The May Term.

Mille venit variis florum Dea nexa coronis:             Scena ioci morem liberioris habet.         OV. FAST. IV. 945, 946.         I wish that the May Term were over,             That its wearisome pleasures were o'er,         And I were reclining in clover             On the downs by a wave-beaten shore:         For fathers and mothers by dozens,             And sisters, a host without end,         Are bringing up numberless cousins,             Who have each a particular friend.         I'm not yet confirmed in misogyny -             They are all very well in their way -         But my heart is as hard as mahogany,             When I think of the ladies in May.         I shudder at each railway-whistle,             Like a very much victimized lamb;         For I know that the carriages bristle             With ladies invading the Cam.         Last week, as in due preparation             For reading I sported my door,         With surprise and no small indignation,             I picked up this note on the floor -         'Dear E. we are coming to see you,             'So get us some lunch if you can;         'We shall take you to Grassy, as Jehu -             'Your affectionate friend, Mary Ann.'         Affectionate friend!    I'm disgusted             With proofs of affection like these,         I'm growing 'old, tawny and crusted,'             Tho' my nature is easy to please.         An Englishman's home is his castle,             So I think that my friend Mary Ann         Should respect, tho' she deem him her vassal,             The rooms of a reading young man.         In the days of our fathers how pleasant             The May Term up here must have been!         No chignons distracting were present,             And scarcely a bonnet was seen.         As the boats paddled round Grassy Corner             No ladies examined the crews,         Or exclaimed with the voice of the scorner -             'Look, how Mr. Arculus screws!!         But now there are ladies in College,             There are ladies in Chapels and Halls;         No doubt 'tis a pure love of knowledge             That brings them within our old walls;         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,             My affectionate friend Mary Ann.         (1871).