“15 Buccleuch Place, Nov. 13, 1870. “MY LORD AND GENTLEMEN,--To prevent any possible misconception, I beg leave, in the name of my fellow-students and myself, to state distinctly that, while urgently requesting your honourable Board to issue to us the ordinary students’ tickets for the Infirmary (as they alone will ‘qualify’ for graduation), we have, in the event of their being granted, no intention whatever of attending in the wards of those physicians and surgeons who object to our presence there, both as a matter of courtesy, and because we shall be already provided with sufficient means of instruction in attending the wards of those gentlemen who have expressed their perfect willingness to receive us.--I beg, my Lord and Gentlemen, to subscribe myself your obedient servant, SOPHIA JEX-BLAKE.” “To the Honourable the Managers of the Royal Infirmary.” NOTE L, p. 102. As ballads are said to be even more significant than laws of the popular feeling, I do not apologise for appending the following:-- THE CHARGE OF THE FIVE HUNDRED; A LAY OF MODERN ATHENS. (_Suggested by a recent Students’ Song, containing the following verse_:-- “_The little band plied the battering ram, With General Blake at its head, When ‘specials’ rose five hundred strong, And raised the siege--they fled, Brave Boys!_”) * * * * * ONCE more the trumpets sound to arms! Once more ring forth war’s wild alarms! Once more be Scotia’s host poured forth To guard the bulwarks of the North-- The foe is o’er the Tweed! Bring forth the banner Flodden saw, Rear high the standard of the war! Let every Gael in battle stand, To drive the invader from the land-- Speed to the rescue, speed! What mean the rushing footsteps fleet? What mean the squadrons in the street? “Five hundred specials” now appearing-- Five hundred voices hoarsely cheering, Wild and disorderly! Strange oaths pollute the evening air, Foul jests the banners proudly bear; What mean these bands in fierce array? Champions of “delicacy” they, And manly modesty. Then marked the bard who stood afar The gallant leaders of the war-- The plumèd crest of Andrew Wood, Who for his sons in battle stood, A Christison hard by! A Turner, Laycock, Lister too, All met for deeds of derring-do; Gillespie, Douglas (Oh, that shame Should fall on that time-honoured name!), Dun-Edin’s chivalry. To arms! to arms! the foe is nigh, “Five hundred specials” do or die! Admiring Europe’s eyes are cast On Scotia’s greatest fight, and last, O’er her Infirmary! Press on! press on! Immortal gods! What matter if o’erwhelming odds Make others blush--_they_ know no shame, “Brave boys!” led on by chiefs of name To glorious victory!