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My Tityrus! and is’ t a fact

( As wondrous facts there are )

That History’ s scenes thou wouldst enact

Beside the banks of Cher?

Wilt thou for pomps like these desert

Thy calm and cloistered lair,

Not quite so young as once thou wert,

Nor ( pardon me ) so fair?

We saw thee stalk in youthful prime

With high Proctorial mien:

We saw the majesty sublime

Which marked the Junior Dean;

O pundit grave! O sage M. A.!

Say in what happy part

Thou wilt before the crowd display

Thy histrionic art!

With cranium bald, which ne’ er again

Will need the barber’ s shear,

Wilt thou present in Charles his train

Some long-locked Cavalier?

A sober Don for all to see

Who once didst walk abroad,

Wilt now an Ancient Briton be

And painted blue with woad?

Me from such scenes afar remove,

And hide my shuddering head

Where Nature doth in field and grove

Her fairer pageant spread:

There will I meditating lie

’ Mid summer’ s calm delights,—

But thou wilt walk adown the High

My Tityrus,— in Tights....