I have stood serene on Fenner's Ground, indifferent to blisters, While the Buttress of the period Bowled me his peculiar twisters: Sung, "We won't go home till morning"; Striven to part my backhair straight; Drunk (not lavishly) of Miller's Old dry wines at 78/:-- 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 into mine inn must I, Your "poor moralist", betake me, In my "solitary fly".