Often, When O'Er Tree And Turret, Eve A Dying Radiance Flings, By That Ancient Pile I Linger Known Familiarly As "King'S." And The Ghosts Of Days Departed Rise, And In My Burning Breast All The Undergraduate Wakens, And My Spirit Is At Rest. What, But A Revolting Fiction, Seems The Actual Result Of The Census'S Enquiries Made Upon The 15Th Ult.? Still My Soul Is In Its Boyhood; Nor Of Year Or Changes Recks. Though My Scalp Is Almost Hairless, And My Figure Grows Convex. Backward Moves The Kindly Dial; And I'm Numbered Once Again With Those Noblest Of Their Species Called Emphatically 'Men': Loaf, As I Have Loafed Aforetime, Through The Streets, With Tranquil Mind, And A Long-Backed Fancy-Mongrel Trailing Casually Behind: Past The Senate-House I Saunter, Whistling With An Easy Grace; Past The Cabbage-Stalks That Carpet Still The Beefy Market-Place; Poising Evermore The Eye-Glass In The Light Sarcastic Eye, Lest, By Chance, Some Breezy Nursemaid Pass, Without A Tribute, By. Once, An Unassuming Freshman, Through These Wilds I Wandered On, Seeing In Each House A College, Under Every Cap A Don: Each Perambulating Infant Had A Magic In Its Squall, For My Eager Eye Detected Senior Wranglers In Them All. By Degrees My Education Grew, And I Became As Others; Learned To Court Delirium Tremens By The Aid Of Bacon Brothers; Bought Me Tiny Boots Of Mortlock, And Colossal Prints Of Roe; And Ignored The Proposition That Both Time And Money Go. Learned To Work The Wary Dogcart Artfully Through King'S Parade; Dress, And Steer A Boat, And Sport With Amaryllis In The Shade: Struck, At Brown'S, The Dashing Hazard; Or (More Curious Sport Than That) Dropped, At Callaby'S, The Terrier Down Upon The Prisoned Rat. I Have Stood Serene On Fenner'S Ground, Indifferent To Blisters, While The Buttress Of The Period Bowled Me His Peculiar Twisters: Sung 'We Won't Go Home Till Morning'; Striven To Part My Backhair Straight; Drunk (Not Lavishly) Of Miller'S Old Dry Wines At 78:- When Within My Veins The Blood Ran, And The Curls Were On My Brow, I Did, Oh Ye Undergraduates, Much As Ye Are Doing Now. Wherefore Bless Ye, O Beloved Ones:- Now Unto Mine Inn Must I, Your 'Poor Moralist,' {51A} Betake Me, In My 'Solitary Fly.'