They stand in the silent Sheldonian—­
        Our orators, waiting—­for you,
     Their style guaranteed Ciceronian,
        Their subject—­’the Ladies in Blue.’ 
     The Vice sits arrayed in his scarlet;
        He’s pale, but they say he dissem-
     -bles by calling his Beadle a ‘varlet’
        Whenever he thinks of Commem.

     There are dances, flirtations at Nuneham,
        Flower-shows, the procession of Eights: 
     There’s a list stretching usque ad Lunam
        Of concerts, and lunches, and fetes: 
     There’s the Newdigate all about ‘Gordon,’
        —­So sweet, and they say it will scan. 
     You shall flirt with a Proctor, a Warden
        Shall run for your shawl and your fan. 
     They are sportive as gods broken loose from
        Olympus, and yet very em-
     -inent men.  There are plenty to choose from,
        You’ll find, if you come to Commem.

     I know your excuses:  Red Sorrel
        Has stumbled and broken her knees;
     Aunt Phoebe thinks waltzing immoral;
        And ’Algy, you are such a tease;
     It’s nonsense, of course, but she is strict’;
        And little Dick Hodge has the croup;
     And there’s no one to visit your ‘district’
        Or make Mother Tettleby’s soup. 
     Let them cease for a se’nnight to plague you;
        Oh, leave them to manage pro tem. 
     With their croups and their soups and their ague)
        Dear Kitty, and come to Commem.

     Don’t tell me Papa has lumbago,
        That you haven’t a frock fit to wear,
     That the curate ’has notions, and may go
        To lengths if there’s nobody there,’
     That the Squire has ‘said things’ to the Vicar,
        And the Vicar ‘had words’ with the Squire,
     That the Organist’s taken to liquor,
        And leaves you to manage the choir: 
     For Papa must be cured, and the curate
        Coerced, and your gown is a gem;
     And the moral is—­Don’t be obdurate,
        Dear Kitty, but come to Commem.

     ’My gown?  Though, no doubt, sir, you’re clever,
        You ’d better leave fashions alone. 
     Do you think that a frock lasts for ever?’
        Dear Kitty, I’ll grant you have grown;
     But I thought of my ‘scene’ with McVittie
        That night when he trod on your train
     At the Bachelor’s Ball. ‘’Twas a pity,’
        You said, but I knew ’twas Champagne. 
     And your gown was enough to compel me
        To fall down and worship its hem—­
     (Are ‘hems’ wearing?  If not, you shall tell me
        What is, when you come to Commem.)

     Have you thought, since that night, of the Grotto? 
        Of the words whispered under the palms,
     While the minutes flew by and forgot to
        Remind us of Aunt and her qualms?