Produced by Lionel Sear GREEN BAYS. VERSES AND PARODIES. BY ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH (Q). ET, SI NON ALIUM LATE JACTARET ODOREM LAURUS ERAT. Most of the verses in this volume were written at Oxford, and first appeared in the 'Oxford Magazine.' A few are reprinted from 'The Speaker' and a few from certain works of fiction published by Messrs. Cassell and Co. Q. CONTENTS. IN A COLLEGE GARDEN. THE SPLENDID SPUR. THE WHITE MOTH. IRISH MELODIES I. TIM THE DRAGOON. II. KENMARE RIVER. LADY JANE (SAPPHICS). A TRIOLET. AN OATH. UPON GRACIOSA, WALKING AND TALKING. WRITTEN UPON LOVE'S FRONTIER-POST. TITANIA. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. RETROSPECTION. WHY THIS VOLUME IS SO THIN. NUGAE OXONIENSES. TWILIGHT. WILLALOO. THE SAIR STROKE. THE DOOM OF THE ESQUIRE BEDELL. 'BEHOLD! I AM NOT ONE THAT GOES TO LECTURES.' CALIBAN UPON RUDIMENTS. SOLVITUR ACRIS HIEMPS. A LETTER. OCCASIONAL VERSES. ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS. UNITY PUT QUARTERLY. FIRE! DE TEA FABULA. L'ENVOI (AS I LAYE A-DREAMYNGE). IN A COLLEGE GARDEN. Senex. Saye, cushat, callynge from the brake, What ayles thee soe to pyne? Thy carefulle heart shall cease to ake When dayes be fyne And greene thynges twyne: Saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne? Turtur. Naye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late, What ayles thee thus to chyde? My love is fled by garden-gate; Since Lammas-tyde I wayte my bryde. Saye, gossyp, whom dost thou abyde? Senex. Loe! I am he, the 'Lonelie Manne,' Of Time forgotten quite, That no remembered face may scanne-- Sadde eremyte, I wayte tonyghte Pale Death, nor any other wyghte. O cushat, cushat, callynge lowe, Goe waken Time from sleepe: Goe whysper in his ear, that soe His besom sweepe Me to that heape Where all my recollections keepe. Hath he forgott? Or did I viewe A ghostlye companye This even, by the dismalle yewe, Of faces three That beckoned mee To land where no repynynges bee? O Harrye, Harrye, Tom and Dicke, Each lost companion! Why loyter I among the quicke, When ye are gonne? Shalle I alone Delayinge crye 'Anon, Anon'? Naye, let the spyder have my gowne, To brayde therein her veste. My cappe shal serve, now I 'goe downe,' For mouse's neste. Loe! this is best. I care not, soe I gayne my reste. THE SPLENDID SPUR.