He’ll blush at his own pink, and hang his tops upon the hook;
And if e’er he use a cue, ’twill be for motion’s laws to look;
And for milk punch he’ll drink his toast—and water from the brook—
Our fine young Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.
He’ll put off the old Adam for the new one—Adam Smith;
Political Economy will bring private, p’r’aps, therewith:
At Ge— or else The—ology he’ll spend his pluck and pith,
Tea and Theorems ousting loo and lush, which will be all a myth
To our new Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.
Save for studying the pendulum, he’ll never try a tick;