The goblets in our foxes’ heads ne’er shone with good Bordeaux,
But we took a glass of something mild, and talked about “Great go.”
We rose up early, &c.
We got parental letters then, in which ’twas gravely vowed,
How harrowed all would be at home, if we perchance were ploughed:
And what was worse, those sordid duns an early payment wished,
’Till, what ’twixt ticks and tutors too, we felt extremely “fish’d.”
We rose up, &c.
’Tis past! ’tis past! ’tis won at last! my Muse no longer grieves;
We sweep adown the High Street now in our long silken sleeves;