Though solatiums charm no longer, though a gaudeamus fails
With its atmosphere unwholesome to expand my spirit’s sails,
Though rectorial elections are if anything a bore,
And I do not care to carry dripping torches any more,
Though my soul for Moral lectures does not vehemently yearn,
Though the north-east winds are bitter—I am willing to return.
At this point in my reflections, on the left the Links expand,
Many a whin bush full of prickles, many a bunker full of sand.
And I see distinguished club-men, whom I only know by sight,
Old, obese, and scarlet-coated, playing golf with all their might;
As they were three years ago, when first I travelled by this train,
As they will be three years hence, if I should come this way again.
What to them is train or traveller? what to them the flight of time?
But we draw too near the station to indulge in the sublime.
In a minute at the furthest on the platform I shall stand,
Waiting till they take my trunk out, with my hat-box in my hand.
As the railway train approaches and the train of thought recedes,
I behold Professor --- in a brand new suit of tweeds.