Three times that night near the Magdalen tower,
Did the dim gas lamps show a ‘town and gown’;
They looked out for squalls, but alas! for the hour
That the Proctor came up and was neatly knocked down;
For men their hands from Proctors must keep
Though blows be sudden, and black-eyes cheap,
When our gallant blades are roaming.
Three heroes set out for their native strands,
When the morning gleam saw them all ‘sent down.’
And the tradesmen of Oxford are wringing their hands