And faster yet the waltzers turn,
Before the chaperones discern
That day is surely slipping in.
’Tis morn; but all that’s young and fair
Of Seacliff beauties linger there,
Full loath to seek the outer air
And leave the hall they’re tripping in.
The ball is over. Read ye now
Who read for honours,—or a plough,
May Oxford’s laurels grace the brow