Alas! our institutions old Are going, one by one; The work of innovation bold, With Montem has begun; Next flogging it will overthrow, And fagging, too, of course will go, And then farewell the good old school Science with Latin and with Greek To mix e’en now Reform would seek Ah, tell her she’s a fool! To all their likings, and their taste, Their fancies and their qualms; Some gentlemen may feel debased By sons who ask for alms; Yet youthful Lord, and stripling Duke, To beg for salt, without rebuke, At Montem always were allowed:―― What argument can answer this? No more――where beggary is bliss, ’Tis folly to be proud. _Punch._ December, 1846. ―――― ODE ON A CLOSE PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. (_By a Gray-Headed Wet Bob._) Ye crumbling spires, ye antique towers,―― What, if ye were decayed! What, if your fragments fell in showers On HENRY’S holy shade! And what, if o’er your cloister walls Vague pencilled ornamental scrawls Afforded mute display; Should Vandals, who all things renew, Be down upon thy records too, And sweep them clean away! But, there!――with taste he calls “correct,” ’Mid scenes of vanished days Your gay _restoring_ Architect The very dickens plays! Yet, as his brand-new work he vaunts, He gives us for our treasured haunts Red brick――and nothing more! Which drives Wet Bob to stick to this, “Where crumbling memories are bliss, ’Tis folly to restore!” _Punch._ August 5, 1882. ――――:o:―――― THE BARD. A PINDARIC ODE. [_This Ode is founded on a Tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards that fell into his hands to be put to death. But this Tradition has long been known to be destitute of any reliable historical foundation._] I. “Ruin seize thee, ruthless King Confusion on thy banners wait; Tho’ fann’d by Conquest’s crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor Hauberk’s twisted mail[35] Nor e’en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria’s curse, from Cambria’s tears!” Such were the sounds that o’er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter’d wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy side[36] He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glos’ter stood aghast[37] in speechless trance To arms! cried Mortimer[38] and couch’d his quiv’ring lance. II.