We thought, we'll be careful where we tread, And avoid him where he's lying; For if we should tumble over his head, 'Twould certainly send us flying. Lightly they'll talk of him when they're gone, And p'rhaps for his folly upbraid him; But little he'll care, and again try it on, Till the Serjeant-at-arms shall have stayed him. But half of us asked, "What's now to be done?" When the time arrived for retiring, And we heard the door-keeper say, "It's no fun Our attendance to watch him requiring." Slowly and softly they shut the door, After Radical, Whig, and Tory; And muttering out, "We'll stop here no more," They left him alone in his glory. _Punch_, December, 1847. * * * * * "GRAVE SENTIT ARATRUM." "A GRIEVOUS THING HE FEELS IT TO BE PLOUGHED." He looked glum when he heard, by a friendly note Which, of course, his chum sent in a hurry, That, alas! he had no testamur got; And he felt in a deuce of a flurry. He thought how he'd read at dead of night, The page of Herodotus turning, By the tallow-candle's flickering light, Or the moderator burning. No ruthless coughing arose from his chest, Nor did indigestion wound him; But he said--as the worry was breaking his rest-- "That Examiner--confound him!" "What's the odds?" were the words that he said; But he choked not down his sorrow; For he sadly remembered the hopes that were fled, And pictured the "Governor's horror." Then he thought, as he hurled himself into bed, And dashed his head down on the pillow, That his foe, the tailor, would want to be paid, And would quickly be sending his bill, oh! Very likely he thought (now his credit was gone), "Oh! I wish with cold cash I had paid him; But nothing he'll get: I'll be off to Boulogne," And he went, out of Britain to shade him. Just after his heavy sleep, each tone, As the clock struck the hour, was mocking, And he fancied that many a ravenous dun At the oak was sullenly knocking. He cautiously put out his head, and looked down From his room in the second story: He saw but the quad, and its paving of stone; He was all alone,--in his glory (?) JEREMY DIDDLER, Oxford. _College Rhymes_ (T. & G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1864. * * * * * PARODY ON "THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE." "Not a laugh was heard, not a joyous note, As our friend to the bridal we hurried; Not a wit discharged his farewell shot, As the bachelor went to be married. "We married him quietly to save his fright, Our heads from the sad sight turning; And we sighed as we stood by the lamp's dim light, To think he was not more discerning.