But I met a young couple “proposing”
   On the top of the sunny Languard;
  I surprised an old gentleman dozing,
    “Times” in hand, on the heights of Fort Bard. 
  In the fir woods of sweet Pontresina
    Picnic papers polluted the walks;
  On the top of the frosty Bernina
    I found a young mountain of—­corks.

  I trod, by the falls of the Handeck,
    On the end of a penny cigar;
  As I roamed in the woods above Landeck
    A hair-pin my pleasure did mar: 
  To the Riffel in vain I retreated,
    Mr. Gaze and the Gazers were there;
  On the top of the Matterhorn seated
    I picked up a lady’s back hair!

  From the Belle Vue in Thun I was hunted
    By “’Arry” who wished to play pool;
  On the Col du Bonhomme I confronted
    The whole of a young ladies’ school. 
  At Giacomo’s Inn in Chiesa
    I was asked to take shares in a mine;
  With an agent for “Mappin’s new Razor”
    I sat down at Baveno to dine.

  On the waves of Lake Leman were floating
    Old lemons (imagine my feelings!),
  The fish in Lucerne were all gloating
    On cast-away salads and peelings;
  And egg-shells and old bones of chicken
    On the shore of St. Moritz did lie: 
  My spirit within me did sicken—­
    Sweet Solitude, where shall I fly?

  Disconsolate, gloomy, and undone
    I take in the “Dilly” my place;
  By Zurich and Basel to London
    I rush, as if running a race. 
  My quest and my troubles are over;
    As I drive through the desolate street
  To my Club in Pall Mall, I discover
    Sweet Solitude’s summer retreat.

  MEDITATIONS OF A

  CLASSICAL MAN ON A MATHEMATICAL PAPER

  DURING A LATE FELLOWSHIP EXAMINATION.

  Woe, woe is me! for whither can I fly? 
  Where hide me from Mathesis’ fearful eye? 
  Where’er I turn the Goddess haunts my path,
  Like grim Megoera in revengeful wrath: 
  In accents wild, that would awake the dead,
  Bids me perplexing problems to unthread;
  Bids me the laws of x and y to unfold,
  And with “dry eyes” dread mysteries behold. 
  Not thus, when blood maternal he had shed,
  The Furies’ fangs Orestes wildly fled;
  Not thus Ixion fears the falling stone,
  Tisiphone’s red lash, or dark Cocytus’ moan. 
  Spare me, Mathesis, though thy foe I be,
  Though at thy altar ne’er I bend the knee,
  Though o’er thy “Asses’ Bridge” I never pass,
  And ne’er in this respect will prove an ass;
  Still let mild mercy thy fierce anger quell! oh
  Let, let me live to be a Johnian fellow!

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