THE ROLLING STONE.
At Cambridge, where on field or flood
He shone like a Goldie or a Studd,
He was an intellectual "blood."
He made the grimmest dons unbend,
And missed his First, right at the end,
For he cut his Tripos—to nurse a friend.
Then he wrote a novel. The weekly press
Declared it was worthy of R.L.S.;