Lack you a theme for laughter? better
Think of your own election letter;
Or of your epitaph—“Here Whewell lies,
Master of Arts—that caused himself to rise.”
IV.
Throw up your caps in fury, O!
Shout till you’re hot and red,
Tam marti, quam Mercurio,
Dear is your chosen head.
He holds a baton and its true,