Down on his face fell a cad as falls an oak on the mountains,
Forth from his nose came "the red" as oft in the vintage the dresser
Squeezes the blushing grape on the plains of Estremadura.
Now from the end of the High a rush of the cads overwhelming
Sweeps as the sea sweeps on in the long dark nights of the winter,
Howling as howl the wolves through the snow in the forests of Sweden;
Blow after blow is struck, as the flakes come down in the snowstorm.
Now from the Turl to the Broad, and St. Giles's, abode of the peaceful,
Even to Worcester the slow, or Botany Bay, as they call it,
Down by Trinity Gates, and Balliol beloved of the scholar,