School

Fair ladies, why don't you direct us What hour you are coming from Town In the toilets that ravage the masculine pectus, The bonnets that knock a man down? Silky and summery flounces and flummery, Gossamer muslins and lawns, With the spring in your air and a rose in your hair And a step that is light as a fawn's?

Our Fellows, both clergy and laity, Leaving their sheltering oaks, In a rapture of light irresponsible gaiety Burst into flannels and jokes; The Dean is canoeing, the Bursar is wooing, The Junior Proctor you'll find In a sumptuous punt with a damsel in front And a Bull-dog to push from behind.

Ah, moist are our meadows, but moister My lip at the thought of it all! Soft ripple of dresses that flow in the cloister, Girl laughter that rings on the wall! But avaunt, trepidation! it's time for the station; I'm glad that my trousers are pressed; For I think you'll arrive by the 4.45, And I want to be looking my best.

G. W. ARMITAGE. June 28, 1911.

When the gusts are at play with the trees on the lawn, And the lights are put out in the vault of the night; When within all is snug, for the curtains are drawn, And the fire is aglow and the lamps are alight, Sometimes, as I muse, from the place where I am My thoughts fly away to a room near the Cam.

'Tis a ramshackle room, where a man might complain Of a slope in the ceiling, a rise in the floor; With a view on a court and a glimpse on a lane, And no end of cool wind through the chinks of the door; With a deep-seated chair that I love to recall, And some groups of young oarsmen in shorts on the wall.

There's a fat jolly jar of tobacco, some pipes— A meerschaum, a briar, a cherry, a clay— There's a three-handled cup fit for Audit or Swipes When the breakfast is done and the plates cleared away. There's a litter of papers, of books a scratch lot, Such as Plato, and Dickens, and Liddell and Scott.

And a crone in a bonnet that's more like a rag From a mist of remembrance steps suddenly out; And her funny old tongue never ceases to wag As she tidies the room where she bustles about; For a man may be strong and a man may be young, But he can't put a drag on a Bedmaker's tongue.

And, oh, there's a youngster who sits at his ease In the hope, which is vain, that the tongue may run down, With his feet on the grate and a book on his knees, And his cheeks they are smooth and his hair it is brown. Then I sigh myself back to the place where I am From that ramshackle room near the banks of the Cam.

R. C. LEHMANN. Feb. 9, 1910.

Since 1642, when CROMWELL (late Of Sidney Sussex), constitution-wrecker, Sat on the Cam to keep the college plate From drifting into CHARLES'S low exchequer, No shattering battle-blast has shocked the walls Of these enchanted halls.

But now their hoary shrines and hallowed shade Provide the billets for a camp's headquarters; An army, bedded out on King's Parade, Usurps the wonted haunt of gowns and mortars, Even adopts—a wanton thing to do— The blessed name of "Blue"!

The paths where pensive scholars paced at ease Ring to the hustling clank of spurs and sabres; The ploughshare, forged for pale examinees, Forgets its usual academic labours And, commandeered for ends unknown before, Turns to a tool of war.

The buttery becomes a mere canteen; Upon the dais whence the Johnian fellow Pities the undergraduate's rude cuisine (His own condition verging on the mellow), Foreign attachés eat the local swans Bred for the use of dons.

I see the grass of many an ancient court All divots where the cavalry has pawed it; I see the thirsty aides-de-camp resort There where the Trinity fountain runs with audit; I see the Reverend MONTAGU, Chief BUTLER, Acting as army sutler!

Those swards that grace his own familiar quad, Where only angels (looking in from Ely), Angels and dons alone, till now have trod— There I remark the War-Lord, Colonel SEELY, Brazenly tramping, under martial law, Dead to a sense of awe.

Where mid her storied reeds old Granta flows Profane vedettes discuss the morrow's mêlée; On Parker's sacred Piece the troopers dose, And, when the sudden bugle sounds reveille, Feed their indifferent chargers on the dews Ambrosial of the Muse.

And what is this strange object like a whale In Jesus Close? None ever thought to meet a Monster like that, on such a bulgy scale (Not though it bore the classic sign of "Beta"), Lashed for the night in yon Elysian lair— Not there, my child, not there.

The peaceful pedant by his well-trimmed lamp, Dimly aware of this adjacent bogie, Protests against the horrors of a camp And Cur, he asks, cur cedunt armis togae? And the same thought is echoed on the lips Of bedders and of gyps.

O Cambridge, home of Culture's pure delights, My fostering Mother, what a desecration! Yet England chose you (out of several sites) To be her bulwark and to save the nation; Compared with this proud triumph you have won, Pray, what has Oxford done?

SIR OWEN SEAMAN. Sept. 25, 1912.

Last week, a prey to military duty, I turned my lagging footsteps to the West; I have a natural taste for scenic beauty, And all my pent emotions may be guessed To find myself again At Didcot, loathliest junction of the plain.

But all things come unto the patient waiter, "Behold!" I cried, "in yon contiguous blue Beetle the antique spires of Alma Mater Almost exactly as they used to do In 1898, When I became an undergraduate.

"O joys whereto I went as to a bridal, With Youth's fair aureole clustering on a brow That no amount of culture (herpecidal) Will coax the semblance of a crop from now, Once more I make ye mine; There is a train that leaves at half-past nine.

"In a rude land where life among the boys is One long glad round of cards and coffin juice, And any sort of intellectual poise is The constant butt of well-expressed abuse, And it is no disgrace To put a table-knife inside one's face,

"I have remembered picnics on the Isis, Bonfires and bumps and BOFFIN'S cakes and tea, Nor ever dreamed a European crisis Would make a British soldier out of me— The mute inglorious kind That push the beastly war on from behind.

"But here I am" (I mused) "and quad and cloister Are beckoning to me with the old allure; The lovely world of Youth shall be mine oyster Which I for one-and-ninepence can secure, Reaching on Memory's wing Parnassus' groves and Wisdom's fabled spring."

But oh, the facts! How doomed to disillusion The dreams that cheat the mind's responsive eye! Where are the undergrads in gay profusion Whose waistcoats made melodious the High, All the jeunesse dorée That shed the glamour of an elder day?

Can this be Oxford? And is that my college That vomits khaki through its sacred gate? Are those the schools where once I aired my knowledge Where nurses pass and ambulances wait? Ah! sick ones, pale of face, I too have suffered tortures in that place!

In Tom his quad the Bloods no longer flourish; Balliol is bare of all but mild Hindoos; The stalwart oars that Isis used to nourish Are in the trenches giving Fritz the Blues, And many a stout D.D. Is digging trenches with the V.T.C.

Why press the search when every hallowed close is Cluttered with youthful soldiers forming fours; While the drum stutters and the bugler blows his Loud summons, and the hoarse bull-sergeant roars, While almost out of view The thrumming biplane cleaves the astonished blue?

It is a sight to stir the pulse of poet, These splendid youths with zeal and courage fired. But as for Private Me, M.A.—why, blow it! The very sight of soldiers makes me tired; Learning—detached, apart— I sought, not War's reverberating art.

Vain search! But see! One ancient institution Still doing business at the same old stand; 'Tis Messrs. Barclay's Bank, or I'm a Proossian, That erst dispensed my slender cash-in-hand; I'll borrow of their pelf And buy some War Loan to console myself.

C. H. BRETHERTON. Feb. 21, 1917.

Now, when the ties that lightly bind us Slacken awhile at the call of Home, Leaving our latter-day science behind us, Leaving the love of ancient Rome— Ere we depart to enjoy for a season Freedom from regular work and rules, Come let us all in rhyme and reason Honour the best of schools.

Here's to our Founder, whose ancient bounty Freely bestowed with a pious care, Fostered the youth of his native county, Gave us a name we are proud to bear. Here's to his followers, wise gift-makers, Friends who helped when our numbers were few, Widened our walls and enlarged our acres, Stablished the school anew.

Here's to our Head, in whom all centres, Ruling his realm with a kindly sway; Here's to the Masters, our guides and mentors, Helpers in work and comrades in play; Here's to the Old Boys, working their way up Out in the world on the ladder of Fame; Here's to the New Boys, learning to play up, Ay, and to play the game.

Time will bring us our seasons of trial, Seasons of joy when our ship arrives, Yet, whatever be writ on the dial, Now is the golden hour of our lives; Now is the feast spread fair before us— None but slackers or knaves or fools Ever shall fail to swell the chorus, "Here's to the best of schools."

C. L. GRAVES and E. V. LUCAS. March 13, 1912.