Proud, proud must be each Brasenose man, at least so I should say,
Of all those grooms and flunkies who promptly him obey,
Who’ve ta’en his horse to covert, who’ve cleaned, with labour sore,
The snowy “tops” which he shall have when chapel-time is o’er.
Who would not be a Brasenose man to order with a word,
His pink and well-built leathers, to turn out like a lord?
I’d shout to yonder hack there, though somewhat screwed it be—
Each morn I’ll make thee carry me Lord Redesdale’s hounds to see.
Each term our pace grew faster, and faster still it grew,
Yet talked we to our tradespeople, and gull them not a few;