’Tis evening.  See with its resorting throng
     Rude Carfax teems, and waistcoats, visited
     With too-familiar elbow, swell the curse
     Vortiginous.  The boating man returns,
     His rawness growing with experience—­
     Strange union! and directs the optic glass
     Not unresponsive to Jemima’s charms,
     Who wheels obdurate, in his mimic chaise
     Perambulant, the child.  The gouty cit,
     Asthmatical, with elevated cane
     Pursues the unregarding tram, as one
     Who, having heard a hurdy-gurdy, girds
     His loins and hunts the hurdy-gurdy-man,
     Blaspheming.  Now the clangorous bell proclaims
     The Times or Chronicle, and Rauca screams
     The latest horrid murder in the ear
     Of nervous dons expectant of the urn
     And mild domestic muffin. 
                               To the Parks
     Drags the slow Ladies’ School, consuming time
     In passing given points.  Here glow the lamps,
     And tea-spoons clatter to the cosy hum
     Of scientific circles.  Here resounds
     The football-field with its discordant train,
     The crowd that cheers but not discriminates,
     As ever into touch the ball returns
     And shrieks the whistle, while the game proceeds
     With fine irregularity well worth
     The paltry shilling.—­
                             Draw the curtains close
     While I resume the night-cap dear to all
     Familiar with my illustrated works.

WILLALOO.

By E. A. P.

     In the sad and sodden street,
        To and fro,
     Flit the fever-stricken feet
     Of the freshers as they meet,
        Come and go,
     Ever buying, buying, buying
     Where the shopmen stand supplying,
        Vying, vying
        All they know,
     While the Autumn lies a-dying
        Sad and low
     As the price of summer suitings when the winter breezes blow,
     Of the summer, summer suitings that are standing in a row
        On the way to Jericho.

See the freshers as they row
To and fro,
Up and down the Lower River for an afternoon or so—­
(For the deft manipulation
Of the never-resting oar,
Though it lead to approbation,
Will induce excoriation)—­
They are infinitely sore,
Keeping time, time, time
In a sort of Runic rhyme
Up and down the way to Iffley in an afternoon or so;
(Which is slow). 
Do they blow? 
’Tis the wind and nothing more,
’Tis the wind that in Vacation has a tendency to go: 
But the coach’s objurgation and his tendency to ‘score’
Will be sated—­nevermore.