When The Gusts Are At Play With The Trees On The Lawn, And The Lights Are Put Out In The Vault Of The Night; When Within All Is Snug, For The Curtains Are Drawn, And The Fire Is Aglow And The Lamps Are Alight, Sometimes, As I Muse, From The Place Where I Am My Thoughts Fly Away To A Room Near The Cam. 'Tis A Ramshackle Room, Where A Man Might Complain Of A Slope In The Ceiling, A Rise In The Floor; With A View On A Court And A Glimpse On A Lane, And No End Of Cool Wind Through The Chinks Of The Door; With A Deep-Seated Chair That I Love To Recall, And Some Groups Of Young Oarsmen In Shorts On The Wall. There'S A Fat Jolly Jar Of Tobacco, Some Pipes - A Meerschaum, A Briar, A Cherry, A Clay - There'S A Three-Handled Cup Fit For Audit Or Swipes When The Breakfast Is Done And The Plates Cleared Away. There'S A Litter Of Papers, Of Books A Scratch Lot, Such As Plato, And Dickens, And Liddell And Scott. And A Crone In A Bonnet That's More Like A Rag From A Mist Of Remembrance Steps Suddenly Out; And Her Funny Old Tongue Never Ceases To Wag As She Tidies The Room Where She Bustles About; For A Man May Be Strong And A Man May Be Young, But He Can't Put A Drag On A Bedmaker'S Tongue. And, Oh, There'S A Youngster Who Sits At His Ease In The Hope, Which Is Vain, That The Tongue May Run Down, With His Feet On The Grate And A Book On His Knees, And His Cheeks They Are Smooth And His Hair It Is Brown. Then I Sigh Myself Back To The Place Where I Am From That Ramshackle Room Near The Banks Of The Cam.