On childing women that are forlorn, And men that sweat in nothing but scorn: That is on all that ever were born, _Miserere Domine_. To my poor self on my deathbed, And all my dear companions dead, Because of the love that I bore them, _Dona Eis Requiem_. THE DEATH AND LAST CONFESSION OF WANDERING PETER When Peter Wanderwide was young He wandered everywhere he would: And all that he approved was sung, And most of what he saw was good. When Peter Wanderwide was thrown By Death himself beyond Auxerre, He chanted in heroic tone To priests and people gathered there: “If all that I have loved and seen Be with me on the Judgment Day, I shall be saved the crowd between From Satan and his foul array. “Almighty God will surely cry, ‘St. Michael! Who is this that stands With Ireland in his dubious eye, And Perigord between his hands, “‘And on his arm the stirrup-thongs, And in his gait the narrow seas, And in his mouth Burgundian songs, But in his heart the Pyrenees?’ “St. Michael then will answer right (And not without angelic shame), ‘I seem to know his face by sight: I cannot recollect his name...?’ “St. Peter will befriend me then, Because my name is Peter too: ‘I know him for the best of men That ever walloped barley brew. “‘And though I did not know him well And though his soul were clogged with sin, _I_ hold the keys of Heaven and Hell. Be welcome, noble Peterkin.’ “Then shall I spread my native wings And tread secure the heavenly floor, And tell the Blessed doubtful things Of Val d’Aran and Perigord.” * * * * * This was the last and solemn jest Of weary Peter Wanderwide. He spoke it with a failing zest, And having spoken it, he died. DEDICATORY ODE I mean to write with all my strength (It lately has been sadly waning), A ballad of enormous length-- Some parts of which will need explaining.[1] Because (unlike the bulk of men Who write for fame or public ends), I turn a lax and fluent pen To talking of my private friends.[2] For no one, in our long decline, So dusty, spiteful and divided, Had quite such pleasant friends as mine, Or loved them half as much as I did. * * * * * The Freshman ambles down the High, In love with everything he sees, He notes the very Midland sky, He sniffs a more than Midland breeze. “Can this be Oxford? This the place?” (He cries) “of which my father said The tutoring was a damned disgrace, The creed a mummery, stuffed and dead? “Can it be here that Uncle Paul Was driven by excessive gloom, To drink and debt, and, last of all, To smoking opium in his room? “Is it from here the people come, Who talk so loud, and roll their eyes, And stammer? How extremely rum! How curious! What a great surprise.