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 glass 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 muffin. To the Parks Drags the slow Ladies' School, consuming time In passing 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 shilling.— Draw the curtains close While I resume the night-cap dear to all Familiar with my illustrated 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 butterfly 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 cluster, cluster, cluster 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 bumpit 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 (God 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 bumpit sair By boaties two and three: Sing stretchers of yew for our Toggere, Sith we maun bumpit 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 hell 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.'

By W. W.

Behold! I am not one that goes to Lectures or the pow-wow of Professors.

The elementary laws never apologise: neither do I apologise.

I find letters from the Dean dropt on my table—and every one is signed by the Dean's name—

And I leave them where they are; for I know that as long as I stay up

Others will punctually come for ever and ever.

I am one who goes to the river,

I sit in the boat and think of 'life' and of 'time.'

How life is much, but time is more; and the beginning is everything,

But the end is something.

I loll in the Parks, I go to the wicket, I swipe.

I see twenty-two young men from Foster's watching me, and the trousers of the twenty-two young men,

I see the Balliol men en masse watching me.—The Hottentot that loves his mother, the untutored Bedowee, the Cave-man that wears only his certificate of baptism, and the shaggy Sioux that hangs his testamur with his scalps.

I see the Don who ploughed me in Rudiments watching me: and the wife of the Don who ploughed me in Rudiments watching me.

I see the rapport of the wicket-keeper and umpire. I cannot see that I am out.

Oh! you Umpires!

I am not one who greatly cares for experience, soap, bull-dogs, cautions, majorities, or a graduated Income-Tax,

The certainty of space, punctuation, sexes, institutions, copiousness, degrees, committees, delicatesse, or the fetters of rhyme—

For none of these do I care: but least for the fetters of rhyme.

Myself only I sing. Me Imperturbe! Me Prononce!

Me progressive and the depth of me progressive,

And the bathos, Anglice bathos

Of me chanting to the Public the song of Simple Enumeration.

CALIBAN UPON RUDIMENTS[1].

OR AUTOSCHEDIASTIC THEOLOGY IN A HOLE.

Rudiments, Rudiments, and Rudiments! 'Thinketh one made them i' the fit o' the blues.

'Thinketh one made them with the 'tips' to match, But not the answers; 'doubteth there be none, Only Guides, Helps, Analyses, such as that: Also this Beast, that groweth sleek thereon, And snow-white bands that round the neck o' the same.

'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease. 'Hath heard that Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands, and the rest o 't. That's the case. Also 'hath heard they pop the names i' the hat, Toss out a brace, a dozen stick inside; Let forty through and plough the sorry rest.

'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in them, Only their strength, being made o' sloth i' the main— 'Am strong myself compared to yonder names O' Jewish towns i' the paper. Watch th' event— 'Let twenty pass, 'have a shot at twenty-first, 'Miss Ramoth-Gilead, 'take Jehoiakim, 'Let Abner by and spot Melchizedek, Knowing not, caring not, just choosing so, As it likes me each time, I do: so they.

'Saith they be terrible: watch their feats i' the Viva! One question plays the deuce with six months' toil. Aha, if they would tell me! No, not they! There is the sport: 'come read me right or die!' All at their mercy,—why they like it most When—when—well, never try the same shot twice! 'Hath fled himself and only got up a tree.

'Will say a plain word if he gets a plough.

[1] Caliban museth of the now extinct Examination in the Rudiments of Faith and Religion.

SOLVITUR ACRIS HIEMPS.

My Juggins, see: the pasture green, Obeying Nature's kindly law, Renews its mantle; there has been A thaw.

The frost-bound earth is free at last, That lay 'neath Winter's sullen yoke 'Till people felt it getting past A joke.

Now forth again the Freshers fare, And get them tasty summer suits Wherein they flaunt afield and scare The brutes.

Again the stream suspects the keel; Again the shrieking captain drops Upon his crew; again the meal Of chops

Divides the too-laborious day; Again the Student sighs o'er Mods, And prompts his enemies to lay Long odds.

Again the shopman spreads his wiles; Again the organ-pipes, unbound, Distract the populace for miles Around.

Then, Juggins, ere December's touch Once more the wealth of Spring reclaim, Since each successive year is much The same;

Since too the monarch on his throne In purple lapped and frankincense, Who from his infancy has blown Expense,

No less than he who barely gets The boon of out-of-door relief, Must see desuetude,—come let's Be brief.

At those resolves last New Year's Day The easy gods indulgent wink. Then downward, ho!—the shortest way Is drink.

A LETTER.

Addressed during the Summer Term of 1888 by Mr. Algernon Dexter, Scholar of ——— College, Oxford, to his cousin, Miss Kitty Tremayne, at ——— Vicarage, Devonshire.

After W. M. P.

Dear Kitty, At length the term's ending; I 'm in for my Schools in a week; And the time that at present I'm spending On you should be spent upon Greek: But I'm fairly well read in my Plato, I'm thoroughly red in the eyes, And I've almost forgotten the way to Be healthy and wealthy and wise. So 'the best of all ways'—why repeat you The verse at 2.30 a.m., When I 'm stealing an hour to entreat you Dear Kitty, to come to Commem.?

Oh, come! You shall rustle in satin Through halls where Examiners trod: Your laughter shall triumph o'er Latin In lecture-room, garden, and quad. They stand in the silent Sheldonian— Our orators, waiting—for you, Their style guaranteed Ciceronian, Their subject—'the Ladies in Blue.' The Vice sits arrayed in his scarlet; He's pale, but they say he dissem- -bles by calling his Beadle a 'varlet' Whenever he thinks of Commem.

There are dances, flirtations at Nuneham, Flower-shows, the procession of Eights: There's a list stretching usque ad Lunam Of concerts, and lunches, and fetes: There's the Newdigate all about 'Gordon,' —So sweet, and they say it will scan. You shall flirt with a Proctor, a Warden Shall run for your shawl and your fan. They are sportive as gods broken loose from Olympus, and yet very em- -inent men. There are plenty to choose from, You'll find, if you come to Commem.

I know your excuses: Red Sorrel Has stumbled and broken her knees; Aunt Phoebe thinks waltzing immoral; And 'Algy, you are such a tease; It's nonsense, of course, but she is strict'; And little Dick Hodge has the croup; And there's no one to visit your 'district' Or make Mother Tettleby's soup. Let them cease for a se'nnight to plague you; Oh, leave them to manage pro tem. With their croups and their soups and their ague) Dear Kitty, and come to Commem.

Don't tell me Papa has lumbago, That you haven't a frock fit to wear, That the curate 'has notions, and may go To lengths if there's nobody there,' That the Squire has 'said things' to the Vicar, And the Vicar 'had words' with the Squire, That the Organist's taken to liquor, And leaves you to manage the choir: For Papa must be cured, and the curate Coerced, and your gown is a gem; And the moral is—Don't be obdurate, Dear Kitty, but come to Commem.

'My gown? Though, no doubt, sir, you're clever, You 'd better leave fashions alone. Do you think that a frock lasts for ever?' Dear Kitty, I'll grant you have grown; But I thought of my 'scene' with McVittie That night when he trod on your train At the Bachelor's Ball. ''Twas a pity,' You said, but I knew 'twas Champagne. And your gown was enough to compel me To fall down and worship its hem— (Are 'hems' wearing? If not, you shall tell me What is, when you come to Commem.)

Have you thought, since that night, of the Grotto? Of the words whispered under the palms, While the minutes flew by and forgot to Remind us of Aunt and her qualms? Of the stains of the old Journalisten? Of the rose that I begged from your hair? When you turned, and I saw something glisten— Dear Kitty, don't frown; it was there! But that idiot Delane in the middle Bounced in with 'Our dance, I—ahem!' And—the rose you may find in my Liddell And Scott when you come to Commem.

Then, Kitty, let 'yes' be the answer. We'll dance at the 'Varsity Ball, And the morning shall find you a dancer In Christ Church or Trinity hall. And perhaps, when the elders are yawning And rafters grow pale overhead With the day, there shall come with its dawning Some thought of that sentence unsaid. Be it this, be it that—'I forget,' or 'Was joking'—whatever the fem- -inine fib, you'll have made me your debtor And come,—you will come? to Commem.