THE SONG OF THE LINES.
WITH Gradus dirty and worn,
With heavy and weary eyes,
A Freshman sat who had written an ode
For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize.
Wait, wait, wait,
'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines,
And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord
He sang the Song of the Lines.
Wait, wait, wait,
When the bell is ringing aloof,
And wait, wait, wait,
When we leave our Grinder's roof,
And it's oh to be a Jib
In the Godless College of Cork,
Where never Vice-Chancellor gives a prize,
If this be Christian's work.
Oh, Fellows with pupils dear,
Oh, Fellows with nephews and sons,
It is not paper you're tearing up,
But Senior Freshman's Duns,
For the Duns are growing rude,
Because of the Bills I owe,
Madden and Roe, Kinsley and Jude,
Jude and Kinsley and Roe.
Wait, wait, wait,
Till term after term fulfils,
And wait, wait, wait,
As minors wait for wills,
Week after week in vain
We've looked at the College gate,
For how many days? I would hardly fear
To speak of ninety-eight.
With Gradus dirty and worn,
With heavy and weary eyes,
A Freshman sat who had written an ode
For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize.
Wait, wait, wait,
'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines,
And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord,
(Would that its tones could reach the Board),
He sang the Song of the Lines.
C. P. MULVANY.
Kottabos, Dublin (William McGee), 1873.
The following imitation was written by Father McCarthy, and appeared in The Catholic Herald (Jersey), about forty years ago:—