Dear Youth! whose wealth and lineage high
Each outward sign denotes,
The highly fashionable tie,
The latest thing in coats—
Imprinted on whose candid brow
No gazer could detect
(As e’en your enemies allow)
The Pride of Intellect—

Who, ’spite your want of mental scope
And lack of Serious Aim,
Still left us, as we dared to hope,
More pensive than you came,
And thus at least, while critics vied
In pointing out our flaws,
For our continuance supplied
A kind of Final Cause:—

Your part is played, your turn is o’er:
Prepare to quit the stage:
It seems you’re not the person for
The Spirit of the Age:
Though high your birth, though large your means,
I see—’tis sad, but true—
Soon, ’mid these academic scenes,
No corner left for you!

Ah! what avail the things that went
To build your prosperous lot,
The ample cash, the long descent,
The athlete’s frequent pot,
The waistcoat bright of ardent red
Or fascinating green,
The social charm that captive led
The Provost, and the Dean?

I see the Cherwell’s peaceful flood,
I see the courts of King’s
Invaded by a student brood
Which knows all kinds of things—
A crowd with high desires replete,
Whose recreations are
To sit at Professorial feet
And join a Seminar:

Bright Butterfly! your haunts of old
Are tenanted by men
Who realise what studies mould
Th’ Efficient Citizen . . .
These shall alone the blessings know
Of Isis and of Cam,
And You (I’m sure ’tis better so)
Will go to—Birmingham!