Did duty, dark despot, decide you,
That fame to the dogs must be hurled
Or was it a whim, woe betide you,
To worry the world?
Five shillings ye fine the frail freshmen,
Five shillings, which cads call a crown,
Men caught in your merciless mesh, men
Who care not for cap or for gown.
When ye go grandly garbed in your glories,
With your coarse, callous crew of canines,