He holds them with a ready hand,
“Your names? your names?” quoth he,
“Hold off! unhand us, saucy loon!”
Eftsoons they turn to flee.
He holds them with his bull-dogs twain,
The Undergrads stand still;
Wild words are halting on their lips,
The Proctor hath his will.
“The Corn Market is all astir,
We gownsmen won’t stop in;