With a countenance weary and worn, With his nose, alas! awfully red, The Undergrad blew out his candle's flame, And settled himself in his bed. "Read, read, read," In his troubled sleep he said. Examiners think on his piteous face, If he's plucked, you know 'tis your disgrace, So in the "First" or "Second" place The man who reads Paley in bed. P. M. W. _Light Green_, Cambridge (W. Metcalfe and Son), 1882. * * * * * THE BROOD ON THE BEARD. With face like a maiden's bare, With hair on his head strewn thin, A youth ill at ease, in an easy chair, Sat stroking his cheeks and chin. Stroke, stroke, stroke, Yet never a symptom appeared, Indulging, yet nowise enjoying the joke, In penning THIS Brood on the Beard. I wish, wish, wish, Till wishing becomes a whirl, Wish, wish, wish, For the locks with a flowing curl. Imperial, beard, moustache, Moustache, imperial, beard, I long for them each till the three become Wove into a triad weird. Young men with beards full grown, Young men with moustaches neat; Say, is it not your lot to own, The joys of life complete? I shave, shave, shave, My cheeks with lather besmeared, Scraping the skin with razor keen, To make it utter a beard. But why should I dream of beards, For the pleasure of manhood pine; Or think of the looks my soul so craves, That never may be mine? That never may be mine. Tho' my heart with hope may pant, And mourn that some with such are blest, Whilst I of such am scant. I watch, watch, watch My glass each morning and night; Watch, watch, watch, But no sprouting gladdens my sight. That shaving glass, that razor keen, That strop I so often whet; Betray the desire that ne'er may tire Of what I ne'er may get. I feel, feel, feel, Each morning of each week-- Feel, feel, feel, My lips, my chin, my cheek. Moustache, imperial, beard, Imperial, beard, moustache, Could I but see signs of the three, I would give good sterling cash. I rub, rub, rub, When the shades of night set in, Rub, rub, rub, Pomatum o'er cheeks and chin, Whilst Tabby, with whiskers long, Upon the hearthrug lies, And seems to purr contentment for What nature me denies. Oh! could I but only see Just the faintest dawn of down, Or FANCY that Nature would In the end my wishes crown! Or hope that even I The hours at last will enjoy, When maids no longer will deem me An o'ergrown hobbledehoy.