There sat De Jones, and De Jenkyns, stroke oar of the Boniface Torpid;
There too, De Brown, and De Smith, well known to the eyes of the Proctors,
Heedless of numberless ticks, and the schools, and a "plough" in futuro,
Sat by the ruddy-faced fire, and quaffed the bright vintage of Xeres.
Merrily out to the night through the fogs and the mist of November
Floated the breath of the weed through the fields of the dark Empyrean,
Rose the melodious sounds of the "dogs" which are known as "the jolly,"
"Slapping" and "banging" along through that noisy and meaningless ditty.
But silence! the welkin now rings (whatever the meaning of that is),
A rumour of battle is heard, and the wine and the weeds are deserted.