“HIC VIR, HIC EST.”

Often, when o'er tree and turret,

Eve a dying radiance flings,

By that ancient pile I linger

Known familiarly as “King's.”

And the ghosts of days departed

Rise, and in my burning breast

All the undergraduate wakens,

And my spirit is at rest.

What, but a revolting fiction,

Seems the actual result

Of the Census's enquiries

Made upon the th ult.?

Still my soul is in its boyhood;

Nor of year or changes recks.

Though my scalp is almost hairless,

And my figure grows convex.

Backward moves the kindly dial;

And I'm numbered once again

With those noblest of their species

Called emphatically‘ Men':

Loaf, as I have loafed aforetime,

Through the streets, with tranquil mind,

And a long-backed fancy-mongrel

Trailing casually behind:

Past the Senate-house I saunter,

Whistling with an easy grace;

Past the cabbage-stalks that carpet

Still the beefy market-place;

Poising evermore the eye-glass

In the light sarcastic eye,

Lest, by chance, some breezy nursemaid

Pass, without a tribute, by.

Once, an unassuming Freshman,

Through these wilds I wandered on,

Seeing in each house a College,

Under every cap a Don:

Each perambulating infant

Had a magic in its squall,

For my eager eye detected

Senior Wranglers in them all.

By degrees my education

Grew, and I became as others;

Learned to court delirium tremens

By the aid of Bacon Brothers;

Bought me tiny boots of Mortlock,

And colossal prints of Roe;

And ignored the proposition

That both time and money go.

Learned to work the wary dogcart

Artfully through King's Parade;

Dress, and steer a boat, and sport with

Amaryllis in the shade:

Struck, at Brown's, the dashing hazard;

Or ( more curious sport than that )

Dropped, at Callaby's, the terrier

Down upon the prisoned rat.

I have stood serene on Fenner's

Ground, indifferent to blisters,

While the Buttress of the period

Bowled me his peculiar twisters:

Sung‘ We wo n't go home till morning’;

Striven to part my backhair straight;

Drunk ( not lavishly ) of Miller's

Old dry wines at : -

When within my veins the blood ran,

And the curls were on my brow,

I did, oh ye undergraduates,

Much as ye are doing now.

Wherefore bless ye, O beloved ones: -

Now unto mine inn must I,

Your‘ poor moralist,’ betake me,

In my‘ solitary fly.’