cap did float and flow
(This was cast into the Swilcan
Two months ago);
And every gentle air that sported
With his red gown,
Displayed a suit of clothes, reported
The most alarming in the town.

Wanderers in that ancient alley
Through his luminous window saw
Spirits come continually
From a case well packed with straw,
Just behind the chair where, sitting
With air serene,
And in a blazer loosely fitting,
The owner of the bunk was seen.

And all with cards and counters straying
Was the place littered o'er,
With which sat playing, playing, playing,
And wrangling evermore,
A group of fellows, whose chief function
Was to proclaim,
In voices of surpassing unction,
Their luck and losses in the game.

But stately things, in robes of learning,
Discussed one day the bejant's fate:
Ah, let us mourn him unreturning,
For they resolved to rusticate!
And now the glory he inherits,
Thus dished and doomed,
Is largely founded on the merits
Of the Old Tom consumed.

And wanderers, now, within that alley
Through the half-open shutters see,
Old crones, that talk continually
In a discordant minor key:
While, with a kind of nervous shiver,
Past the front door,
His former set go by for ever,
But knock--or ring--no more.

NOTES

For the information of those who have not the happiness to be members of the University of St. Andrews, it may be well to explain a few terms. A _bejant_ is an undergraduate student of the first year. In his second year he becomes a _semi_, in his third a _tertian_, and in his fourth a _magistrand_. The last would seem to be a gerundive form, implying that a man at the end of his fourth year ought to be made a Master of Arts; but unfortunately this does not always happen. A _divine_ is a student in Divinity. A _waster_ is a man of idle and (it may be) profligate habits. A _grinder_, on the contrary, is one who 'grinds' or reads with an unusual degree of application. A _bunk_ is the lodging or abode in St. Andrews of any student. A _spree_ is not necessarily an entertainment of rowdy character; the most decorous Professorial dinner- party would be called a spree. A _solatium_ is a Debating Society spree, held in December or January; a _gaudeamus_ is a festival of the same kind, only rather more ambitious, celebrated towards the close of the session. _Session_ would be rendered in England by 'term.' The _Competition_ (for _Bursaries_), or the 'Comp.,' is the examination for entrance scholarships. The _cage_ is a curious structure of glass, iron, and wood, in which notices and examination lists are posted. The letters _S. R. C_. denote the Students' Representative Council. An _L.L.A_. is a Lady Literate in Arts. _Math_. (as the discerning reader will not be slow to perceive) is an abbreviation, endearing or otherwise, of the word Mathematics. _Moral_ stands for Moral Philosophy. _Prof_. is a shortened form of Professor, and _certif_. of certificate. _Plough, pluck_, and _spin_ are used indifferently, to signify the action of an examiner in rejecting a candidate for the M.A. or any other degree. It should be mentioned that the degree of B.A. is not now conferred by the Universities of Scotland.

Page 4. Euripides: _Hippolytus_, 70-87.

Page 22. _Odes_, I. II.

Page 52. _The Town Water_. The state of things described in this ballad, so far as the quality of St. Andrews water is concerned, has long since been remedied. As to the demeanour of the Bailies and Councillors, I cannot speak with the same certainty.

Page 64. _Milton, a name to adorn the Cross Keys_. Mr. Milton's name is no longer associated with this time-honoured tavern, but with a new hotel.

Page 86. [GREEK TITLE]. The motto in the Upper Library Hall, where the ceremony of Graduation takes place.

Page 88. Catullus, CI.

Page 101. _The shanty down by the shore_. The St. Andrews Marine Biological Laboratory.

Page 117. _This was cast into the Swilcan_. The Swilcan Burn is a small stream which flows across the golfing links, and forms one of the hazards of the course.

EDINBURGH T. & A. CONSTABLE Printers to Her Majesty