"Olo man talkee, 'No can walkee!' Bimeby lain come-welly darkee, Hab got water, too muchee wide! Maskee! my wantchee go topside-- _Topside Galah!_ "'Man-man,' one galo talkee he, What for you go topside look see?' And one tim more he plenty cly, But allo tim walkee plenty high, _Topside Galah!_ "'Take care that spilem-tlee young man! Take care that icee!'" He no man-man; That coolie chin-chin he 'Good night,' He talkee, 'My can go all lite!' _Topside Galah!_ "Joss Pidgin man chop-chop begin That morning tim that joss chin-chin, He no man see, he plenty fear, Cause some man speakee, he can hear _Topside Galah!_ "That young man die--one largee dog see, Too muchee bobbely, findee he; Hand muchee colo, allo same icee, Have piecee flag wid chop so nicee, _Topside Galah!_ MOLAL. "You too much laughee! what for sing? I tink you no savey what ting! Supposee you no b'long cleber inside, More better you go walkee topside, _Topside Galah!_" Another, but, on the whole, inferior version of the above parody appeared in Harper's Magazine, and is quoted at page 122 of _Poetical Ingenuities and Eccentricities_, by W. T. Dobson (Chatto and Windus, 1882.) * * * * * The shades of night were falling fast, When through the spacious High there passed A form in gown of strange device, Who uttered in a tone of ice, "Your name and college!" His brow was black, his eye beneath Shone like a wrathful bull-dog's teeth; And still amid the darkness rung The accents of his well-known tongue; "Your name and college!" "Try not the High," the porter said, "Dark lowers the proctor, bull-dog led." But forth in "loud" illegal dress The youth went, crying "Let him guess My name and college!" (_Half-an-hour elapses._) "O stay," his comrade said, "and rest Thy wearied limbs and panting chest!" To gain their wind the fliers try, When lo! a figure gliding nigh, Cries, "Name and college!" "Beware the proctor's sacred paunch, Beware the rushing bull-dog's launch!" This was the porter's last good-night; A voice replied, "It serves me right For cutting college!" Next morn, as tolled the stroke of nine, Two youths, in dread of penal fine, Slunk silent through the awful gate, And "hoped they were not much too late, They'd run from college!" There, like a mouse awaiting cat, Awful and calm the proctor sat; And, like a death-knell booming far, A voice fell stern: "This week you are Confined to college!" _College Rhymes_, 1863. * * * * * EXEXOLOR.