If you were last in Latin,
   And I were first in Greek,
I’d write your Latin proses,
While you indulged in dozes,
Or carved the bench you sat in,
   So innocent and meek;
If you were last in Latin,
   And I were first in Greek.

If I had got a prize, Jim,
   And your certif. was bad,
And you were filled with sorrow
And brooding on the morrow,
 I’d gently sympathise, Jim,
   And bid you not be sad,
If I had got a prize, Jim,
   And your certif. was bad.

If I were through in Moral,
   And you were spun in Math.,
I’d break it to your parent,
When you confessed you daren’t,
And so avert a quarrel
   And smooth away his wrath;
If I were through in Moral,
   And you were spun in Math.

My prospects rather shone, Jim,
   And yours were rather dark,
And those who knew us both then
Would often take their oath then,
 That you would not get on, Jim,
   While I should make my mark;
My prospects rather shone, Jim,
   And yours were rather dark.

Yet somehow you’ve made money,
   And I am still obscure;
Your face is round and red, Jim,
While I look underfed, Jim;
The thing’s extremely funny,
   And beats me, I am sure,
Yet somehow you’ve made money,
   And I am still obscure.

 THE GOLF-BALL AND THE LOAN

AFTER LONGFELLOW

I drove a golf-ball into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I lent five shillings to some men,
They spent it all, I know not when,
For who is quick enough to know
The time in which a crown may go?

Long, long afterward, in a whin
I found the golf-ball, black as sin;
But the five shillings are missing still! 
They haven’t turned up, and I doubt if they will.

 TO THE READER OF ‘UNIVERSITY NOTES’

Ah yes, we know what you’re saying,
   As your eye glances over these Notes: 
’What asses are these that are braying
   With flat and unmusical throats? 
Who writes such unspeakable patter? 
   Is it lunatics, idiots—­or who?’
And you think there is ‘something the matter.’ 
   Well, we think so too.

We have sat, full of sickness and sorrow,
   As the hours dragged heavily on,
Till the midnight has merged into morrow,
   And the darkness is going or gone. 
We are Editors.  Give us the credit
   Of meaning to do what we could;
 But, since there is nothing to edit,
   It isn’t much good.

Once we shared the delightful delusion
   That to edit was racy and rare,
But we suffered a sad disillusion,
   And we found that our castles were air;
We had decked them with carvings and gildings,
   We had filled them with laughter and fun,
But all of a sudden the buildings
   Came down with a run.