At a window, which on high Frowns o’er the market place below, With trousers[57] on, and haggard eye, A member stood immersed in woe, His tatter’d gown, and greasy hair, Stream’d like a dishclout to the onion’d air. And with a voice that well might beat the cryer, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre:―― “Hark! how each butcher’s stall, and mightier shops Sighs to the market’s clattering row beneath; For thee the women squall, the cleavers chop, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe, Vocal no more since Monday’s fatal night, To Thirlwall’s[58] keen remark, or Sheridan’s[58] wild flight. III. Mute now is Raymond’s tongue, That hushed the club to sleep; The patriot Whitcombe now has ceased to rail; Waiters in vain ye weep. Lawson,[58] whose annual song, Made the Red Lion[59] wag his raptur’d tail. Dear lost companions in the spouting art, Dear as the commons smoking in the hall, Dear as the audit ale that warms my heart Ye fell amidst the dying Union’s fall. IV. Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Jemmy’s race; Give ample room and verge enough To mark revenge, defeat, disgrace. Mark the month and mark the day The Senate widely echoing with the fray; Commoner, Sizar, Pensioner, and snob, Shouts of an undergraduate mob. V. Master of a mighty college, Without his robes behold him stand, Whom not a Whig will now acknowledge, Return his bow, or shake his hand. Is the sable Jackson fled? Thy friend is gone he hides his powder’d head. The Bedells, too, by whom the mace is borne, Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the morn and soft the zephyr blows, While gently sidling through the crowded street In scarlet robe, Clare’s[60] tiny master goes. Ware[61] clears the road, and Gunning[61] guides his feet, Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway That, hush’d in grim repose, marks Jemmy for its prey. VI. Fill high the Audit bowl! The feast in hall prepare! Reft of his robes, he yet may share the feast, Close by the Master’s chair, Contempt and laughter scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Gown to gown and cap to cap? Hark at the Johnian gates each thund’ring rap, While thro’ opposing Dons they move their way, Ye Johnian towers, old W――d’s eternal shame, With many a midnight imposition fed, Revere his algebra’s immortal fame, And spare the meek mechanic’s holy head. Each bristled _boar_ will bear no more, And meeting in the Combination Room, They stamp their vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. VII.