For they talk about Goldie's 'beginning';
Know the meaning of 'finish' and 'scratch,'
And will bet even gloves on our winning
The Boat Race, Athletics, or Match.

There's nothing but music and dancing,
Bands playing on each College green;
And bright eyes are merrily glancing
Where nothing but books should be seen.
They tell of a grave Dean a fable,
That reproving an idle young man
He faltered, for on his own table
He detected in horror--a fan!

Through Libraries, Kitchens, Museums,
These Prussian-like Amazons rush,
Over manuscripts, joints, mausoleums,
With equal intensity gush.
Then making their due 'requisition,'
From 'the lions' awhile they refrain,
And repose in the perfect fruition
Of ices, cold fowl, and champagne.

Mr. Editor, answer my question--
When, O when, shall this tyranny cease?
Shall the process of mental digestion
Ne'er find from the enemy peace?
Above all if my name you should guess, Sir,
Keep it quite to yourself, if you can;
For I dread, more than words can express, Sir,