Look at his college cap, Bent with its broken flap, Whilst his hand constantly Clutches his gown, And he walks vacantly Back through the town. IV. Didn't he study? Wasn't he cute? or Had he a coach? and Who was his tutor? Or was he a queerer one Still, and had ne'er a one, And all this the fruit? Or V. Was his brain muddled, Addled and puddled, From over-working? Or did he all the day Racquets and cricket play, Books and dons shirking? VI. His Greek was a mystery, So was his history, His throbbing brain whirled, And through his shaggy hair, Both his hands twirled. VII. He goes at it boldly, No matter how coldly Examiners scan Him over the table, And say, "If you're able, Construe it, man; Look at it, think of it, Do what you can." VIII. Now they stare frigidly, Calmly and rigidly, Courteously, slily; How well he knows them, Who could suppose them Witty and wily? IX. Helplessly staring, He looks at it long, Then with the daring Last look of despairing, Construes it wrong. X. Failing most signally, Construing miserably; Frequent false quantity, But as they want it, he Must do his best, Until they tell him he Need not decidedly Construe the rest. XI. Full of urbanity And inhumanity, See what they've done; Out of each couple, They with tongues supple Ploughed at least one. _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon (Chapman and Hall, 1874). * * * * * THE HAIR OF THE DEAD. Pile it up, Pile it up, Till it towers above; Pile it up, Pile it up, 'Tis a labour of love: Pin it so carefully, Cannot be known Of that temple of hair fully Half's not your own. That dark plaited mass, So dear and so rare: That highly-prized mass, Is a dead woman's hair. Maybe she was poor, With no money or purse; Homeless and fasting, A vagrant, or worse-- A sport for the wind, As it listlessly blew, And who from her kind, No sympathy knew. Who knows how she died? Perchance of her life, O'er burdened with strife, She grew weary and cried-- "To death's awful mystery swift to be hurled Anywhere, anywhere out of the world." Then when the dark waters Had closed o'er her head, And this type of Eve's daughters Was told with the dead; Then when her poor body Was borne by the wave To the shore; they allowed her A wanderer's grave. Nor perfect, indeed, Could she enter it there; In their terrible greed They must clip off her hair; In their venomous greed They must steal off her hair.