Willaloo.

By E. A. P.      In the sad and sodden street,         To and fro,      Flit the fever-stricken feet      Of the freshers as they meet,         Come and go,      Ever buying, buying, buying      Where the shopmen stand supplying,         Vying, vying         All they know,      While the Autumn lies a-dying         Sad and low      As the price of summer suitings when the winter breezes blow,      Of the summer, summer suitings that are standing in a row         On the way to Jericho.      See the freshers as they row         To and fro,      Up and down the Lower River for an afternoon or so--          (For the deft manipulation         Of the never-resting oar,         Though it lead to approbation,         Will induce excoriation)--         They are infinitely sore,          Keeping time, time, time          In a sort of Runic rhyme      Up and down the way to Iffley in an afternoon or so;          (Which is slow).         Do they blow?          'Tis the wind and nothing more,          'Tis the wind that in Vacation has a tendency to go:         But the coach's objurgation and his tendency to 'score'          Will be sated--nevermore.      See the freshers in the street,         The elite!      Their apparel how unquestionably neat!      How delighted at a distance,         Inexpensively attired,      I have wondered with persistence      At their butterfly existence!         How admired!      And the payment--O, the payment!      It is tardy for the raiment:      Yet the haberdasher gloats as he sells,         And he tells,          'This is best         To be dress'd      Rather better than the rest,      To be noticeably drest,         To be swells,         To be swells, swells, swells, swells,         Swells, swells, swells,      To be simply and indisputably swells.'      See the freshers one or two,         Just a few,         Now on view,      Who are sensibly and innocently new;      How they cluster, cluster, cluster      Round the rugged walls of Worcester!         See them stand,         Book in hand,      In the garden ground of John's!      How they dote upon their Dons!         See in every man a Blue!         It is true      They are lamentably few;         But I spied      Yesternight upon the staircase just a pair of boots outside         Upon the floor,      Just a little pair of boots upon the stairs where I reside,         Lying there and nothing more;         And I swore      While these dainty twins continued sentry by the chamber door      That the hope their presence planted should be with me evermore,         Should desert me--nevermore.