Being of age to play the fool,
With muckle glee I left our school
At Hoxton;
And, mounted on an easy pad,
Rode with my mother and my dad
To Oxon.
Conceited of my parts and knowledge,
They entered me into a college
Ibidem.
The master took me first aside,
Showed me a scrawl—I read, and cried
Do Fidem.
Gravely he took me by the fist,
And wished me well—we next request
A tutor.
He recommends a staunch one, who
In Perkins’ cause had been his Co-
Adjutor.
To see this precious stick of wood,
I went (for so they deemed it good)
In fear, Sir;
And found him swallowing loyalty,
Six deep his bumpers, which to me
Seemed queer, Sir.
He bade me sit and take my glass;
I answered, looking like an ass,
I can’t, Sir.
Not drink!—You don’t come here to pray!
The merry mortal said, by way
Of answer.
To pray, Sir! No, my lad; ’tis well!
Come, here’s our friend Sacheverell;
Here’s Trappy!
Here’s Ormond! Marr! in short, so many
Traitors we drank, it made my crani-
um nappy.
And now, the company dismissed,
With this same sociable Priest,
Or Fellow,
I sallied forth to deck my back
With loads of stuff, and gown of black
Prunello.
My back equipt, it was not fair
My head should ’scape, and so, as square
As chess-board,
A cap I bought, my scull to screen,
Of cloth without, and all within
Of paste-board.
When metamorphosed in attire,
More like a parson than a squire
They’d dressed me.
I took my leave, with many a tear,
Of John, our man, and parents dear,
Who blest me.
The master said they might believe him,
So righteously (the Lord forgive him!)
He’d govern.
He’d show me the extremest love,
Provided that I did not prove
Too stubborn.
So far so good; but now fresh fees
Began (for so the custom is)
My ruin.
Fresh fees! with drink they knock you down;
You spoil your clothes, and your new gown
You sp— in.
I scarce had slept—at six—tan tin
The bell goes—servitor comes in—
Gives warning.
I wished the scoundrel at old Nick;
I puked, and went to prayers d—d sick
That morning.
One who could come half drunk to prayer
They saw was entered, and could swear
At random;
Would bind himself, as they had done,
To statutes, tho’ he could not un-
derstand ’em.
Built in the form of pigeon-pye,
A house[7] there is for rooks to lie
And roost in.
Their laws, their articles of grace,
Forty, I think, save half a brace,
Was willing
To swear to; swore, engaged my soul,
And paid the swearing broker whole
Ten shilling.
Full half a pound I paid him down,
To live in the most p—d town
O’ th’ nation:
May it ten thousand cost Lord Phyz,
For never forwarding his vis-
itation.
[7] Theatre
A STORY
Is told, and, “in the days that are gone,” is not at all improbable, that a youth being brought to Oxon, after he had paid the Tutor and other the several College and University fees, was told he must subscribe to the Thirty-nine Articles; “with all my heart,” said our freshman, “pray how much is it?”
FRESHMEN OFTEN AFFORD MIRTH
To both tutors, scholars, scouts, gyps, and others, by their blunders. They will not unfrequently, upon the first tingle of the college bell (though it always rings a quarter of an hour, by way of warning, on ordinary occasions, and half an hour on saints’ days, in Cambridge,) hurry off to hall or chapel, with their gowns the wrong side outwards, or, their caps reversed, walk unconsciously along with the hind part before, as I once heard a soph observe, “the peak smelling thunder.” They are also very apt to mistake characters and functionaries:—I have seen a freshman cap the college-butler, taking him for bursar at least. The persons to be so complimented are the Chancellor, the Vice-Chancellor, the Proctors, the head of your college, and your tutors. When the late Bishop Mansell was Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge, he one day met two freshmen in Trumpington-street, who passed him unheeded. The Bishop was not a man to ’bate an iota of his due, and stopped them and asked, “If they knew he was the Vice-Chancellor?” They blushingly replied, they did not, and begged his pardon for omitting to cap him, observing they were freshmen. “How long have you been in Cambridge?” asked the witty Bishop. “Only eight days,” was the reply. “In that case I must excuse you; puppies never see till they are nine days old.”