Till when three years brought on the Poll, he was plucked disgracefully,
And his disgusted gov’rnor came and paid off, with a sigh,
Ticks to a tune which nearly sucked the poor old pump quite dry,
For his fine old Cantab of a son, one of the olden time.
But times are changed henceforth, we know; for, from eighteen-forty-nine,
The sons of Alma Mater must choose a different line;
And if you try the Muses round, not a lady of the nine
Out of whom he won’t be qualified with ease to take the shine—
Our fine young Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.
For reading and not racing he’ll have to keep his book,