AD FRATREM.

Dear Tom, you astonished me quite With your vigorous verses last week, It will be an unceasing delight In future, sweet brother, to speak Of the family poet—yourself! Yet I feel I must bid you beware. It may not be nice, but the word of advice Is your favourite, "Don't lose your hair!" Yes, I own it was rather a blow When they brought out the merciless list, For you primed up the Pater, I know, With such rubbish, and just would insist The Exam. was as hard as could be. Ah! you painted it all at the worst, It was hard lines on you, Thomas, not to get through, While the "crock" of a Maud got a first. Still, why did you rush into print With your torrent of bitter complaint? To do so without the least hint, Well, brotherly, dear, it quite ain't. 'Twere wiser and better by far To have laid all the blame on a tooth, For whatever's the use of a lovely excuse If not in concealing the truth? So bottle your anger, dear boy, Forget how to shuffle and shirk, Find intelligent purpose and joy In a season of honest hard work. You'll pass when you go in again, And eclipse in the passing poor me; For a girl, though she can beat the whole tribe of Man, Isn't fit, Tom, to have a degree!

What must he have who'd kill the Bill? A leathern skin, and a stubborn will. Brummagem's his home. Take then no shame to name his name! Bill-slaughtering is his little game. He'd be its death—he swore it, As limb from limb he tore it— The Bill, the Bill, the lusty Bill! Is it a thing Brum Joe can kill?