While our quarterly pilgrimage spong’d out the debt.
Their hearts may be broke,
Yet we laugh at the joke,
For nothing can make an old Bencher pay;
He’s up and he’s down
To the tricks of the Town;
He lives by his wits, and plays a bold part
With an impudent air that ne’er will decay;
Though his poverty’s great, still greater’s his art,
For he clears off all scores by Whitewashing Day,