Thou thy Oxford course hast run,

And art numbered with the sages.

All Oxford men, its my belief,

Must graduate or come to grief.

Fear no more the snarl of the sub[41],

Thou art past that tyrant’s stroke.

No more buttery beer, and grub,

No more rows with sported oak!

Even X.—— himself, its my belief,

Must graduate or come to grief!