all a-ruffled and ringed, and in the gallant St. Andrews student
manner, continued as I understand to this present day, scattering
largess as he rides along,

'But where is now the courtly troupe
That once went riding by?
I miss the curls of Canteloupe,
The laugh of Lady Di.'

We have still left time for a visit to a house in South Street,
hard by St. Leonard's. I do not mean the house you mean. I am
a Knox man. But little will that avail, for M'Connachie is a
Queen Mary man. So, after all, it is at her door we chap, a last
futile effort to bring that woman to heel. One more house of call,
a student's room, also in South Street. I have chosen my student,
you see, and I have chosen well; him that sang--

'Life has not since been wholly vain,
And now I bear
Of wisdom plucked from joy and pain
Some slender share.

'But howsoever rich the store,
I'd lay it down
To feel upon my back once more
The old red gown.'

Well, we have at last come to an end. Some of you may remember
when I began this address; we are all older now. I thank you for
your patience. This is my first and last public appearance,