And the Proctor came rustling up, all hood and gown.
For men must work, and little they’ll sleep,
If Dons be cruel, and papers be deep,
And the Church and Bar be waiting.
Three Dons sat sipping at something hot
By a flickering lamp when the sun went down;
They looked at each blunder, and crib phrase and “shot,”
And they marked down a D with a sigh and a frown.
For men must work—but little you’ll sleep
If a man with a cornet should under you keep,