With hands in pockets, down Cheapside I go,
And onward where one hears that dismal yell
Of “Echo, Standard, Special, or Pall Mall,”
Or where that dear old School forsaken lies
A weary waste expanding to the skies.
Where’er I roam whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell’d fondly turns to thee;
My thoughts to “Homer” turn, with ceaseless pain,
“Physics” and “Newth” I ne’er shall do again.
* * * * *