“The silent system” Jim forswears: how to his voice they run! See now they’re in the covert: look out, my boys, for fun! “The varmint” trembles as he hears the foe approaching nigh And hopes it is the ――――[15] or else he sure must die For this first-rate, &c. List! list! Old Vanguard challenges: the pack in turn reply; And Jim’s “Hark forward!” now is heard as on they quickly fly: He leads the van on Spangle: next Jack[16] upon his mare; There’s neither wall nor water shall stop the gallant pair Of first-rate, &c. A check! a check! now freshman bold, “hold hard, Sir, if you please:” Just watch Jim’s clever casts, Sir, just watch his “busy bees:[17] He has it now! Right merrily “that sweetest music” rang; So press your steeds, my gallant lads, and catch him if you can―― This first-rate English fox-hunter. One of the present time. And now the pace doth tell a _tale_: press on, ye happy few; ’Tis forty minutes racing speed――we run him now in view; His tongue hangs out, his brush lies low, whoop! he’s down, indeed! Dismount, ye joyous ones, dismount! and light the soothing weed, Ye first-rate English fox-hunters, Men of the present time. Thus, thus this gallant huntsman keeps up the merry game; His head, his heart, his hand, my boys, for ever are the same And a parting toast I’ll give you, with a ringing three times three, May Jim long hunt “the Heythrop” and we be there to see This first-rate English fox-hunter, One of the present time. From _Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford_. Oxford. J. Vincent. No date. ―――― THE SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT. I’ll sing you a good old song of the powerful Fourth Estate, Of a bold and reckless Special of the very latest date, Who is able countless horrors to in print accumulate, And will wire false news from anywhere at the usual cable rate. _Chorus._――Like a Special Correspondent, all of the modern time! When on the war-path he proceeds and takes his daily rides, The enemy sends shots at him, and then in terror hides, As he clears whole batteries at once with the steed that he bestrides, And from a hissing shell a light for his cigarette provides. _Chorus._――Does this Special Correspondent, all of the modern time! He knows not fear――’tis grand to see how he his nerves controls, As midst the grape and canister, he calmly caracoles, Whilst bullets in his pocket-book make inconvenient holes; And a well-pitched ball from out his hands the pencil often bowls.