Part 10 (1/2)
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.