Ah thy red lips, lascivious and luscious, With death in their amorous kiss! Cling round us, and clasp us, and crush us, With bitings of agonised bliss! We are sick with the poison of pleasure, Dispense us the potion of pain; Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure, And bite us again! _The Light Green._ Cambridge, 1872. ―――― PROCURATORES. O vestment of velvet and virtue, O venomous victors of vice, Who hurt men who never have hurt you, Oh, calm, cruel, colder than ice; Why wilfully wage ye this war? Is Pure pity purged out of your breast? O purse-prigging Procuratores, O pitiless pest! Do you dream of what was and no more is, When fresher and freer than air? Does it pain you, proud Procuratores, These badges of bondage to bear? In your youth were you greener than grass is, And fearful of infinite fines, Or casual, careless of classes, Frequenters of wines? Was it woe for a woman who jilted, Or dread of your debts or a dun? Or was it your nose was tip-tilted, Or a frivolous fancy for fun? Did duty, dark despot, decide you, That fame to the dogs must be hurled Or was it a whim, woe betide you, To worry the world? Five shillings ye fine the frail freshmen, Five shillings, which cads call a crown, Men caught in your merciless mesh, men Who care not for cap or for gown. When ye go grandly garbed in your glories, With your coarse, callous crew of canines, O pitiless Procuratores, Inflictors of fines. We have smote and made redder than roses, With juice not of fruit nor of bud, The truculent town’s-people’s noses, And bathed brutal butchers in blood; And we, all aglow with our glories, Heard you not in the deafening din, And ye came, O ye Procuratores, And ran us all in. I write not as one with no knowledge, Unaware of your weird, wily ways, For you’ve often inquired my college, And fined me on subsequent days. Oft stopped, I have stuffed you with stories, When wandering wildly from wines; Pawned property, Procuratores, To find you your fines. E. B. IWAN-MÜLLER. This parody originally appeared, anonymously, in “_The Shotover Papers_, or, Echoes from Oxford.” 1874. ―――― A SONG. Oh, vanished benevolent Bobby! Ah, beautiful wearisome beats, Where rascals range, ready to rob ye, In dim and disconsolate streets! When I meet with a murderous nature, And welcome thy bludgeon would be, Two dirty hens tearing a ’tatur Are all that I see. In cosy recesses of kitchens, Secure from the shrieking of slums; Where cook’s so uncommon bewitching, And the infinite tea kettle hums. Yet art thou misled and mistaken, Though served with celestial cheer, Though feasted on liver and bacon, And beauty and beer.