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The May Term.
By Edward Woodley Bowling
Mille venit variis florum Dea nexa coronis:
Scena ioci morem liberioris habet.
OV. FAST. IV. 945, 946.
I wish that the May Term were over,
That its wearisome pleasures were o'er,
And I were reclining in clover
On the downs by a wave-beaten shore:
For fathers and mothers by dozens,
And sisters, a host without end,
Are bringing up numberless cousins,
Who have each a particular friend.
I'm not yet confirmed in misogyny -
They are all very well in their way -
But my heart is as hard as mahogany,
When I think of the ladies in May.
I shudder at each railway-whistle,
Like a very much victimized lamb;
For I know that the carriages bristle
With ladies invading the Cam.
Last week, as in due preparation
For reading I sported my door,
With surprise and no small indignation,
I picked up this note on the floor -
'Dear E. we are coming to see you,
'So get us some lunch if you can;
'We shall take you to Grassy, as Jehu -
'Your affectionate friend, Mary Ann.'
Affectionate friend! I'm disgusted
With proofs of affection like these,
I'm growing 'old, tawny and crusted,'
Tho' my nature is easy to please.
An Englishman's home is his castle,
So I think that my friend Mary Ann
Should respect, tho' she deem him her vassal,
The rooms of a reading young man.
In the days of our fathers how pleasant
The May Term up here must have been!
No chignons distracting were present,
And scarcely a bonnet was seen.
As the boats paddled round Grassy Corner
No ladies examined the crews,
Or exclaimed with the voice of the scorner -
'Look, how Mr. Arculus screws!!
But now there are ladies in College,
There are ladies in Chapels and Halls;
No doubt 'tis a pure love of knowledge
That brings them within our old walls;
For they talk about Goldie's 'beginning';
Know the meaning of 'finish' and 'scratch,'
And will bet even gloves on our winning
The Boat Race, Athletics, or Match.
There's nothing but music and dancing,
Bands playing on each College green;
And bright eyes are merrily glancing
Where nothing but books should be seen.
They tell of a grave Dean a fable,
That reproving an idle young man
He faltered, for on his own table
He detected in horror - a fan!
Through Libraries, Kitchens, Museums,
These Prussian-like Amazons rush,
Over manuscripts, joints, mausoleums,
With equal intensity gush.
Then making their due 'requisition,'
From 'the lions' awhile they refrain,
And repose in the perfect fruition
Of ices, cold fowl, and champagne.
Mr. Editor, answer my question -
When, O when, shall this tyranny cease?
Shall the process of mental digestion
Ne'er find from the enemy peace?
Above all if my name you should guess, Sir,
Keep it quite to yourself, if you can;
For I dread, more than words can express, Sir,
My affectionate friend Mary Ann.
(1871).
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