The Scarlet Gown Part 10

Though solatiums charm no longer, though a gaudeamus fails With its atmosphere unwholesome to expand my spirit's sails,

Though rectorial elections are if anything a bore, And I do not care to carry dripping torches any more,

Though my soul for Moral lectures does not vehemently yearn, Though the north-east winds are bitter--I am willing to return.

At this point in my reflections, on the left the Links expand, Many a whin bush full of p.r.i.c.kles, many a bunker full of sand.

And I see distinguished club-men, whom I only know by sight, Old, obese, and scarlet-coated, playing golf with all their might;

As they were three years ago, when first I travelled by this train, As they will be three years hence, if I should come this way again.

What to them is train or traveller? what to them the flight of time?

But we draw too near the station to indulge in the sublime.

In a minute at the furthest on the platform I shall stand, Waiting till they take my trunk out, with my hat-box in my hand.

As the railway train approaches and the train of thought recedes, I behold Professor --- in a brand new suit of tweeds.

TO C. C. C.

Oh for the nights when we used to sit In the firelight's glow or flicker, With the gas turned low and our pipes all lit, And the air fast growing thicker;

When you, enthroned in the big arm-chair, Would spin for us yarns unending, Your voice and accent and pensive air With the narrative subtly blending!

Oh for the bleak and wintry days When we set our blood in motion, Leaping the rocks below the braes And wetting our feet in the ocean,

Or shying at marks for moderate sums (A penny a hit, you remember), With aching fingers and purple thumbs, In the merry month of December!

There is little doubt we were very daft, And our sports, like the stakes, were trifling; While the air of the room where we talked and laughed Was often unpleasantly stifling.

Now we are grave and sensible men, And wrinkles our brows embellish, And I fear we shall never relish again The pleasures we used to relish.

And I fear we never again shall go, The cold and weariness scorning, For a ten mile walk through the frozen snow At one o'clock in the morning:

Out by Cameron, in by the Grange, And to bed as the moon descended . . .

To you and to me there has come a change, And the days of our youth are ended.

ON AN EDINBURGH ADVOCATE

In youth with diligence he toiled A Roman nose to gain, But though a decent pug was spoiled, A pug it did remain.

THE BANISHED BEJANT

FROM THE UNPUBLISHED REMAINS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE

In the oldest of our alleys, By good bejants tenanted, Once a man whose name was Wallace-- William Wallace--reared his head.

Rowdy Bejant in the college He was styled: Never had these halls of knowledge Welcomed waster half so wild!

Ta.s.sel blue and long and silken From his cap did float and flow (This was cast into the Swilcan Two months ago); And every gentle air that sported With his red gown, Displayed a suit of clothes, reported The most alarming in the town.

Wanderers in that ancient alley Through his luminous window saw Spirits come continually From a case well packed with straw, Just behind the chair where, sitting With air serene, And in a blazer loosely fitting, The owner of the bunk was seen.

And all with cards and counters straying Was the place littered o'er, With which sat playing, playing, playing, And wrangling evermore, A group of fellows, whose chief function Was to proclaim, In voices of surpa.s.sing unction, Their luck and losses in the game.

But stately things, in robes of learning, Discussed one day the bejant's fate: Ah, let us mourn him unreturning, For they resolved to rusticate!

And now the glory he inherits, Thus dished and doomed, Is largely founded on the merits Of the Old Tom consumed.

And wanderers, now, within that alley Through the half-open shutters see, Old crones, that talk continually In a discordant minor key: While, with a kind of nervous shiver, Past the front door, His former set go by for ever, But knock--or ring--no more.